face.

'I'm sorry. Yes, of course I accept.. I don't imagine I have much

choice - right?"

Mr Snow waved the question away. 'I've also told them that you will

never, under any circumstances, reveal the existence of either to

anyone outside this clan. Unreasonable?"

'No, unlikely. As I already pointed out, I'm a prisoner but, yeah,

sure, I'll go along with that."

Since, in biting.the arrow, Steve had gained the status of a warrior,

Mr Snow briefly considered asking him to swear the traditional

blood-oath to guard the secret with his life.

He decided such a pledge would be meaningless to an individual who

scorned the ways of the Plainfolk and had no concept of honour. Such

strange people, these sand-burrowers.

And such consummate liars!

Steve's eyes wandered briefly over the random pattern covering Mr

Snow's body. 'If no one is supposed to know their secret, why don't

Cadillac and Clearwater just leave the dye on their skin and paint over

it when it wears off?"

'It has to be removed at regular intervals to prevent their bodies from

being permanently discoloured,' replied Mr Snow.

'But... ?" Steve looked baffled.

Mr Snow smiled. 'Isn't it obvious? There may come a time when they

will need to appear un-skinned."

'You mean. disguised as Trackers?"

'I would not discount that possibility,' admitted Mr Snow. 'As

servants of Talisman they may be required to assume many guises."

Steve nodded. 'Okay, then let me give .you a word of advice in case

you've been picking my brains with the idea of breaking into the

Federation. Forget it. Even if they managed to find a way in, they

wouldn't get ten yards without an ID-card. It's the key to everything

- and they're nontransferable."

Mr Snow digested this valuable piece of intelligence with a thoughtful

expression. 'Thanks for telling me."

A couple of days later, Cadillac returned sporting his new paint job.

As far as Steve could see, it was an exact duplicate of his previous

body markings. He had even been rubbed down with something - probably

a fine dust - to kill the fresh colour. Steve took care not to pay him

undue attention, greeting him casually, as if he had been away for

several minutes not several days and did not remark upon, or seek the

reason, for his absence.

Shortly afterwards Steve glimpsed Clearwater moving about the

settlement accompanied by her two sisters, or in a group with other

She-Wolves. Although he was never conscious of a deliberate effort by

the clan to keep them apart they somehow never managed to meet face to

face. If their paths crossed it was always at a discreet distance.

Despite his desire to get better acquainted Steve held firmly to the

promise he had given to Mr Snow and contented himself with just looking

at her whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was very seldom

that their eyes connected and for the most part, her expression

remained neutral but, from time to time, he found himself on the

receiving end of a brief, tantalising glance which, had she been any

closer, would have burnt the soles off his boots.

Steve took care not to let his frustration hinder his growing

friendship with Cadillac. He introduced him to the quarterstaff and

when the young wordsmith had once again demonstrated the ease with

which he could acquire new skills, put forward the idea of teaching him

to fly. Cadillac's response was non-committal but, two days later,

Steve emerged from their hut to find the dismantled remains of three

Skyhawks arranged in several neat piles inside a large semi-circle of

seated spectators.

Curbing his excitement, Steve made a casual but beady-eyed inspection

of the various bits and pieces. Some of the struts and wing spars were

badly distorted but most of the airframe components he needed were

available. The crumpled, vandalised cockpit pods looked beyond

repair.

The sole surviving engine looked more or less intact but it had a

broken propellor.

Cadillac appeared at Steve's shoulder. 'What do you think?"

'It's a possibility, no more." Steve's doubt was genuine.

'I'm not sure we have enough wing fabric,' he added, realising he had

torn up strips of the precious material to plait into his own hair.

'But the biggest problem is the fact that we don't have any metal

working tools."

'What kind of tools do you need?" asked Cadillac casually.

It took Steve several seconds to recover from his