She was still troubled as she returned it to the depths of the backpack, along with the rations, and pushed her sweater back on top of them. "Is that thing . . . is it a bomb?" she asked at last.

"A bomb? Goodness, no." Sellars sounded quite astonished. "No, we don't want to destroy anybody's system—we have friends alive in there. It would be like putting a bomb on a house where someone's being held hostage. No, Olga, that's what used to be called a vampire tap—a special sort of information shunt that the major helped me obtain. If we do find what we're looking for, I suspect that I'm going to need to send and receive at much faster speed than what I'm using now if I'm going to accomplish anything."

"I feel better."

"Now the water bottle—that is a bomb." He chuckled, a soft hooting noise. "But a very small one, just to make smoke. As a diversion. Goodness, I almost forgot to tell you."

I've stepped out of reality, Olga decided. I thought the dream-children were crazy? This is crazier still.

"All right," Sellars said, "listen carefully and I'll explain what you should do next. We have less than three days before they begin to figure out something's wrong—that's if everything goes perfectly. There are still people in that building and you shouldn't let any of them see you from this moment on. I'll do my best to help you with the surveillance, but even so, this will be more difficult than you can possibly imagine, and in all honesty probably hopeless. But we have no other choice."

Olga considered. "Now you I could believe were Jewish, Mr. Sellars."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"Never mind." She sighed and stretched her aching legs as far as the tiny closet would allow. "Go ahead—I'm listening."

NETFEED/BUSINESS: Bad Year for Executives

(visual: Dedoblanco funeral, Bangkok, Thailand)

VO: The death of Krittapong Electronics' Ymona Dedoblanco pointed up once again that it has been a bad year for business executives. Several moguls, perhaps the richest and certainly the most famous being Chinese financier Jiun Bhao, have died during the last few months. Little has been seen of several others, including Felix Jongleur, the aged Franco-American entrepreneur, who seldom leaves his Louisiana compound.

(visual: business journalist She-Ra Mottram)

MOTTRAM: "Yes, there have been several significant losses in the business community, and it's made the markets a bit shaky. Of course, most of these people were extremely old. That's why it's ironic that two of the oldest, Jongleur and Robert Wells, are still alive and kicking. They must get a certain pleasure out of seeing their younger rivals dropping by the wayside. . . ."

Paul stared at the lithe, dark man trussed on the floor of the cavern. The prisoner stared back, eyes narrowed as though he were a dog about to bite; Paul had no doubt that, given the chance, he would indeed cheerfully rip out their throats. "A thousand more? What do you mean?"

Bat Masterson shoved the prisoner with the toe of his boot, earning a look of even more tightly focused hatred. "Just as I said, friend. When they came down on us, we thought they were an ordinary war party of Comanche or Cheyenne. We didn't have much chance to get acquainted, though—we were too busy getting killed—so we only noticed after a while that they all look just the same. It's a ticklish mystery, sure enough. I reckon it's some tribe that's been inbreeding too long." But he did not look confident in his solution.

"They're devils," the mustached man who had been guarding Dread suggested. "Simple as can be. Ground opened up. Hell busted out."

"But, shit, Dave why would hell be full of octoroons?" Masterson tugged at his mustache. "Oh. Begging your pardon, ladies."

Martine, for one, was paying little attention to what was being said. "It is Dread," she murmured dreamily, "but also it is less. I can feel that now. He has copied himself somehow—used something as a framework, perhaps one of the Indian tribes, then replicated himself."

"Ma'am," Masterson told her, "I have to say that I can't figure out what in blazes you're talking about. Have you met these fellows before?"

Paul shrugged, tried to think of something to say. "Not really. It's hard to explain."

"Met him, yeah," T4b said. "Sixed him, too," he added unhelpfully.

As Masterson stood perplexed, scratching his head beneath the plug hat, Paul put his hand on Martine's shoulder. They needed to do something, it was clear, but it was pointless trying to explain the devolution of the network to the sims who lived in it. "Now what?"

"Even if a million of these waited for us," she said softly, "we would still have to make our way past them. We have no other way out of here." She turned to Masterson. "Can you lead us to Dodge City? Or at least tell us something of what to expect? We do not want to go there, but we have no choice."

"If'n you folks just want to get killed," the man named Dave offered, "you all oughta just walk off the cliff yonder. Be quicker and a lot cleaner."

"Mysterious Dave doesn't talk much," Masterson said with a sour smile, "but when he does, it's usually to a purpose. He's right. You go down there, you'll all die. No question about it. No, you stay here with us and stay alive—we could use a few more hands."

"We can't," said Paul, wishing fervently that it were otherwise. He'd heard enough about Dread to thoroughly terrify him, a monster as bad as Finney and Mudd, but with brains. The idea of a thousand of them, waiting. . . . "We can't. God, I wish we could stay. But we have to go."

"But why, blast it?" Masterson almost shouted. "Where are you from? And more importantly, didn't your mothers have any children with brains?"

Florimel, who had been watching the Dread sim with a mixture of horror and disgust, finally spoke up. "We cannot stay. We have a need to go to your Dodge City. It cannot be explained any more than that."

"It's . . . it's religious, I guess you could say," Paul said, reaching desperately. "We've sworn an oath."

Masterson fell silent for a moment, eyeing them all. "I suppose I should have known, seeing those queer outfits you're wearing. But it's still a bad bargain all around. We lose your help, you lose your lives." He spat in disgust, missing the snarling face of Dread only by mischance.

"Can you tell us the best way to reach the place?" Martine asked. "We do not know these mountains, and we don't want to meet any more of the monsters who caught us before."

"You'll find that this fellow's kin are worse than any jackalos." Masterson growled. "As far as finding your way down into that hellhole. . . ."

"I'll take 'em as far as the river," a voice said.

Paul turned to see the black man named Titus, who had been leaning on the cavern wall listening. "Thank you. That's very kind."

"See if you feel that way when they're taking your scalp off," said Titus. "I think you're fools, but I got me another long patrol to do so I might as well keep you out of trouble until you're closer. But it'll have to wait until dark."

Masterson had walked a short distance across the cavern; he returned with the pistol Paul had carried earlier. "Take this," he said. "It's reloaded. I hate like sin to see it lost and the bullets wasted, but I've got a Christian duty of sorts, I guess."

Paul stared at the ivory handle and dark steel barrel as though it were a snake. "I said I didn't want to carry it anymore. Besides, if there are a thousand of them, what good will six bullets do me?"

Masterson shoved it into his hands and leaned close to Paul's ear. "I thought you had at least a little sense, friend. You think I'm going to let you take women down into that place without a gun to do the honorable thing? Do you think when they catch you they're just going to kill you?"