I came out of the dome at a run--

--and nearly skidded into a worm, a small one. Bright red. There's no such thing as a small worm! This one was three meters long, only waist high-

Something tripped me-my gun went flying-I skidded flat on the ground-

Somebody was firing a machine gun, right over my head! I covered my head with my hands and lay as flat as I could, but the worm still hadn't come down on top of me.

But then, maybe it hadn't been attacking. Every worm I'd ever seen had raised itself up high before attacking. I had a theory about that, but I'd never tested it.

Suddenly, there was silence. And I was still alive.

Maybe an upright stance was a challenge to a worm, the last opportunity to back down. Maybe because human beings stood upright, the worms saw us as always challenging, always on the brink of attack. Maybe that's why the worms almost always attacked human beings on sight. Maybe that's why I was still alive.

I lay there face down on the ground, afraid to look up. What was the worm doing?

I heard it move. Toward me. I felt something brush against my hands. Fur? It tingled. I could hear it breathing. Its breaths were long and slow and deep. I could feel the heat. It smelled . . . spicy?

Something was tapping me lightly along the back. Its antennae. No-its fingers, its claws.

I was laying there flat, my face tightly scrunched, waiting for death-and still completely curious about what the creature was doing. I wanted to look.

If I lifted my head, would it kill me?

I was still trying to summon up enough courage to look when something trilled at it and it backed away.

A human voice said, "Get up." Huh?

"Get up!" it repeated. I lifted my head.

There were six of them. Four men. Two women. And the worm. The worm was blood-colored; it had pink and orange stripes rippling slowly down its dark red flanks.

They were grouped in a rough semi-circle before me. They were all carrying weapons. All but one of the men were bearded. One was a huge monster of a human being. One of the women was pregnant. The other was thin and dark and looked familiar.

I didn't see McCain. Or the little girl.

The leader of the group looked mid-thirtyish, but he could have been older. He was the one without the beard. He wore hornrimmed glasses and he had long sandy hair with just a hint of gray at the temples. He wore an oversized white sweater, khaki pants, and heavy boots. He looked like a college professor on vacation-except for the machine gun he had slung over one shoulder. He would have looked friendly-if it hadn't been for the worm beside him.

He gave it a hand signal. "Stay." He nodded to me. "Get up. Orrie won't hurt you."

Orrie?

I started to get up slowly. I got as far as my hands and knees when the thin woman said, "That's far enough."

I stopped.

I couldn't take my eyes off the worm. Had they tamed it? How? That was supposed to be impossible.

The man with the sandy hair nodded to the giant. "Search him." The giant lumbered over to me like Frankenstein's monster. He was 600 pounds of animated meat. He stepped behind me, hooked his hands into my armpits and yanked me to my feet. He started pulling things off me.

He unholstered my sidearm and tossed it aside.

He lifted my pant leg and pulled the knife out o€ my boot. He pulled the pack off my back. And my utility belt. He patted my waist and my pockets. He emptied them and tossed the contents to one side. I thought about the pack. If I could reach my watch-I probably wouldn't survive, but I'd take most of them with me.

Now Frankenstein began to frisk me; so slowly and methodically that I wondered if he were mentally retarded. First he took my right arm between his two huge hands and patted and felt it all the way down to the wrist, then the left; he pulled my watch off my wrist and tossed it onto the pile with the rest. He repeated the process with my legs. His hands were the size of shovels, it was like being pummeled by beef.

He slid his hands up around my torso and around in front of me and all over my chest. He emptied my shirt pockets. When he found my dog tags, he grunted and broke the chain. He tossed the tags onto the pile. He felt my crotch dispassionately.

I ignored his touch and stared sideways at the leader. He met my gaze directly. Yes, definitely a college professor. I wondered what subject he'd taught. Probably something flaky. Like American Jargon. I shifted my eyes back to the worm. Deliberately.

Frankenstein finished searching me then. He seized my shoulders in his gigantic hands and pushed me back down to my knees. Then, carefully, almost like a child, he placed my hands on top of my head. Prisoner of war position. And then he backed away behind me. I heard him cock his rifle.

The leader of the group was still studying me. Debating my fate? His expression was unreadable.

The sweat trickled coldly down my side.

The worm was cocking its eyes curiously back and forth to look at me, like a madman's big pink hand puppet. The effect would have been comical if it hadn't been so terrifying.

The worm began twitching its mandibles anxiously. It looked like a nervous tic, or a tremble of anticipation.

Were they waiting for me to beg?

I thought about it for half a second. Would it make a difference? No.

The man with the sandy hair came over and kicked through my belongings. He picked up my dog tags and looked at them. "United States Army. Too bad."

"Kill him," said the thin woman. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her.

He ignored her. He saw how my attention was riveted on the worm. "Orrie," he said to it, "patrol." He waved at the creature. It whistled in response and dipped its eyes; then it wheeled about and flowed off sniffling at the ground.

The sandy-haired man waved at the other two men. "Go with him. See if there are any others."

The man turned back to me and jingled my dog tags. "Ladies," he said to his companions. "I'd like you to meet Lieutenant James Edward McCarthy of the United States Armed Forces." He paused for effect. "Recently retired." He dropped my dog tags to the ground.

He looked down at me speculatively. His eyes were very blue. "The question before us, Lieutenant McCarthy, is simple. Isn't it?"

"Am I supposed to have an opinion here?"

The sandy-haired man scratched his neck thoughtfully. He used the backs of his fingers and made quick upward strokes toward his chin. He asked abstractedly, "Why do you people always make things so complicated?"

Then he took a step forward. He folded his arms thoughtfully in front of himself, bunching up the thick material of his sweater, and focused hard on me. He was uncomfortably close; I had to crane my neck to look up at him. The bastard was doing it deliberately.

"I am going to ask you a question," he said. "You can answer it yes or no. I don't want repartee. Any statement other than yes will be considered a no. Do you understand that?" His gaze was uncomfortably direct.

"Yes," I said.

"Good." He studied me thoughtfully. "Here's the question. Do you want to live?" He cocked his head and waited for my answer. I licked my lips. My throat was suddenly dry. I could hear the blood pounding in my head. This was no casual question. The man was mad. If I said anything but yes, he would kill me.