Muttering and grumbling, the storm moved away.  The Doctor greeted its departure with relief.  The roof of his cell leaked badly.  He was ankle-deep in mud.  His velvet jacket was ruined, his shoes beyond repair.  Water leaked down the back of his neck and dripped off the end of his nose.  Fortunately, his thoughts were weighty enough to distract him from the discomfort.

Captain McAllister was telepathic and telekinetic, and almost certainly alien. If only he had been able to get further into her mind.  Her brain patterns were so similar to human that someone less knowledgeable might take them for the same.

The universe had its share of parasitic species, a few of them markedly similar to Terrans in appearance, even in their basic DNA structure.  The female of one such species, the Rathin,  closely resembled succubi of Earth legend.  They used a combination of pheromones and telepathic suggestion to entice victims to their doom. The description matched Captain McAllister very well. Only the telekinesis did not fit.

Rathin were powerful creatures, voracious and cruel.  As for Danner, the human was very lucky.  Any man without the blackstone's incredible healing powers would certainly have died.

But what part, if any, did this particular Rathi play in Earth's misery?  The species was described as intellectually unremarkable, routinely stealing their victims' technology along with their lives.  Manufacturing a virus as sophisticated as the Plague should be beyond them.  He needed the TARDIS.  There were files in its archives that might have more information about the rathin, in particular how to deal with them.

Had the Time Lords proscribed the species? He had some vague recollection that this was so.  Accordingly, he could throw this into the laps of the High Council and let them deal with it for a change. After he retrieved Danner.

Through a slit of window in his cell, the Doctor saw the brightening eastern sky.  A brisk wind slipped easily through the chinks in the walls and set his teeth to chattering.   Getting out of the stockade was going to be difficult.  There were guards near his cell, a high wall around them, and beyond that - an army!

The Doctor kicked experimentally at one of the logs.  It barely quivered.

He had a closer look at the door.  Its lock was a primitive latching mechanism, hardly a high security device.  He pulled off a shoe.  Balancing precariously on one foot, he slammed the heel against the wall.  Thoroughly soaked, it broke apart.

Grinning, he saluted Brian, whose shoes they had been. Not only a cad, it seemed, but a cheap cad.  The plastic heel insert was thin enough to fit neatly between door and lintel.  He slid it up slowly, felt the weight of the latch.  There was a soft click and it was done.  Tentatively, he gave the cell door a push. It opened easily.

"Good morning, Doctor.  I see you're ready to go."

Captain McAllister stood just outside the cell, the corners of her mouth twitching.  At her back was a glowering Lieutenant Nelson.  They were accompanied by two Witchhorde guards carrying several well-stuffed saddle bags.

"Captain!"  The Doctor managed a dignified nod.  "Lieutenant Nelson."

Golden eyes drifted down to his foot where mud squelched up through bare toes.

"Miles - find the Doctor some shoes."

"Where are we going?" the Time Lord asked, hoping the response wasn't "to the firing squad' or some such unpleasantness.

"We have a blackstone to retrieve.  You know the technology these people use."

"I also know why you want him. I will not help you!"

She sighed.  "Doctor.  I can take what I want from your mind.  I'd rather not."

"You surprised me last night, Captain" the Doctor retorted.  "You won't find it that easy the next time, I promise you."

"Very well, Doctor.  How about compromise?   If you cooperate, think of all the time you'll have to try to talk me out of whatever it is you imagine I'm going to do."

Very sure of herself, this rathi.  She had changed out of her Horde uniform.  Her hair was loose fire  In leather and clinging silk, she was once again the bewitching creature he had seen - - was it only days ago?

Pheromones, the Doctor told himself angrily.  Hypnosis.  He set his jaw and nodded.  "I'll come."

Nelson returned with boots and a black look.  He was a man ready to explode.  The boots fit.

"How about my things?" the Time Lord asked, throwing the lieutenant his other shoe.

Nelson snarled something under his breath and flung it against the wall.  Shaking her head, Captain McAllister motioned to a guard.  The man stepped forward and handed the Doctor one of the saddle bags.

"They're in here," she said.  "Are you ready, or do you want to bait Lieutenant Nelson some more?

Two horses waited just outside the stockade.  One was the mare that had carried him to the camp.  The dainty creature seemed happy to see him, nuzzling his shoulder.  Giving the velvet nose a pat, the Doctor swung into his saddle as the Captain had a few quiet words with her lieutenant.  Then she mounted the roan and the two of them were on their way.

They rode in a spectral world.  The storm had left fog in its wake, a misty sea through which drifted the disembodied noises of a waking camp.  Tents loomed ahead or beside them, only to be swallowed up again with equal speed.   A man appeared, hand on his weapon.  He saw who it was and saluted instead.

In short order, they were free of the camp and deep in mist-bound forest.  Moisture dripped from the trees.  High above them, a bird celebrated the morning with a silvery glissando of notes.  Twice the Doctor thought he saw shapes in the gloom, but when he looked directly, they melted away.

"Do you know where we're going?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How far is it?"

"I don't know."

"You said you knew where you were going."

"I spoke generally."

Dawn gave way to high morning, and the fog became a sunlit dazzle.  The forest thinned, giving way to a jumble of small saplings.   In spite of himself, the Doctor's hearts lifted.  They broke free of the wood and trotted up a hill.  At the summit, they stopped and surveyed the landscape.

The hill was part of a gradual ridge overlooking marshland.  An old road ran through it, partially submerged in reed-choked water.  The fog had all but burned off, although pockets of it persisted in the low spots.  Beyond the swamp, the land rose gradually into a line of new forest, interrupted only where the road cut through the trees.

"We'll follow that," she announced, pointing to the road.

"If these people are hiding from the world, they're not likely to build right on a main thoroughfare."

"This is the road Gerry and Don took out of Deet.  It leads straight to Chyton - or did long ago."

"And if your men were ambushed on this road?"

"Than we'll find what we're looking for, I reckon."

She flicked the reins of her horse and the great animal started down the hill.

"Quite a chatterbox, aren't you?" the Doctor muttered irritably.

The road was in terrible shape, roots and water having carved the concrete into great, slippery chunks.  In places, the paving had sunk deep into the muck.  They let their horses choose the pace, wary of sinkholes and cutting edges.  The roan led the way, ears back, not liking the uneven footing or the sudden flurries of panic from small swamp creatures that scrambled frantically out of his path.

Noon found them deep in the woods again.  In spite of the sunshine, the air had an autumnal bite.  By a stream running through a rocky clearing, they stopped to let the horses drink.   She took another packet from her saddle bag.  This time it was a mixture of grains and dried fruit.  Pouring herself a handful, she passed it over to him.

"What is it exactly you have against Danner?  That he survived your embrace?"  The Doctor asked, pouring himself a generous handful of it.  "I know your secret, too.  Won't you have to kill me, as well?"

"You have no idea what my 'secret' is."

"Oh, but I do," he mumbled through a mouthful of the sweet, chewy mixture. "Your kind is not exactly unknown, you know."

"You assume that I want the blackstone's death," she replied. "You might be wrong."

"Is that so?  You've nothing but good intentions toward him?"  The Doctor shook his head.  "Madam, I am not a fool.  I saw the condition he was in when you were finished with him."

Her eyes rested on his face a moment, considering.  Then: "You think you are a scientist.  I saw it in your mind."

He winced, wondering what else she had seen there.

"Yet you make assumptions based on incomplete data.  Not very scientific, is it?"

"I'm *trying* to get more data, Captain McAllister.  You aren't being very helpful!"

They rode on through the afternoon, following the road as it wandered over the countryside.  Twice they almost lost it where the cataclysms had broken the pavement into pieces easily digested by nature.  The wind strengthened, and its crisp edge became more pronounced.  Clear sky turned hazy as thin clouds crept in from the north.  They crossed two other motorways - or perhaps it was the same road looping around -- and once came upon a small city of ruined houses.  Only foundations remained, miles
of tidy, geometric rectangles shaded by aged hardwood trees.

"Captain?"

It was late afternoon and the haze had thickened to overcast.  The wind blew steadily now, pushing cold on their backs.

"Did you realize we've been going south?"

She pulled the roan up and frowned.  "You're right.  Hell. How did that happen?"

"I've just noticed it myself."  The Doctor rose in the stirrups and studied the landscape.  Nothing unusual met his eye.  "I suspect we've been going this way for a while."

Frowning, the Witchhorde commander turned her horse and began to retrace their steps.  It took almost two hours to return to the place where they had changed direction.  The day was now well advanced and the lowering clouds had begun to spit icy rain. Captain McAllister swore.  The Time Lord, who had an excellent sense of direction, was equally mystified.  They exchanged bewildered glances, then Captain McAllister shrugged and started west.
 
Within a half hour, she again stopped.

"Damn it!  Now we're going northeast!  What is going on?"

What indeed?  Not once had the Doctor been aware of changing direction and yet  - they were clearly headed into the wind.

"This is very odd," he agreed.  "I don't recall turning off the western road.  You're telepathic.  Can you detect anything?"

She was not listening.  He turned and followed her gaze south.  Barely visible through the drizzle and advancing twilight, a line of small black dots was moving slowly in their direction.  The Doctor pulled out his spyglass and had a closer look.

"Eight," he reported.  "Dressed alike, so I'd wager they're soldiers, but not our friends in black."

"May I see that?"

He tossed the glass to her.  She put it to her eye. "Well, well . . . "

She twisted around in the saddle and swept the land at their backs.  Her mouth twisted.
"You recognize them."

She collapsed the telescope and gave it back.

"Yes."  The captain did not sound happy.  "They're Scourge warriors."

"The Prophet's troops?"

"That's what it looks like to me - an advance scouting party.  And a lot further north than our  intelligence suggested.  Their custom is to move around the countryside in small units - three, usually.  I don't see the third.  Let's go to ground somewhere.  C'mon, Satan."

Giving the roan his head, she started toward a shallow rise of hills.  The doctor bent low over the mare's wet neck, trusting the animal to avoid rabbit-holes or roots as it flew after the gelding.  They raced through a sparse stand of trees and onto an old country lane.

"That looks promising," he shouted, pointing ahead.

Halfway up a hill, through a cluster of ancient fruit trees loomed the dark bulk of a tumbledown barn.  She nodded and turned the roan toward it.

The doors had long since fallen away, but miraculously, the roof was almost intact.  Captain McAllister dismounted, leading her tired animal out of the rain, the Doctor close behind her.

"They may very well see this as shelter, too," the Doctor pointed out.

"I know.  Unsaddle Dancer.  We'll send her and Satan out to run.  It'll be easier to hide just the two of us."

Swiftly, they stripped the animals of their gear.  Captain McAllister gave Satan a slap on the rump. "Disappear, boy!"

The animal tossed his head and bolted from the barn, Dancer right behind him.  They vanished into the rain.

"They'll be back," the captain said, seeing his expression.  "All Horde animals are trained to forage and return when called."

"Just so the Scourge doesn't find them."

There was almost a smile.  "I'd love to see someone other than myself lay a hand on Satan.  Now, where to hide?"

The Doctor found a ladder in the back leading into an old loft.  It took several trips to get their gear hauled up and stowed.  While she arranged it, he went to the small window and looked out.

Although it was not yet sunset, darkness was fast descending.  The fitful rain had become a steady downpour, the sound of it filling the loft.  The captain came over to him and sank down, cross-legged, at his side.

"Anything?"

"Not yet -- no, wait!"

He made out the first of the riders, coming slowly out of the trees and onto the road.

"I think we should pull up the ladder," he said tersely. "We're going to have visitors."

She wasted no time with questions, but followed him back across the loft.  They struggled to haul the heavy ladder up.  No sooner was it laying flat along the floor, the first soldier rode warily into the barn.  Another followed, then a third.

"Sergeant!"  one of the men shouted.  "Get some light in here!"

A lantern was hung from a nearby beam.  The light came through the wooden flooring of the loft in wide, dusty rays. There was a place where a floorboard was missing, making an excellent spy-hole.  Captain McAllister quietly stretched out beside him, peering down into the barn.

"Damn," whispered the Captain.  "I think they're going to be here awhile."

The barn filled with men and animals.  The soldiers were dressed in dark blue and crimson.  Their steel helmets were ornamented with small, silver crosses outlined in red.

The Time Lord glanced at Captain McAllister  She did not seem unduly upset at the prospect -- in fact, her eyes sparkled with what he could swear was mischief.

What was the appetite of a rathi, he wondered? And - hard on heels of the question was the unsettling realization that he was the nearest male to hand.

Abruptly she stiffened and, looking down again, he saw why.  Two more horsemen came into the barn, a prisoner stumbling between them - a Horde Rider.  They pushed him through the press of blue uniforms to sprawl on his face in their midst.

"Jerry," she breathed into his ear.  "Miles sent him after the blackstone."

"No sign of Van Meir and the others," a newcomer announced.  "And this scum's not very talkative."

He kicked the prisoner, who curled up and made no sound.

"They're overdue by three hours."

The leader, wearing a captain's stripes, squatted down beside the prisoner.  He grabbed a handful of short hair and pulled back the man's head.  The swollen, bloody face glared back, defiant.

"You, Whorespawn!  Where are my men?"

The Doctor could not hear the reply, but it seemed the captain did not like it.  He stood up and kicked the man several times, hard.  His blows elicited a choked cry from the prisoner.  It was not necessary to see the captain to feel her anger.  The body against his was tense as wire.

"Got a better answer?"

Apparently not.  The officer swore and turned away.  Taking out his dagger, he put the tip into the lamp-flame and held it for several long moments.  There was a long, slow hiss of breath from Captain McAllister.  The Time Lord laid a cautionary hand on hers.

"There are too many of them," he said softly.

"No," she replied, her words a breath in his ear, "there are not."

The captive's scream echoed through the dusty rafters.  Then another.  On the third, he choked off into silence.

"He's out, sir."

"Wake him up, damn it!  I'm not going to tell Callifer that we've lost his favorite commander!"

But the captive could not be awakened.  They threw water on him, kicked him, and he remained limp and unresponsive.  The Doctor looked apprehensively at the Captain.  "He's not . . .?"

She shook her head.

Finally, frustrated, the Scourge captain snarled:  "Cut his damn throat, then.  We'll wait out this rain and go find Van Meir ourselves!"

A sudden swirl of wind blasted through the barn.  The lamp swayed and crashed to the dirt.  Confusion followed as, shouting and cursing, men leapt to avoid splatters of burning oil.  When the flames were extinguished, the barn was dark.   The horses whinnied uneasily.

"Demons!"  someone whimpered.  "Ghosts!"

"Get another lamp lit!"  came the captain's voice.  "You fools.  It was only wind!"

Alternately coaxing and threatening, he restored order.  The lamp had not broken.  It was refilled and lit, but this time set on the ground under the watchful care of a soldier.

"Mebbe those stories we heard were true," one of the soldiers ventured.  "Mebbe this place is haunted."

There was muttering through the assembled men.  Outside, thunder rumbled.  A board banged suddenly in the wind and someone swore.

"That old lady said she saw the spirits." reminded another soldier.

"Superstitious pap!  We ride under the wings of the Lord.  No demon can withstand the power of His Word."

A few amens were uttered, but there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm among the troops.  The Doctor grinned and looked over at Captain McAllister.  Her head was down, forehead resting on her crossed wrists.  She was very still.

"Shhh!"  Someone cried.

The frightened soldiers fell silent at once.  Outside could be heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps -- as if someone or something paced along the perimeter of the barn.

"See who that is!"  barked the Scourge commander.

Two of the soldiers got reluctantly to their feet and, swords drawn, crept outside.  The Doctor saw Captain McAllister's hands clench briefly.

The silence stretched on, broken only by thunder and the rush of rain.  When it was clear that the men were not returning, the officer sent another pair.   Again the quick tightening of her fingers.

Now even the captain was getting nervous. "You, Glasnow!  You're with me."

Captain McAllister smiled.  It was not a comforting expression.

A very unhappy Glasnow got up and followed the lieutenant from the barn.  Two minutes later, a bloodcurdling scream rose over the rain.  Then another.  Shortly after that, the captain staggered back.  Blood poured from his mouth and nose. He stood in the barn door, swaying, then fell face first to the ground.

That was enough for the remaining Scourge.  As a man, they were up and running from the barn, trampling their commander's corpse in their desperation to be away.  Captain McAllister was on her feet as well, hauling frantically at the ladder.  She got it through the trap and down.  In seconds she was at the side of the abandoned prisoner.  The Doctor, considerably shaken, came down after her and went to see to the Scourge commander.

The man was dead, decidedly so.  Remembering the others who had failed to return from reconnoitering, he ran out into the rain.  He found them scattered around the barn.  Although there were no marks upon their bodies, they, too, were dead.

Grimly, he walked back inside and stopped.  The woman was on her knees beside her Rider, hands on his body.  A pale blue light surrounded them  Appalled, the Time Lord threw himself at her and they went tumbling across floor.  They came to halt, the Doctor on top.  He held her fast, pinned to the ground, and raised his mental shields against the attack he knew would come.

"Damn you!"  She was furious, pushing ineffectually at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"No more!"  he shouted, just as angry.  "Enough!"

"What?  Get off me!"

"Not until you promise to leave him alone!  There's been enough killing!"

He braced himself, but she unexpectedly relaxed, staring at him in disbelief.  "Killing?  You thought I was killing Jerry?"

He scowled.

"You idiot!  I was healing him!"

"Healing?"

He did not quite believe her.  She lifted a brow.  Holding her wrists firmly against the floor, he ventured a look around. The Horde Rider was still unconscious, but the Doctor saw that most of the really bad bruises were gone.  There was more color in his face and the bleeding had stopped.

"Well?"

"I -- er -- sorry."  He rolled off her and got to his feet.

"You're insane."  She sat up and dusted herself off.   "I could have killed you!"

The Doctor held out a hand and, after a long, narrow look, she took it.  He pulled her up.

"Do you mind?"

Feeling foolish, he nodded stiffly.   She sat back down beside the wounded man and replaced her hands.  After a moment, the Doctor saw a faint blue light blossom around her fingers.  The light grew and spread until the Rider's body was enveloped in it.  Through the halo, the terrible gashes closed, suppurating burns covered with smooth, pink flesh.  Then she sat back, taking her hands away.  The light vanished, and the Horde Rider, whole again, slept on soundly.

"Why did you think I would harm my own man?"  she asked curiously.  "Jer's not a blackstone."

"Blackstone?"  The Doctor shook his head  "I wish you would trust me."

She nodded tiredly.  There were dark circles under her eyes, her face pinched and grey.  "I'll think about it, Doctor.  But now, we'd better round up the horses and get moving.  If any of those fools meet up with this missing third unit, they'll be back.  And frankly, I don't have enough energy to deal with them again."

INTERLUDE

The Cardinal dismissed the last of his underlings and sat back in the deep cushions of his chair.  The priests silently withdrew, robes whispering over the deep carpet. Not until the door closed did he rise from his desk and draw the bolt.   The library boasted fine floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.  With its doors secured, he approached one of the shelves, moving a particular book bound in black leather and embossed with fine gold leaf.  As he did so, a section of the shelf opened silently outward, revealing a narrow stair descending into the earth.  A miasma of damp and age flowed up to meet him.  Taking
hold of the steel railing, he started down.

At the bottommost step, he put his hand to the wall, and at once there was light.  The room was not large, nor was it empty.  Eight narrow tables ran the length of it, and on the tables lay the seven young women.  Suspended directly above the tables were several large, red globes.  Their light bathed the still forms in a gentle, rosy glow.

The Cardinal walked slowly past the tables, stopping now and then to touch a smooth, colorless countenance.  Their eyes were tightly closed, their breathing shallow but regular.  Beneath his emaciated fingers, their flesh was cool and satin-soft.

The women delighted him with their sensuous curves and startling beauty.  He had not, at first, expected such loveliness.  It was an unlooked-for reward of this long and onerous service.   Today, however, there were other things to be done.  The prize, the real reason for enduring this hated exile, was within his grasp.  The Cardinal smiled upon the empty tables and then, unhurried, returned to his study and the culmination of his plans.

*   *   *

They came for Danner shortly after lunch.  At least, they called it lunch.  Danner, who had eaten many strange and awful things in his day, could not honestly grace it with such a title.  He hoped that wherever they were taking him, the food at least would be better.

It was gratifying that the goons sent in no less than six guards to move him, swarming into his cramped cell, filling it with their hulking, black-clad forms.  Like his other visitors during the past forty-eight hours, they were gloved and masked.  Unlike the others, two held stout night sticks.

Danner had known the move was coming - even welcomed it.  Surrounded by the same gray tile walls, his universe shrunken to six square feet, just about anywhere else would have been preferable.  Dr. Tiller, the "prisoner liaison," said that he would be participating in medical experiments.  It had a sinister ring, to say the least, but the man had assured him in a very kindly fashion that the first experiments at least would be "noninvasive."

"You're extremely valuable, Mr. Renwolf.  Not many first-generation blackstones survived the purges and massacres.  Just about everyone in Plague Studies is anxious to work with you."

How flattering.  Danner was under sentence of death.  His captors had taken great pleasure in making certain he understood this.  Their malice was revenge for the goons he'd killed.  Too damn bad.  People who messed with Danner Renwolf took the consequences.

Danner had listened carefully to everything Tiller told him.  In fact, shortly after being brought to this place, the blackstone came to the conclusion that open resistance was counterproductive.  So he quietly submitted to a thorough and humiliating body search, stood still while a dizzying succession of doctors poked him with needles and carted away tubes of his blood.  He lied most respectfully when they thundered questions at him under blazing lights.  He even managed to hold his temper and his fists each time they knocked him around.

To date, he had seen little of this Igan University except the prison complex.  The Security goons had brought him directly here, tied and gagged, and buried under a suffocating tarp. What he had learned had been extracted from the chatty Dr. Tiller while filling out a dozen of the man's tedious questionnaires.

For instance, this 'Consortium' was one hundred and five years old.  It was composed of thirty-four Universities, of which this particular one, Igan, was the Founding institution.  Tiller was especially proud of this; to be on the faculty here was the highest honor accorded anyone within the Consortium.  The cream of the intellectual crop ended up at Igan.  Competition was fierce, open posts few and far between.   Danner was given to realize that although he was a condemned man, he was likely to die at the hands of the most highly educated, erudite scholars on the continent.

The Consortium was dedicated to the preservation of pre-plague knowledge, technology and standards of living.  Much of the latter had been accomplished.  His cell, for instance, was lit with fluorescent lights.  It had a sink was a hot water tap that actually delivered hot water.  The Security goons communicated via radios, and just outside his cell was a device that looked very much like a video camera.

The sudden immersion in this long-forgotten environment was having an odd psychological effect on Danner.  His head ached.  What bits of sleep he snatched was disturbed by bizarre dreams that left no clear memories, only a bewildering gamut of  distress, excitement, grief, terror.  Those lingering feelings haunted him far into the daylight.

But now the waiting was over.  They had learned all they wanted from him here.  He stood up slowly, hands clearly visible,  as one of the guards pushed past the others into the middle of the cell.  The large, ruddy-faced officer clutched a wide leather band with a metal strip down the center.

"Hold out your right arm," he ordered, "and don't give me no trouble!  Behind him, the others shifted and tensed, waiting for Danner to resist, willing him to do so.  But Danner refused to give them an excuse to beat him again.  Docile as you please, he extended his arm and managed not to wince as the band was locked tightly around his wrist.

The cell door opened again, and another officer stood framed in the narrow doorway.  Now it was Danner's turn to tense.  Tall, fiercely handsome, Ron Sheridan had been a constant bystander throughout Danner's short stay.  He had been there during the interviews with Tiller, the physical exams, the interrogations.  Danner found his brooding presence unsettling.

"Wait outside."  Sheridan ordered shortly.

The guards moved out at once.  When they were gone, the young officer shut the door carefully behind him and turned to face Danner.

"You know who I am?"

Danner nodded warily, sensing that he was about to discover the reason for Sheridan's interest.

"Good.  I want you to listen and listen carefully.  I'm not buying this meek and cooperative crap you've been putting on for the last two days.  The funerals of my two officers are tomorrow, and it's my job to console their families.  You're a dangerous punk.  I don't know what your game is, I'm pretty sure everything you gave Interrogation was a lie, but I'm going to be watching you like a hawk."

He paused, observing Danner narrowly, but the prisoner said nothing, only looked back at him without expression.   "That tether you're wearing is class five - by my recommendation.  It kills when it's activated.  Because you're a blackstone, of course, it won't kill quickly or pleasantly.  You with me so far?"

Danner nodded.

"Good.  You're going to the Psych lab first.  While you're there, you'll be working for a Dr. Taylor.  Dr. Taylor is a particular friend of mine.  If I hear even a whisper that you're not cooperating, that you upset her or lay a finger on her, I'll activate that tether without a twinge of conscience.  I don't give a damn how valuable you are to Plague Studies.  You mess with her and you're dog meat!  Understand?"

"Yeah."

The blow came fast and unexpectedly.  Danner had no time to brace himself.  He hit the wall, slid to the floor, and for a second, saw stars.

"UNDERSTAND?"

Sheridan kicked him in the side for emphasis, then stepped back. "I can't hear you!"

"Yes . . . sir."

Wheeling around, the officer flung open the door.  The other guards looked in and, seeing Danner sprawled at his feet, had a hearty laugh.

"Take him away," snarled the officer, not amused.  He pushed his way through them and disappeared down the hall.  Danner was hauled to his feet, handcuffed, and marched from the cell.  If there was any justice in the univers, they were going to meet again!

He was taken from the detention center and into a walled courtyard.  There was a small van parked near the gate.   Guards hurried forward to fling open the back doors, shoving their prisoner inside.

It was a short trip.  When the van stopped, he was pulled out and found himself standing at the end of yet another courtyard.  This one, however, was much larger and, except for the asphalt drive, covered with thick, lush grass.  Trees shaded the grassy section.  There was a picnic table, a small pond and a fountain several feet away.  The yard also had an occupant.  A blackstone wearing blue trousers and a flannel shirt sat on a bench in the sunlight near the pond, watching curiously as Danner was taken from the van and pushed roughly against it.

From the opposite end of the yard, a door opened and two men in lab coats came out.  They conferred with the guards for several seconds, then advanced on Danner.

"Are the handcuffs absolutely necessary?" one of the men asked in a mild voice.

"Lieutenant's orders, Dr. Dawson.  This one here is dangerous."

"Um.  I read his file.  However, he is tethered . . . "

"Orders, sir.  Sorry.  We'll take'em off when he's been installed in your lab."

The scientist shrugged and turned away.  Danner's guards fell in beside him and all of them walked past the gaping blackstone and into the building.

"Center for Plague Studies" read a blue and white engraved sign at the end of the corridor, "Authorized Personnel Only."   The door blocking their way was steel.  Beside it was a slotted metal plate with a tiny red light.  Dr. Dawson pulled a plastic card from the pocket of his lab coat, inserted it into the slot, and light turned green.  The door opened soundlessly into yet another corridor.  This one had red lights set into the ceiling, casting a bloody sheen over everything.

"Ultraviolet," Dawson murmered to Danner.  "It's the first step in a long, involved disinfectant process.  Fortunately, the Psych labs are not required to maintain a sterile environment, so this is all you'll see of it."

The next door also responded to Dawson's card.  Beyond was a white foyer dominated by a long counter fronting glass doors reinforced with steel wire webbing.  Standing behind it was a beefy man in a blue uniform.  He gave Danner an incurious look and shoved a clipboard across the shining surface to Dawson.

"Afternoon, Doc.  Sign in, please."

The psychologist scrawled his name on the first empty line.  Danner stood, feigning disinterest while memorizing every aspect of the place.  Video cameras in the ceiling . . . those reinforced doors . . . a bulge under the blue uniform jacket.

"And we'll need you to sign the release," one of Danner's escorts said, shoving another piece of paper under Dawson's pen.

"There you are.  Thank you and, just a moment . . . "

The two men turned.

"Key."

"Oops.  Sorry."

The handcuffs were removed and the men departed.  The man at the counter pressed something.  There was a loud buzzing noise, then a click.

"Through there, Mr. Renwolf," Dawson said, indicating the door.

With a sinking heart, Danner realized that this place was as much a prison as the security complex.  Cameras everywhere.  Locked doors at every turn.  There were more blue-uniformed guards at intervals along the hall.  Doors marked exit, and elevators, all had the inevitable card-slot next to them.  This was going to be tough.

They took an elevator up a floor.  Unlike the previous level, this was carpeted and the walls painted a pale blue with framed prints hung on them.  There were potted plants and drapes at the windows.  The doors, however, continued to be thick, steel-reinforced glass.

"Welcome to Psychological Studies," Dawson said, slipping his card into yet another slot.  Danner was struggling to keep his bearing in this maze.  The psychologist opened the first door on the left of the new corridor and ushered Danner into a large, cluttered office.

"Have a seat," Dawson invited.  "I'm Maxwell Dawson, head of the Division.  Care for some coffee?"

"Real coffee?"

"Certainly."  Dawson's eyes twinkled.  "Just came into a large shipment of it.  Quite a lucky coincidence."

Danner found himself rather liking this quiet, easygoing man.  "I'd like some, thanks."

"Made it last night . . . reasonably fresh for me."

Danner accepted a grubby mug.  Real coffee!  Every cloud had a silver lining.  Sipping it with relish, he continued to file away details of his new prison.

There was a window taking up almost the entire rear wall of the office.  Wooden vertical blinds were half-closed against a breathtaking view of a wooded river valley.  He figured they were about four stories up.  Damn.  There was another door to the left - a private bathroom, perhaps, or entrance into another office or lab.

"I read your file.  It was interesting."

Danner said nothing.  He watched Dawson over the rim of his cup.

"Not a team player, apparently."  The psychologist groped around in his pockets, eventually coming up with a pair of glasses that he shoved carelessly onto his face.  Then a few more moments were spent rummaging through the various piles on the desk, some of them so tall that his activity threatened to overset them and sending them tumbling to the floor.  He nevertheless located quickly a slim, manila folder that he opened and scanned briefly.

"Somewhat reclusive. . ." he recited aloud, "brighter than average -- literate -- lousy attitude toward authority -- uh -- what else -- oh, yeah.  'Highly specialized fighter' and 'abrupt change from active resistance to passive acquiescence, most likely defensive facade...'"

"Sounds like me so far," Danner confirmed agreeably   "Anything else?"

"Let's see here -- medical file -- advanced crystal formation suggests subject was infected with original virus -- blood count put you at about four months from overload."

"Four months?  Overload?"

"Every six or seven months on average, the original plague symptoms recur. Surely you've noticed?"

"Oh. relapse."

So much for their tests.  Danner kept meticulous track of relapse.  In him, it occurred every six months.  He was only a month away from the year's first attack.  "Why do you call it overload?"

"That thing . . . " Dawson pointed at the center of Danner's forehead, "is a kind of gland. It produces a hormone-like substance that builds up in your blood and other endocrinological systems. It's responsible (we think) for the cyclical return of symptoms - or relapse, as you put it.   Anything else in here?  Hmm.   Nothing particularly interesting.  You're not very informative."

Danner shrugged and drank more coffee.  Dawson put the file down, pushed his glasses up and sat back.  He studied Danner in silence until the blackstone wondered if he'd grown a second nose or something.  Finally, Dawson seemed to come to some private decision.

"Before I introduce you to my staff and show you your quarters, let me give you a brief overview of our work here.   We are specifically interested in blackstone behavior.  I'm not talking about feelings of rejection, hating your mum, or any of that other psychotherapeutic garbage.  We're investigating the impact of the neuroblastomic hormone on your behavior and physiology.  A lot of what you will be doing is rather boring -- questionnaires, some standard psych tests, blood draws, interviews.  We
would like to have your cooperation in this.  As a probable first-generation, you stand to provide us with information we cannot get from younger blackstones.  From time to time, if all goes well, we may even have people from the History Department sit in on some of the interviews."  Dawson paused, brow furrowed.  When he spoke again, it was with obvious reluctance.

"I suppose I should mention that there are consequences of not cooperating with us.  I don't know how much you were told about your future . . . "

"Only that I don't have one."  Danner set down the empty mug.  "Which, you must admit, doesn't exactly motivate me to cooperate."

"I suppose that is true.  You may feel differently if you knew that your cooperation or lack thereof will have a direct impact on how and when the sentence is carried out.  Here at Igan, we have investigators engaged in "unrestricted" experiments.  What that means, basically, are invasive procedures on a whole-body system.  That work is often extremely painful and inevitably lethal.  Obviously, we don't get blackstones volunteers lining up for these experiments.    Consequently, there is a waiting list for blackstones who qualify for "unrestricted" work -- men who have violated our borders or committed a capital crime."

"Or were stupid enough to survive the plague's first wave."

Dawson looked unhappy, but resigned.  "If it becomes obvious to the Regulatory Committee that you are not going to be of value in our studies, you'll be turned over to an unrestricted investigator.  I personally would hate to see that happen.  Some of the studies in that category - and this is just my opinion, mind you - come perilously close to being atrocities."

Danner felt a chill at Dawson's words.  Somehow hearing it from the psychologist had greater impact than all of Security's lurid threats.

"I'll cooperate as much as I can," he hedged, deciding then and there that he'd better get the hell out of this place.

"I'm sure you will."  With that unpleasantness out of the way, Dawson relaxed.  "And now, let me call in Dr. Taylor.  I've put her in charge of gathering the lion's share of data.  She's a new postdoctoral fellow.  You'll be working very closely with her."

He shoved aside some more piles, revealing a telephone.  Danner continued to be impressed by the level of technology Igan had recovered.  Dialing, the psychologist waited a moment, and then:  "Anna -- hi.  Yep.  Got him.  Sure.  Sure.  No, wait.  Yeah. OK."  He hung up and beamed at Danner.  "She'll be right over.  I'm sure you'll work very well together.  Dr. Taylor is one of the brightest biopsychologists I've ever had the pleasure to work with.  Very sharp and enthusiastic.  She'll show you around the Unit."

A knock came at the door, and without waiting for a response, it opened.  Danner straightened slightly as a young woman poked her head in, smiled brightly, and came into the room.

"Hi, Max!"  She turned to Danner, "Hello, Mr. Renwolf."

She was quietly elegant.  Tall and slim, she had long, dark blond hair caught up in a careless ponytail.  Class, thought Danner.

"Dr. Taylor, I presume?" he managed finally - even got it together to stick out his hand before remembering that most Norms would rather not touch a blackstone unless they were wearing gloves.  But she took it without hesitation, a quick, firm shake.

"Anna, would you be kind enough to show Mr. Renwolf the facility?  I'm late for a meeting."

"Be glad to."

Holding open the door, she said: "If you will come with me?"

He followed her into the hall and waited as she lingered at the door, speaking to Dawson.  Although her voice was low, blackstone hearing was acute and Danner eavesdropped effortlessly.

"I...I don't think I'll be able to start the first session until tomorrow, Max.  I'm getting one of my headaches.  Is that all right?"

Dawson replied, sounded like an affirmative.  Then she turned back, shut the door, and with a bright, professional smile, started down the hall.  "The residential suite is this way."

There were a lot of doors along the corridor, most of them shut.  One was left open and through it he glimpsed a small kitchen, replete with shiny metal stove and a refrigerator.  At the end of the corridor was a huge window looking down over a winding street.  Across the street was a glass and concrete building that managed to block most of the view.  Dr. Taylor turned left just before reaching the window and pushed open a door.  He noticed it was equipped with a heavy dead-bolt on the outside.

A suite of five small rooms stood around a central living area furnished with a couch, two armchairs and a coffee table.  Three of the doors were shut tight and, the doors could be dead-bolted from the outside. There were numbers stenciled on each.  The door to the fifth room was closed, but clearly marked 'Bath'.  Dr. Taylor pointed toward room number four.

"This will be your bedroom," she said.  "We have laundry service once a week.  There's a bag in the closet for your dirty clothes.  Just set 'em outside your door."

"That could be a problem," he said.  "These are all I have."

"Oh."  She was momentarily nonplused.  "Of course.  I'll requisition some new things."

She waited while Danner had a look at his room.  It was Spartan in the extreme.  The metal-framed bed was narrow as a cot.  A small dresser with three drawers stood beside it.  Above the dresser, a mirror of polished metal hung on the wall.  There were more of the wooden blinds on the window, and the window was barred.  A tiny closet completed the room's features.  Finished, he turned back to her.

"This way is the dining and recreation facilities."

They left the sleeping units and went across the corridor.  Here were two larger rooms.  One had a several tables and chairs, with a sideboard along one wall.  There was also, he noticed, a small trap door, possibly a dumbwaiter, in the wall next to the sideboard.  He filed that away for future reference.

The other room had two couches, chairs, several bookshelves stuffed with books, and a coffee-table littered with pamphlets and magazines.  While Dr. Taylor remained in the doorway, he prowled the room, discovering that most of the books and magazines were the kind written for very young children or illiterates.  It was not surprising.  In most places, education was an afterthought.

Like the courtyard, the room was occupied by another blackstone.  He sprawled out on the couch, leafing through a picture book, but looked up with open curiosity as they came in.

"Mr. Renwolf, this is Steve Forest.  He's a volunteer subject.  Steve, Danner Renwolf."

The blackstone nodded and smiled in a friendly fashion. Danner's response was more reserved.

"One more place to show you," she said, "and I'll let you wander around and get used to the Unit."

Once more out into the hall.  She moved down several doors. "This is our infirmary.  When you go into overload, this is where you'll be treated during overload."

The clinic was remarkably well equipped, if small.  Behind a glass partition stood four hospital beds separated by curtains.  One was occupied by a blackstone tossing restlessly beneath a sheet.   A male nurse stood the bed, adjusting an i.v.

"What's he getting?"

"NSAIDs, mainly.  Steady drip so some of it will get past that extraordinary immune system of yours."

"Aspirin, eh?"

"We haven't been able to get authorization to use anything stronger, unfortunately.  Antibiotics, stronger analgesics, are still too difficult to manufacture.  And even it we could, most of the medication would never reach its destination.   There's not much else we can do but keep the fever down, make the patient as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.  Hopefully someday we'll be able to prevent overload completely, but for now . . . "  She shrugged and ushered him out of the room.
 
"That's about it.  A small world, I'm afraid.  I know you aren't a volunteer, but I hope you'll be comfortable as long as you're here.  Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah - this.  What are my limits?"  He held out his tethered wrist.  She gave it a brief, uncomfortable glance.

"As long as you remain within this Unit, you'll be all right.  They tell me the tether will activate if you try to leave,"  she pointed to the door at the end of the corridor, "use the elevator or crawl into the dumbwaiter you were considering a moment ago."

"OK."

"And the windows," she added, "don't open."

"I figured that."

"I'll bet you did."  Her eyes glinted.  There was more than a hint of sympathy in them.  "Now, if there's nothing else, I've got to get going."

"Hope your headache goes away."

She blinked, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"When do these, er, sessions begin?" he asked.

"I'll be here first thing tomorrow.  Is nine o'clock OK?"

Danner assumed the question was rhetorical, but nodded anyway.

"Good.  If you need anything, just find one of the staff. There's always someone on duty."

"Thank you."

"Yes . . . well," she hesitated again, looking at him in that slightly bemused way.  "Rest up.  I'll see you tomorrow."

He watched her hurry down the hall and, after pushing her key-card in the slot, leave the unit.  He remained where he was for several minutes, but no one else appeared.

Danner started down the hall, trying each closed door. Locked.  Locked.  Locked.  Standard locks, too.  Not the formidable electronic variety.

One door was merely closed, with a sign hanging on the knob that read "Session in Progress: Do Not Disturb."  So naturally he opened it.  It was an office.  A desk stood against one wall, a couch against the other.  The room was occupied by two people, a blackstone and a young Norm clutching a clipboard in gloved hands.  He was seated on a straight chair next to the couch, upon which the blackstone was lying, apparently asleep, and looked up in annoyance.

"Hey! Can't you read?  Oh.  Hullo.  You must be the new one.  Sorry, forgot.  Probably can't, can you?"

Danner made his expression as bovinely stupid as possible.  He wandered aimlessly into the room and started moving around, picking things up and putting them down.  The youth jumped up and took hold of his arm, steering him gently back to the door.

"When you see that sign hanging on the door, it means don't come in.  OK?  Understand?"

"Uh - yeah.  OK.  Bye."

The door closed with a firm click.  Grinning, Danner had a look at the pen he'd pilfered from the desk.  Unscrewing it, he pulled out the thin, metal core.  Flexing it happily, he returned to his bedroom and lay down.   Sooner or later, the main staff would go home.  Then he would have a chance to really look over the facilities.

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