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'Morgan is just Morgan。 No one to fool around with； boy。 e on； let's get out of here。' His hand closed around Jack's upper arm again。 Jack winced but resisted。
Parker bees Parkus。 And Morgan 。 。 。 it's just too big a coincidence。
'Not yet；' he said。 Another question had occurred to him。 'Did she have a son？'
'The Queen？'
'Yes。'
'She had a son；' the Captain replied reluctantly。 'Yes。 Boy； we can't stay here。 We…'
'Tell me about him！'
'There is nothing to tell；' the Captain answered。 'The babe died an infant； not six weeks out of her womb。 There was talk that one of Morgan's men…Osmond； perhaps…smothered the lad。 But talk of that sort is always cheap。 I have no love for Morgan of Orris but everyone knows that one child in every dozen dies a…crib。 No one knows why； they die mysteriously； of no cause。 There's a saying…God pounds His nails。 Not even a royal child is excepted in the eyes of the Carpenter。 He 。 。 。 Boy？ are you all right？'
Jack felt the world go gray around him。 He reeled； and when the Captain caught him； his hard hands felt as soft as feather pillows。
He had almost died as an infant。
His mother had told him the story…how she had found him still and apparently lifeless in his crib； his lips blue； his cheeks the color of funeral candles after they have been capped and thus put out。 She had told him how she had run screaming into the living room with him in her arms。 His father and Sloat were sitting on the floor； stoned on wine and grass； watching a wrestling match on TV。 His father had snatched him from his mother's arms； pinching his nostrils savagely shut with his left hand （You had bruises there for almost a month； Jacky； his mother had told him with a jittery laugh） and then plunging his mouth over Jack's tiny mouth； while Morgan cried： I don't think that's going to help him； Phil。 I don't think that's going to help him！
（Uncle Morgan was funny； wasn't he； Mom？ Jack had said。 Yes； very funny； Jack…O； his mother had replied； and she had smiled an oddly humorless smile； and lit another Herbert Tarrytoon from the butt of the one smouldering in the ashtray。）
'Boy！' the Captain whispered； and shook him so hard that Jack's lolling head snapped on his neck。 'Boy！ Dammit！ If you faint on me 。 。 。 '
'I'm okay；' Jack said…his voice seemed to e from far away； it sounded like the voice of the Dodgers announcer when you were cruising by Chavez Ravine at night with the top down； echoing and distant； the play…by…play of baseball in a sweet dream。 'Okay； lay off me； what do you say？ Give me a break。'
The Captain stopped shaking him but looked at him warily。
'Okay；' Jack said again； and abruptly he slapped his own cheek as hard as he could…Ow！ But the world came swimming back into focus。
He had almost died in his crib。 In that apartment they'd had back then； the one he barely remembered； the one his mother always called the Technicolor Dream Palace because of the spectacular view of the Hollywood Hills from the living room。 He had almost died in his crib； and his father and Mor…gan Sloat had been drinking wine； and when you drank a lot of wine you had to pee a lot； and he remembered the Technicolor Dream Palace well enough to know that you got from the living room to the nearest bathroom by going through the room that had been his when he was a baby。
He saw it： Morgan Sloat getting up； grinning easily； saying something like Just a sec while I make some room； Phil； his father hardly looking around because Haystack Calhoun was getting ready to put the Spinner or the Sleeper on some hapless opponent； Morgan passing from the TV…brightness of the living room into the ashy dimness of the nursery； where little Jacky Sawyer lay sleeping in his Pooh pajamas with the feet； little Jacky Sawyer warm and secure in a dry diaper。 He saw Uncle Morgan glancing furtively back at the bright square of the door to the living room； his balding brow turning to ladder…rungs； his lips pursing like the chilly mouth of a lake bass； he saw Uncle Morgan take a throw…pillow from a nearby chair； saw him put it gently and yet firmly over the sleeping baby's entire head； holding it there with one hand while he held the other hand flat on the baby's back。 And when all movement had stopped； he saw Uncle Morgan put the pillow back on the chair where Lily sat to nurse； and go into the bathroom to urinate。
If his mother hadn't e in to check on him almost immediately 。 。 。
Chilly sweat broke out all over his body。
Had it been that way？ It could have been。 His heart told him it had been。 The coincidence was too utterly perfect； too seamlessly plete。
At the age of six weeks； the son of Laura DeLoessian； Queen of the Territories； had died in his crib。
At the age of six weeks； the son of Phil and Lily Sawyer had almost died in his crib 。 。 。 and Morgan Sloat had been there。
His mother always finished the story with a joke： how Phil Sawyer had almost racked up their Chrysler； roaring to the hospital after Jacky had already started breathing again。
Pretty funny； all right。 Yeah。
2
'Now e on；' the Captain said。
'All right；' Jack said。 He still felt weak； dazed。 'All right； let's g…'
'Shhhh！' The Captain looked around sharply at the sound of approaching voices。 The wall to their right was not wood but heavy canvas。 It stopped four inches short of the floor； and Jack saw booted feet passing by in the gap。 Five pair。 Soldiers' boots。
One voice cut through the babble： ' 。 。 。 didn't know he had a son。'
'Well；' a second answered； 'bastards sire bastards…a fact you should well know； Simon。'
There was a roar of brutal； empty laughter at this…the sort of laughter Jack heard from some of the bigger boys at school； the ones who busted joints behind the woodshop and called the younger boys mysterious but somehow terrifying names： queerboy and humpa…jumpa and morphadite。 Each of these somehow slimy terms was followed by a coarse ribband of laughter exactly like this。
'Cork it！ Cork it up！'…a third voice。 'If he hears you； you'll be walking Outpost Line before thirty suns have set！' Mutters。
A muffled burst of laughter。
Another jibe； this one unintelligible。 More laughter as they passed on。
Jack looked at the Captain； who was staring at the short canvas wall with his lips drawn back from his teeth all the way to the gumlines。 No question who they were talking about。 And if they were talking； there might be someone listening 。 。 。 the wrong somebody。 Somebody who might be wondering just who this suddenly revealed bastard might really be。 Even a kid like him knew that。
'You heard enough？' the Captain said。 'We've got to move。' He looked as if he would like to shake Jack 。 。 。 but did not quite dare。
Your directions； your orders； whatever； are to 。 。 。 ah； go west； is that correct？
He changed； Jack thought。 He changed twice。
Once when Jack showed him the shark's tooth that had been a filigreed guitar…pick in the world where delivery trucks instead of horse…drawn carts ran the roads。 And he had changed again when Jack confirmed that he was going west。 He had gone from threat to a willingness to help to 。 。 。 what？
I can't say 。 。 。 I can't tell you what to do。
To something like religious awe 。 。 。 or religious terror。
He wants to get out of here because he's afraid we'll be caught； Jack thought。 But there's more； isn't there？ He's afraid of me。 Afraid of…
'e on；' the Captain said。 'e on； for Jason's sake。'
'Whose sake？' Jack asked stupidly； but the Captain was already propelling him out。 He pulled Jack hard left and half…led； half…dragged him down a corridor that was wood on one side and stiff； mouldy…smelling canvas on the other。
'This isn't the way we came；' Jack whispered。
'Don't want to go past those fellows we saw ing in；' the Captain whispered back。 'Morgan's men。 Did you see the tall one？ Almost skinny enough to look through？'
'Yes。' Jack remembered the thin smile； and the eyes which did not smile。 The others had looked soft。 The thin man had looked hard。 He had looked crazy。 And one thing more： he had looked dimly familiar。
'Osmond；' the Captain said； now pulling Jack to the right。
The smell of roasting meat had been growing gradually stronger； and now the air was redolent of it。 Jack had never smelled meat he wanted so badly to taste in his whole life。 He was scared； he was mentally and emotionally on the ropes； perhaps rocking on the edge of madness 。 。 。 but his mouth was watering crazily。
'Osmond is Morgan's right…hand man；' the Captain grunted。 'He sees too much； and I'd just as soon he didn't see you twice； boy。'
'What do you mean？'
'Hsssst！' He clamped Jack's aching arm even tighter。 They were approaching a wide cloth drape that hung in a doorway。 To Jack it looked like a shower…curtain…except the cloth was burlap of a weave so coarse and wide that it was almost net…like； and the rings it hung from were bone rather than chrome。 'Now cry；' the Captain breathed warmly in Jack's ear。
He swept the curtain back and pulled Jack into a huge kitchen which fumed with rich aromas （the meat still predominating） and billow