in the ash and ruins of Greenbank. Eventually he got sick of the whole sordid business and handed it over to his professional interrogators. Unlike the Agents, he was not a sadist, he was not a pervert, he did not relish cruelty for its own sake.
He returned to Kloan, and to the warm noisy shadows of his communications tent.
He spent some time drafting a message to be wired back to Angelus and Kingstown.
THREE AGENTS OF THE ENEMY EXECUTED AT GREENBANK.
“FANSHAWE” TAKEN ALIVE. TARGET IN HANDS OF FOURTH AGENT, BELIEVED TO BE “JOHN CREEDMOOR,” LOCATION PRESENTLY UNKNOWN.
They would punish him for losing Creedmoor. A message would come, not to him but to some underling, Thernstrom perhaps, an order that he go the way Banks went.
In hopes of saving his neck, he noted that
DR. ALVERHUYSEN IS STILL WITH AGENT AND TARGET.
SIGNAL DEVICE ENABLES PURSUIT OF TARGET. SIGNAL
DEVICE WAS PLANTED ON DOCTOR AT SUGGESTION OF
ACTING CONDUCTOR LOWRY.
It was a stroke of extraordinary good luck that the Agent had taken her with him. Had he not, Lowry would probably have shot himself hours ago, to save the Engines the expense of a telegram.
He tried to think of a way to suggest, without precisely lying, that it had been part of his plan all along that the Agent would take the Doctor with him. . . .
“Sir.”
“What is it, Thernstrom?”
“The interrogators have finalized their report.”
“Fanshawe. Yes. And?”
“In summary, sir: He was contacted two months ago in Gibson City with instructions to—”
“No. Where’s Creedmoor? Where’s Creedmoor going? Does he know that?”
“Southeast. He was to accompany Creedmoor and the target to a place in Keaton called—”
“Have it destroyed. That’s a thousand miles away. Where is he going now?”
“Unknown.”
“Execute him.”
“Sir—”
“Execute him. We can’t spare men to look after him. And look, I’ve already stamped the forms.”
He stamped the forms to authorize the disposal of the three Agents’ bodies by fire. He stamped a series of further forms authorizing the payment of compensation for damage and loss of life to Greenbank, in return for permanent representation of the Line’s interests in Greenbank’s administration.
And then he had to deal with his Subalterns, who wanted to tell him just how severe their losses were: how many vehicles had been lost, how many men, how much matériel. . . . His stamp was needed on a whole weary afternoon’s worth of forms.
The next day he reorganized the patrols, taking into account the recent degradation of his forces. He spread them out to cordon off all points southeast of Greenbank.
No signs of Creedmoor were reported.
The Signal Corps reported that the device was working poorly; Creedmoor might be anywhere in a thirty-mile radius.
No orders came that he should be relieved of command.
Nor the next day.
Thernstrom came rushing in again. It was the late evening of the third day after the Greenbank incident.
“What, Thernstrom.”
“The Signal Corps, sir. The device is working again. It passed through some interference, but it’s transmitting again with tolerable precision.”
“Well?”
“Precise location unknown. But he’s gone west.”
“West?”
“Straight west. Fast, too.”
“There’s nothing west of here. Slag it, there’s hardly anything here. Where’s he going?”
“West, sir. He has several days’ lead on us. He’ll be out past the farthest outlying settlements and into wild territory.”
“Then we follow.”
“Sir? We’re undermanned for any such expedition. Conditions will be unfavorable for—”
“We follow. No delays. No time for reinforcements. All presently available vehicles and men to be mobilized. Go on. Get out of here, Thernstrom. No one sleeps tonight.”
Thernstrom stepped out. Lowry sat in the shadows with his head in his hands.
West. Unmade lands. Part of him was so terrified, he could vomit; part of him was so relieved, his sallow jaw kept creasing into a smile. . . . If the empty sky and frightening hills here on the western rim were bad, the lands beyond would be a nightmare. On the other hand, Lowry did not plan on waiting around in Kloan to be relieved of command if there was any respectable alternative. So west it was, then.
CHAPTER 28
THE RAINS
West of the western rim: the first thing that fell apart was the weather. It rained for ten fucking days, and all Lowry’s motor trucks mired in mud. The Heavier-Than-Air Vessels were grounded. Even the tents were washed away in mudslides, and somehow dozens of Lowry’s men managed to drown, to fucking drown, miles from any river or sea, on flat mud. So much mud, the Engines themselves might flounder and drown in the depths. The rain fell in shafts that hammered Lowry’s skull; it fell in