In the bedroom, the strongbox was empty. Beside it was a scatter of papers.

  As he had expected, there were such curiosities as stock certificates, a stamp collection, and the deed to this house. But some of the other trash turned out to be recently torn cardpaper boxes.

  The largest box, from which the cellophane had been recently removed, had, until a few minutes before, held an AR-15 collapsible survival rifle. Gordon looked at the lightweight weapon pictured on the box and stifled a strangled cry of agony. Undoubtedly there had also been boxes of ammo.

  But the other trash almost drove him wild. Labels were strewn about, saying empirin with codeine, eurythromycin, megavitamin complex, morphine…

  Carefully handled…cached and traded in dribbles…these could have bought Gordon admission to any hamlet he chose. He might have won his way into one of the rich Wyoming ranch communities! He remembered a good doctor, in what was left of Butte, whose clinic was a sanctuary, protected by all the surrounding villages and clans. What the sainted gentleman could have done with these!

  It was all right, he told himself over and over. He was alive. And if he could get back to his backpack, he would probably stay alive.

  Gordon peeked out of the room, then resumed his stalking progress toward an exit from the house of false expectations.

  A man who spends a long time alone in the wilderness can have one great advantage over a very good hunter who goes home to friends and companions each night.

  Gordon sensed something before he could identify it. At first he shrugged his unease off as a remnant of his fear and anger in the house. Then he realized that the forest sounded different somehow.

  Gordon had been retracing his steps toward the eastern edge of town, where he had hidden his gear. Now he stopped and considered: this route would help him find his landmarks, but might it not give an antagonist who had found his previous trail an advantage?

  Was he overreacting? He was no Jeremiah Johnson, who could read the sounds of the woods like the street signs of a city. He looked around for something to back up his unease. Activity around him had been sparse until he had stopped moving. But when he kept still, an avian ebb and flow slowly returned to this patch of forest. Camp robber birds flitted in conveys from spot to spot, playing guerrilla war with jays for the best of the tiny bug-infested glades. Smaller birds hopped from branch to branch, chirping. Birds in this size range had no great love of man, but they didn’t go to great lengths to avoid him if he was quiet.

  Then what?

  There was a snapping sound to his left, near one of the ubiquitous blackberry thickets, But there, too, there were birds, or rather a bird. A mockingbird. The creature swooped up through the branches and landed in a bundle of twigs Gordon guessed to be its nest. It stood there, like a small lordling, haughty and proud. It squawked once, then dove toward the thicket again. As it passed out of sight, there was another tiny rustle; then the mockingbird swooped into view again.

  Gordon froze an expression of nonchalance onto his face and idly picked at the loam with his bow. Meanwhile, he loosened the loop on his revolver. It took an effort to keep from displaying his nervousness.

  He began moving diagonally to the thicket, about twenty yards away, moving neither toward it nor away from it, but in the direction of a large Ponderosa pine. The hackles on his neck were as far up as a furless ape could lift them.

  Something behind that thicket had stimulated the nest defense response of the mockingbird. Whatever it was behaved most un-animal like, trying to ignore the nuisance attacks—to stay hidden.

  Alerted, Gordon recognized a hunting blind.

  He slung the bow over his shoulder with exaggerated carelessness, but as he passed behind the pine, he drew his revolver and ran into the forest at a sharp angle, trying to keep the bulk of the tree between himself and the thicket.

  He remained in the tree’s umbra only a moment. Surprise protected him a moment longer. Then the cracking of three loud shots, all of different caliber, diffracted down the lattice of trees.

  Gordon lengthened his stride. There was a fallen log ahead, at the top of a small rise. It would not only provide shelter if he could reach it; it would also conceal his movements. He heard three more bangs as he dove over the decaying trunk. He hit the ground and felt a stabbing pain in his right arm.

  Gordon felt a moment’s blind panic as the hand holding his revolver cramped. If he had broken his arm… Blood soaked the cuff of his US Government Issue tunic. The pain was exaggerated by his imagination as he pulled back on the sleeve. The wound was a shallow gash. Small slivers of wood hung from the laceration. His bow had broken and stabbed him as he had fallen upon it.

  His ears picked up sounds of pursuit. Whoops of gleeful chase carried over the tiny hillock.

  Gordon threw the bow aside; later he would have time to curse its loss. He hurried uphill and to the right, crouching to take advantage of the creekbed and underbrush. Hunted men often run downstream. Gordon raced upslope, hoping that one of his enemies knew that bit of trivia.

  There were shouts behind him. For a few minutes sounds of pursuit came closer. Gordon’s own racket seemed loud enough to wake sleeping bears. Twice, he caught his breath behind boulders or clumps of foliage.

  Finally the shouts became diminished with distance. Gordon sighed as he settled back against a large oak and waited. When the noises had receded far enough, he pulled the first aid kit from his belt pouch.

  His arm would be all right. There was no reason to expect infection from the polished wood of the bow. The tear was far from vessels or tendons. It hurt like hell, though. He bound it, then looked around to get his bearings.

  To his surprise, he recognized two landmarks at once…the shattered sign of the Oakridge Motel, seen over the treetops, and a cattle grate across a worn asphalt path just to the east.

  Gordon moved to the place where he had left his goods. The stuff was exactly as he had left it. Apparently the Fates were not so cruel as to deal him another blow just yet. He knew they didn’t operate that way. They always let you hope, for a while, before They let you have it.

  It was hard to believe they had missed him. They’d had the drop on him. Were they so surprised by his sudden break for it? Gordon wondered. They must have had semi-automatic weapons, yet he remembered only six shots.

  At first he thought there were no bullet wounds on the Ponderosa pine, across the clearing. Then he looked a bit higher. Two fresh scars blemished the bark ten feet up.

  So. They had not meant to kill him at all. They had aimed high to scare him off.

  Gordon’s lips curled. Ironically, this made his assailants easier to hate. Unthinking malice he had come to accept, from many former Americans, as he accepted foul weather. But calculated contempt he had to take personally. These men understood the concept of mercy, but they had robbed, injured, and terrorized him.

  He picked up their trail a few hundred yards to the west. It was clear and uncovered. They were almost arrogant. Gordon took no chances, however. It was almost dusk before he reached the palisade that surrounded New Oakridge.

  It was apparently the most prosperous community he had found since leaving Idaho. An enclosure that had once been a city park was enclosed by a high, wooden fence. From within, Gordon heard the lowing of numerous cattle. A horse whinnied. Gordon could smell hay and the rich scent of livestock.

  Nearby, a still higher wall surrounded three blocks of what had been the southwest corner of Oakridge town. A row of two-story buildings a half-block long took up the center of the village. Gordon could see the tops of these, including a watertower with a crow’s nest atop it. There was motion in the crow’s nest. A guard stood watch.

  There was no entrance on this side. He skirted around to the south.

  The forest had been cut, years ago, to provide a free fire zone around the village wall. Less care had apparently been taken of late. Undergrowth half as high as a man had encroached on the open area. Gordon crouched when he heard voices; then cautiously he approached from behind a curtain of trees.

  A large gate swung open as Gordon reached the south wall. As he settled down to watch, two armed men sauntered out, looked around, then waved to someone within.

  With a shout and a snap of reins a wagon pulled by two draft horses sallied through the gate. The driver paused by the two guards. Gordon could barely make out what he said.

  “Tell the Mayor we appreciate the loan, Jeff. I know I’m in the hole pretty deep. But we’ll pay him back out of the harvest, for sure. He already owns a piece of the farm, so this seed ought to be a good investment for him.”

  One of the guards nodded. “Sure thing, Sonny. Now you be careful on your way out, okay? Some of the boys spotted a loner down at the east end of old town today. There was some shootin’.”

  The farmer gasped. “Was anyone hurt? Are you sure it was a loner?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure. He ran like a rabbit, according to Bob.”

  Gordon’s heart beat faster. The insults had reached a point almost beyond bearing.

  “The fellow did the Mayor a real favor, though,” the guard went on. “Found a hidey hole full of drugs before Bob’s guys drove him off. Mayor’s going to pass some of them around to some of the owners at a party tonight, to find out what they’ll do. I sure wish I moved in those circles.”

  “Me too!” the younger guard agreed. “Hey, Sonny, you think the Mayor might pay you some of your bonus in drugs if you make quota this year? You could have a real party!”

  Sonny smiled sheepishly and shrugged. Then, for some reason, his head drooped. The older guard looked at him quizzically.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  Sonny shook his head. “We don’t wish for very much anymore, do we, Jeff?”

  Jeff frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean as long as we’re wishing to be cronies of the Mayor, why don’t we wish we had a Mayor without cronies at all!”

  “I…”

  “Hell, if pigs had wings! Jeff, remember when we used to talk about the old days? Remember when we dreamed that things could be decent again? Remember when we wished—”

  The farmer’s voice choked.

  Jeff put his hand on the farmer’s arm. Sonny nodded acknowledgement, then said, “Yaah!” and snapped the reins. The wagon rolled down the road.

  Jeff looked after the wagon for a long moment and chewed on a grass stem. Then he turned to his younger companion.

  “Jimmy, did I ever tell you about Portland? Sonny and I used to go there, before the war. We used to…”

  They passed through the gate, out of Gordon’s hearing.

  Under other circumstances Gordon might have pondered for hours the information that one small conversation had offered, about the psychology and social structure of Oakridge and its environs. But right now he was too angry. His outrage over the “rabbit” remark met his indignation over the proposed use of the drugs he had found and made him think purple thoughts. He remembered the doctor in Wyoming and thought of the benefit he might make of the drugs. Why, most of the substances wouldn’t even make these ignorant savages high!

  He imagined himself scaling the walls, finding the storage facilities, and reclaiming his discoveries, along with some added items to make up for the insults, his wound, and his broken bow.

  The image wasn’t satisfying enough. Gordon embellished. He envisioned dropping in on the Mayor’s party and wasting all of the power-hungry cronies who were making a midget empire out of this corner of the dark age. He imagined acquiring power, power to do good…power to force these yokels to use the education of their younger days, before the educated generation disappeared forever from the world.

  Gordon considered his options. Leaving was out of the question. He recognized that his pride would not allow him to go. He would do battle, and that was that. Unfortunately, he was less sure about how he would do battle. Gordon stood up and scratched his head, dislodging his cap. He caught it before it fell. He was about to put it back on when he stopped and looked at it. Slowly, he smiled. A plan began to form. It would be audacious, but it had an element of consistency that appealed to Gordon. He supposed he was the last man alive who had the temperament to choose a course of deadly danger for aesthetic reasons. If his scheme failed, it would still be spectacular.

  The plan would require a brief foray into the ruins of old Oakridge—to one of the buildings certain to be among the least looted. He would have to be careful not to be spotted during the remaining daylight.

  Two hours later, Gordon stepped along the road in the dusk. He had retraced his steps from town until he came to the road Sonny had used, south of the village wall. Now he approached the gate boldly.

  The guard was lax. Gordon came to within thirty feet unchallenged. He saw a sentry near the far end of the palisade, but the idiot was looking the other way.

  Gordon placed Abby’s whistle between his lips and blew, hard, three times. The shrill cry echoed among the buildings and trees all around.

  Hurried footsteps pounded along the parapet. Three men carrying shotguns appeared above the gate to look down upon him in the gathering twilight.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” one voice called out. “We don’t welcome strangers here!”

  “I must speak with someone in authority,” Gordon hailed. “This is official business, and I demand entry to the town of Oakridge!”

  There was a long silence. The guards whispered among themselves, and one man hurried off.

  “Come again?” The chief guard shouted. “I don’t think I heard you properly. Are you feverish? Have you got the Sickness?”

  “I am not ill. I am tired and hungry and angry at being shot at. But all of that can wait until I have done my duty here.”

  “Duty? What the devil are you talking about?”

  Footsteps echoed on the parapet. Several more men arrived; then a number of children and women began to string out to the left and right. Apparently, discipline had become lax in Oakridge.

  Gordon repeated himself. Slowly and firmly he reiterated his demand to be allowed entry.

  A group of figures carrying lanterns appeared on the parapet to the right. Those on that side made way.

  “Look, loner,” the chief guard said, “you’re just asking for a bullet. We have no ‘official business’ with anyone outside this valley since we broke relations with that commie place down at Blakeville. And I’m not bothering the Mayor for some crazy—”

  He turned in surprise as the party of dignitaries reached the gate. A new voice spoke.

  “I was just nearby. Heard the commotion. What’s going on here?”

  “Fellow claims he has official business here, but he’s not from the valley. They all wear those hat things.

  “He must be sick, or else he’s one of those crazies that always used to come through. I thought they’d all be dead by now.”

  Gordon waited. In the growing darkness he saw the leading dignitary lean over the parapet to look at him.

  “I am the Mayor of Oakridge,” the man announced. “We don’t believe in charity here, but if you’re that fellow who found the goodies this afternoon and graciously donated them to my boys, I’ll admit we owe you. I’ll have a nice hot meal lowered over the gate. You can sleep there by the road. Tomorrow, though, you gotta be gone. We don’t want disease here. And from what I hear, you must be delirious.”

  Gordon smiled. It would be a pleasure to bluff this jerk. It wouldn’t feel like lying at all.

  “Your generosity astounds me, Mr. Mayor, but I have come too far on official business to turn away now. First, though, can you tell me if Oakridge has a wireless facility?”

  The silence brought on by his non sequitur was long and heavy. Gordon could imagine the Mayor’s puzzlement. Finally, perhaps out of curiosity, the town boss answered.

  “We haven’t had a working radio in ten years. Why? What has that to do with anything—”

  “That’s a shame. I’d hoped you had a transmitter. The airwaves have been a shambles since the war, of course—all the radioactivity—but I’d hoped I could report back to my superiors.”

  He delivered the lines with aplomb. This time they caused not silence but a buzz of conversation that ran up and down the parapet. Most of the population of Oakridge must be up there by now. Gordon hoped the wall was well built.

  “Get that lantern over here!” The Mayor commanded. “No, you idiot! The one with the reflector! Yes! Now shine it on that man! I want a look at him!”

  The light speared out at Gordon, but he was expecting it. He didn’t cover his eyes, or squint. He turned to bring his “costume” to the best angle. The cap, with its polished crest, lay at a rakish angle on his head.

  He shifted the leather bag. The muttering of the crowd grew.

  “Mr. Mayor,” he called. “My patience is wearing thin. Please don’t make me invoke my authority. I already will have to have words with you about the behavior of your ‘boys’ this afternoon. You are on the verge of losing your privilege of communication with the rest of the nation.”

  “Communication? Nation? What the are you talking about? There’s just the Blakeville commies and savages beyond them! Who the hell are you!”

  Gordon touched his cap. “Gordon Krantz, of the United States Postal Service. I am the courier assigned to reestablish a mail route in lower Oregon and general federal inspector for the region.”

  Gordon hadn’t thought of the last part until it was out. Was it inspiration? Or a dare? Well, he might as well he hanged for a sheep as a goat.

  The crowd became noisy. Several times Gordon heard the words, outside, and inspector, and especially mailman.

  The Mayor shouted for silence. He was obeyed grudgingly and slowly. He shouted again. Finally he got order.

  “So you’re a mailman?” he called down to Gordon sarcastically. “What kind of idiots do you take us for, Krantz? A shiny suit makes you a government official? What government? What proof can you give us? Show us you’re not a wild lunatic with radiation fever!”