There were hundreds of these stations all over the country. The fabrication of them was easy. The domes could be inflated, sprayed, and hardened in a day. The equipment could be installed and functioning by the end of the week. Some of the stations had even been run entirely by robots.

If you found a body, you picked up the phone and punched DEADBODY or DISPOSAL, or any one of a half-dozen other easy-to-remember mnemonics, and reported the location. The nearest retrieval van would be notified and the body would be picked up within two to four hours. The vans delivered the bodies to the nearest control station-an installation like this one-where they were burned.

The plagues still weren't over, but most of the dying was, so most of these stations had been shut down.

I could almost feel the heat from the ovens. And the stench. And-I don't know why-but I could imagine screaming too. Women and children and men. Why was I remembering that? I hadn't been near San Francisco when they'd

Never mind.

These domes were cold and empty now.

The dust was thick on the floor and a chill wind curled it up in little puffs.

All right, so now we knew what was here. I'd recommend that we not use this site. It wasn't defendable. Hidden as it was between two hills, it was a sitting target for anything that came over either of those crests. Maybe it was a good idea to keep a crematorium hidden out of sight, but not a fortress. No, this wouldn't do. I turned around-

McCain was standing in the door, gaping. "Wow," he said softly, looking around.

I lowered my rifle and said, "I thought I told you to wait." Annoyance put an edge on my voice.

"Sorry, sir, but you were gone a long time. I got concerned."

"Uh-huh," I said. I was beginning to understand McCain's relationship with orders. He didn't think they applied to him. Right. That's why he was assigned to me.

Now he was testing me to see if I meant what I'd said. If I let him get away with this breach, he'd test me again; and if I nailed him to a wall for disobeying an order this minor, then I was a cruel martinet and he would be justified in subverting my authority whenever he could. Great game. Either way, I lose.

He stepped past me, his mouth hanging open in awe. "I heard about these," he said. "But I never saw one before." An idea occurred to him and he turned to look at me. "Is it safe?"

I didn't answer. I was too disgusted. With him. With the operation. With myself. When we got back-

"Hi," she said from behind us.

We both whirled at the same time

She couldn't have been more than six or seven. She was a tiny thing, standing in the middle of the doorway. Her dress had been yellow or orange once. Now it was brown. She had the biggest eyes.

I lowered my rifle, but only a bit. "Don't do that. You scared the hell out of me."

She looked uncertainly from me to McCain, then back to me again.

"Hi, honey," McCain said. "What's your name?" He slung his rifle over his shoulder and took a step toward her. She edged backward. "It's all right. We're friendly. That's Unca Jim and I'm Unca Jon."

"Jon what?" she asked. "Do you live here?"

McCain looked over at me. "She's awfully thin, and probably scared to death. Can I give her some of our rations?" He didn't wait for my answer. "Are you hungry, honey?"

She nodded slowly. Her eyes flickered back and forth between us.

"Wait a minute," I said. We were miles from anywhere. How had she gotten here? "What's your name, sweetheart? Who're you with? You're not here by yourself, are you?"

"Is this your house? Do you live here?" she asked again. She took a few steps into the room, looking around.

"No. And you shouldn't either." I looked to the kid. "Get her out of here."

I waited till they were both gone before I lowered my rifle and let myself shake. My nerves were shot. I'd nearly shot him. Then I'd nearly shot her.

Damn.

What a mess that would have been.

No, this wasn't working. None of it. I slung my gun over my shoulder and started after them.

I'd have to . . .

I heard gunshots outside-the spattering sound of an AM-280. And then I heard the kid scream.

I was already pulling my gun off my shoulder as I ran.

The second day was about integrity, and the room was set up differently.

The 498 chairs were laid out in five concentric circles around a circular dais. There were eight precise aisles dividing the chairs into neat pie-shaped wedges. The aisles pointed toward the high dais like an altar. I felt like an acolyte at some holy ritual.

The screens over the dais were gone now. Instead there were larger ones mounted high above the center of each blank wall. As I took my seat, I wondered why they had changed the setup. It bothered me, I didn't know why. I felt uneasy.

The seats filled up quickly with the other trainees. Today we were all wearing identical brown jumpsuits. No uniforms, no civilian clothes, no identifying garb of any kind could be worn in the training room. That was part of the rules: no outside identities. All we had to distinguish ourselves were the large-lettered name tags we wore over our hearts; last names only-no first names, no ranks.

Some of the higher-ranking officers had grumbled about that. Foreman hadn't been interested. He merely pointed out that they were demonstrating an investment of identity in their ranks, and that rank was not only irrelevant in here, it would eventually get in the way. Leave it outside, he said. That's not who you really are. I didn't get that either, but Foreman wouldn't explain it.

I wished I had my watch, but we'd had to turn those in too. I was certain that it was already past time for us to start, but not all the seats were filled yet. I wondered what the holdup was.

I craned around to look. People were still filing in. I recognized the two gray-haired colonels who had sat at the end of my row yesterday and who seemed to think they had special permission to chat about the proceedings. Finally, because their chatter was such a nuisance, they had been asked-no, told to sit apart. They came in now, still talking; but instead of moving directly to their seats, they stopped just inside the door and continued their conversation. I decided they were a couple of rude old ladies. Finally, two large male assistants came over to them and took each of them by the arm and guided them to their seats-on opposite sides of the outer circle of chairs.

But there were still empty chairs. Where were the rest of us? I counted twelve empty chairs. What was going on? Where were the missing trainees?

The minutes stretched.

The assistants stood quietly at attention, all around the perimeter of the room, at the logistics tables, at the doors, and at the heads of the aisles. There were at least fifty of them, all blank-faced and emotionless.

Across the circle from me, a large heavyset man got up and strode angrily to the table at the back of the room where the Course Manager sat. "What's the delay?" he demanded. His face was ruddy, and he looked upset.

She looked at him blankly. "Go back to your seat." Her voice could be heard all across the room.

"I want to know what's going on."

"Nothing is going on. Go back to your seat."

"We were told that all our questions would be answered," he snapped.