to the edge for quietness.

The moon came out again. He crouched, screwing up his eyes to stare behind. He was certain he could see figures flitting about, dashing across the road. Or was it tired eyes? Could The Captain have set up a road block on the drain? Perhaps they were waiting for him up ahead, watching his green profile approach in their night goggles. He lost track of time after clouds claimed the moon again and he stumbled in deep night across plains of eternity, until the plain jacked up under his feet and he collapsed flat, panting and limp. It was only after some minutes of crawling about like a lost rat that he grasped he was on a dome of scrubby grass. A little further exploration revealed he had arrived at a circular junction of a type popular in the Public Era. It meant another major road must once have connected with the Norwich to Nottingham route. Almost certainly this connecting drain ran south to Wisbech as there had never been any other big town south of The Wash in the Public Era. In the gloom of his tired mind he fixed on the idea this branch drain had to be safer than staying on the main drain to Nottingham.

He must not stop again. If he did, he would lie down and die. His very body craved death, pulling at him all the time to fall and rest, just for a few moments, anything to relieve the aching labour of his thighs. The drain became muddy, the mud deepened until his legs sank in up to the knee and he fell again. Frigid water crept through his overalls. He rolled on his side and eventually, by twisting and clawing at the tussocks, managed to extract himself to firmer ground. The drain obviously dropped into a bog. These places were sumps of black mud that could swallow a half-track—a man had no chance. There was nothing for it but to retreat to drier ground and wait. Exhaustion quelled even the terrors of the marsh people. He fell asleep without even knowing it.

*

Lawrence jolted awake, squinting about dazedly. Everything was milky. Gradually, he emerged from torpor enough to realise that mist hung over the marsh. Just visible through the mist was a strip of bushes, which clarified into a thin wood growing along a whale-backed rise of the land. He crawled across and lay in its cover behind a rotting log.

For the first time, the loss of Pezzini weighed on him. Was it guilt at having led the spay to his death? Or despair at losing his principal witness? Lawrence had no idea. Tears flowed off his nose and settled into the earth. It felt so peculiar to anguish over a death. Perversely, it felt so good. It felt like life, not subsistence death in the Value System.

Why did he not die too? Quite simply, he was lucky. Warmth from thousands of miles to the south wafted across the fens and blew away the mist until the sky was clear blue all the way across. When Lawrence awoke again, the sunshine blinded him. It was almost hot. His overalls steamed, the caked mud dried and fell off. After half an hour of clenched teeth, his feet thawed out. He warmed them inside his hands for a while before putting his boots back on to start foraging. The little wood proved a decent larder, even in this dead season. A patch of ground elder, rotting logs rich with oyster mushrooms, more dandelion and chickweed. The wild fare stimulated his guts, prompting him to roam away from the drain to find a discreet place. The thought of the marsh people pouncing while he had his overalls around his ankles pushed him to a fussy search finally answered by a copse of willow. He buried it and pushed a log over the place. From puddles he lapped up water, doing his best not to suck down mud and grubs. This wealth of wild food in such a barren place satisfied him that people never came here. The only signs of life were the remains of a pigeon and some owl pellets. Apparently, he was beyond the territory of the marsh people.

In every direction spread a furry ocean of brown grass, brown reeds, bare trees and pools of black bog. A moving man could be seen for a long way on such a landscape. The drain he had followed in the night cut down straight from the north with all the old confidence of the Public Era and dived into mud. It emerged onto higher ground about a quarter mile away. There were no tyre tracks.

What to do now?

Peterborough was the only hope. He was going to have to cross twenty miles of marsh, fen and black mud, without a compass, or map, or any landmarks, in order to reach Peterborough and its General Wardian garrison. He knew it could not be done, least of all in winter. The attempt did have one merit though: it was a death worth dying.

The strip of woodland provided him raw materials to make a pair of mud shoes by tearing off branches from the birch trees and using reeds for binding. The result was rather like a pair of snow shoes. He then made the empty leather sleeve into a sling. He was surprised by what a good one it made. By slicing the sleeve into thin strips and plaiting them, he formed a sling longer than his own arm. The elbow formed a natural cup for the stone. After a few tries the snapping technique came back. One shot would smash a man’s head or break his ribs.

As Lawrence was wrapping the sling up, he at first thought the faint pulsing was inside his own ears. He tipped his head this way and that. A truck? It seemed too steady for a truck. This was a slow, thrumming beat. An aircraft? It was

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