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Saltus turned a corner at a fast clip； skidding in the snow and then straightening his course toward the front gate。 It was a small fort to find the gatehouse still standing： concrete blocks were difficult to burn or destroy。 The gate itself was torn open and twisted back Out of the way。 He drove through it and concentrated on the barely visible pattern of the road ahead； the smooth unbroken expanse of snow flanked by shallow ditches to either side guided him。 Only last Thursday he and William had raced over the road hell…bent for a day in Joliet。
A bearded man leaped out of the gatehouse and put a shot through the rear window of the car。
Arthur Saltus didn't take the time to decide if he was astonished or outraged…the shot did frighten him； and he reacted automatically to danger。 Slamming the accelerator to the floor； he spun hard on the wheel and threw the car into a sickening skid。 It lurched and swung around in a dizzy arc； ing to rest with its blunt nose aimed at the gatehouse。 Saltus floored the accelerator。 The rear wheels spun uselessly on the slick snow； found a purchase only when they had burned down to the pavement； then thrust the car forward in a burst of speed that caught him unprepared。 It careened wildly through the gate。 He rammed the nose hard against the gatehouse door and leaped clear； hugging the side of the vehicle。
Saltus pumped two quick shots through the sagging door； and was answered by a scream of pain； he fired again and then scrambled over the hood to crouch in the doorway。 The screaming man lay on the floor tearing at his bloodied chest。 A tall； gaunt black man was backed against the far wall taking aim at him。 Saltus fired without raising the rifle； and then deliberately turned and put a finishing shot through the head of the man writhing on the floor。 The screaming stopped。
For a moment the world was wrapped in silence。
Saltus said： 〃Now； what the hell…〃
An incredibly violent blow struck him in the small of his back； robbing him of breath and speech； and he heard the sound of a shot from an unimaginable distance away。 He stumbled and went to his knees while a raging fire burned up his spine into his skull。 Another distant shot shattered the peace of the world； but this once he felt nothing。 Saltus turned on his knees to meet the threat。
The ramjet was climbing over the hood of the little fun car to get at him。
Caught up like a man swimming in mud； Saltus raised the rifle and tried to take aim。 The weapon was almost too heavy to lift； he moved in a slow； agonizing motion。 The ramjet slid down the hood and jumped through the doorway； reaching for him or his rifle。 Saltus squinted at the face but it refused to e into clear focus。 Somebody behind the face loomed over him as large as a mountain； somebody's hands grasped the barrel of the rifle and pulled it away。 Saltus squeezed the trigger。
The looming face changed： it disintegrated in a confusing jumble of bone； blood； and tissue； ing apart like William's electric car under a mortar barrage。 The face out of focus disappeared while a booming thunder filled the gatehouse and rattled the broken door。 A large piece of the mountain teetered over him； threatening to bury him when it came down。 Saltus tried to crawl away。
The toppling body knocked him off his knees and knocked away his weapon。 He went down beneath it； still fighting for breath and praying not to be crushed。
Arthur Saltus opened his eyes to find the daylight gone。 An intolerable burden pinned him to the gatehouse floor and an overpowering hurt wracked his body。
Moving painfully but gaining only an inch or two at a time； he crawled from under the burden and tried to roll it aside。 After minutes or hours of strenuous effort he climbed as far as his knees and threw off the knapsack hammering at his back； he spilled as much water as he drank before the canteen followed。 His rifle lay on the floor at his knee； but he was astonished to discover that his hand and arm lacked the strength to pick it up。 It may have taken another hour to draw the service automatic from uiider his coat and place it on the hood of the car。
An unbelievable time was spent in crawling over the same hood to get outside。 The gun was knocked to the ground。 Saltus bent over； touched it； fingered it； grew dizzy and had to abandon the weapon to save himself。 He grabbed at the door handle and hauled himself upright。 After a while he tried it again； and only managed to seize the gun and stand upright before the recurring wave of nausea struck him。 His stomach doubled up and ejected。
Saltus climbed into the car and backed it off from the gatehouse door。 Opening the near window to get the cold bracing air； he tugged at the drive selector and steered a tortuous course from gate to parking lot。 The car glanced off one curb and skidded across the snow to jump the other curb； it would have thrown its occupant if it had been traveling at greater speed。 Saltus had lost the strength to push down on the brake； and the little car stopped only when it slammed into the concrete wall of the laboratory。 He was thrown against the wheel and then out into the snow。 A spotted trail of blood marked his erratic path from the car to the door with the twin locks。
The door opened easily…so easily that a dim corner of his fogged consciousness nagged at him： had he inserted both keys into the locks before the door swung？ Had he inserted any key？
Arthur Saltus fell down the flight of stairs because he could not help himself。
The gun was gone from his hand but he couldn't remember losing it； his bottle of birthday bourbon was gone from his pocket but he couldn't remember emptying it or throwing away the bottle； the keys to the door were lost。 Saltus lay on his back on the dusty concrete； looking at the bright lights and looking up the stairs at the closed door。 He didn't remember closing that door。
A voice said： 〃Fifty hours。〃
He knew he was losing touch with reality； knew he was drifting back and forth between cold； painful awareness and dark periods of feverish fantasy。 He wanted to sleep on the floor； wanted to stretch out with his face on the cold concrete and let the raging fire in his spine burn itself out。 Katrina's vest had saved his life… barely。 The slug…more than one？…was lodged in his back； but without the vest it would have torn all the way through his chest and blown away the rib cage。 Thanks； Katrina。
A voice said： 〃Fifty hours。〃
He tried to stand up； but fell on his face。 He tried to climb to his knees； but pitched forward on his face。 There was not much strength left to him。 In time with the measured passing of an eternity； he crawled to the TDV on his belly。
Arthur Saltus struggled for an hour to climb the side of the vehicle。 His awareness was slipping away in a sea of nauseous fantasy： he had the hallucinatory notion that someone pulled off his heavy boots…that someone removed the heavy winter garments and tried to take off his clothing。 When at last he fell head first through the vehicle's open hatch； he had the fever…fantasy that someone out there had helped him over the side。
A voice said： 〃Push the kickbar。〃
He lay on his stomach on the webbing facing in the wrong direction； and remembered that the engineers wouldn't recover the vehicle until the end of fifty hours。 They had done that when William failed to return。 Something was under him； hurting him； putting a hard new pressure on a rib cage already painfully sore。 Saltus pulled the lump from beneath him and found a tape recorder。 He pushed it toward the kickbar but it fell inches short of the goal。 The hallucination slammed shut the hatch cover。
He said thickly： 〃Chaney 。 。 。 the bandits have burned the treasure house 。 。 。〃
The tape recorder was thrown at the kickbar。
The time was forty minutes after two in the morning； 24 November 2000。 His fiftieth birthday was long past。
Brian Chaney
2000…plus
The meek； the terrible meek；
the fierce agonizing meek；
Are about to enter into their inheritance。
… Charles Rann Kennedy
FIFTEEN
Chaney was apprehensive。
The red light blinked out。 He reached up to unlock the hatch and throw it open。 The green light went dark。 Chaney grasped the two handrails and pulled up to a sitting position； with his head and shoulders protruding through the hatchway。 He hoped he was alone in the room…the vehicle was in darkness。 The air was sharply cold and smelled of ozone。 He struggled out of the hatch and climbed over the side。 Saltus had warned him the stool was gone so he slid cautiously to the floor； and clung to the polywater tank for a moment of orientation。 The blackness around him was plete： he saw nothing； heard nothing but the hoarse sound of his own breathing。
Brian Chaney reached up to slam shut the hatch but then stopped himself…the TDV was his only lifeline to home base and it was wiser to keep that hatch open and waiting。 He stretched out his hand to grope for the locker； he remembered its approximate location； and took a few hesitant steps in the darkness until he bumped into it。 His suit hung in a dusty paper sheath； prepa