The land was still rich. That was Bart's conclusion after travelling for six uncomfortable days in a truck that was part of one of Leather's tax collecting convoys. Eleven trucks were now entering the Cap, each crammed with the remaining spoils of the old world. Every few miles the convoy had stopped and the tax men had handed over the loot: food, liquor, gas, ammunition. A single truck carried twenty or so women. The best looking would go to Leather and the deputies, the others would be given to the Radleps and the rest would make their way down to the Stonners and beyond.

Leather was squeezing the last drops of richness from the land. He took for himself and gave nothing back. One day it would all be gone and the little order that Leather's will imposed on the land would break down. Bart hoped he wouldn't be alive to see that day.

Only a small piece of the city was occupied now, just the center where the old seat of government had been, when the continent had been called the United States of America. It must have been quite a town once. There was a tangled overgrown strip of grass right down the inhabited area. It stretched from the huge domed ruin at one end to the broken white stone needle at the other that everyone called The Tower. It had been taller once, but it had been broken off jaggedly about two thirds of the way up. Leather had a big fire built in The Tower and it burned day and night, the flames from the bonfire leaping twenty-five feet into the air.

The Cap was just the center of town. Surrounding it were the acres and acres of the remains of the old city. Now they were nothing more than silent ruins. Everything centered on that green strip and the decaying government buildings that clustered around it. The officials of the Slavestates lived in those huge old marble tombs, each of them laying up as much plunder as they could and intriguing against another colonel of Stormtroopers or a tax-general who was taking too much for himself. No one was safe—except Leather. His power was absolute because he was ruthless. His subjects lived and died at his pleasure alone.

Seth left the convoy and decided to check out the bazaar that was always going on in the avenue that skirted the green space. Here you could buy the spoils left over after the ruling powers had taken their share. There were rusty firearms, homemade ammunition, canned food from the old world that might be edible—you never knew until after you bought it— and odd pieces of bric-a-brac from the dead time: tattered umbrellas, a worn pair of shoes, old clothes, eyeglasses, a book or two (very hard to sell), a few sticks of furniture. . . .

Bart made his way through the crowded bazaar. Stormer officers swaggered by, evil-looking torture squadsmen, harried-looking tax-generals always worried that their sectors wouldn't make their quotas, slave overseers with their savage whips dangling over their shoulders like dozing snakes; the crowd shrunk away opening up a path for a single crazy-eyed Radlep. He stalked through the crowd, the pain of his wounds showing plainly on his face, begging for trouble. But no one ever bothered a Radlep . . .

Bart paused to watch a slave auction. A few tired women, coarse-boned slaves from the back of beyond, stood listlessly on a platform while a slave broker tried to whip the crowd up a little.

"Come on, come on, these fine young ladies are the best stock you seen in plenty long time . . ."He grabbed one of the gray women and tugged at her dirty dress. A breast flopped out like a dead fish.

"Now how do you like that? Choice!" he bellowed. The crowd, the woman, were unmoved.

Bart turned on his heel. It was time to see Leather. He grabbed a passing Stormer.

"Leather at the big house or is he in the throne room?"

"He's going to be at the throne tonight. Right now' I figure he's at the house."

Bart made his way to the big house. In the old days the head of the whole continent had lived there. Now it was Leather's main dwelling. The walls, once a bright white, had been tinged a dirty gray and they were stained everywhere with the red rust of broken plumbing and with the green of Spanish moss. The elegant gardens that had surrounded it were wild tangles now, although once in a while a pink rose popped up, as if gasping for air and light, just the way every so often a pretty face would be put up for auction at the slave market.

The entrance to the big house was guarded by two Radleps. The closer you got to Leather the more Radleps you saw. They gave Bart the creeps, they gave everyone the creeps, but they were devoted to Leather and would happily die for him. The halls of the house were crowded with people, Leather's government, all waiting to see the man, waiting to see how they could curry favor with him and use it to destroy a rival and advance themselves. They whispered together in doorways and their maneuverings were observed by the cracked, grave-looking portraits of statesmen that looked down from the walls. No one remembered who they were and no one cared. Someone had gone around poking out the eyes of a lot of them, someone else had drawn obscene additions to the thin elegant forms.

Bart got lucky. As he entered the house he bumped into Jojo. He was Leather's right-hand man. Leather's schemer, some said Leather's brains. It was Jojo who controlled access to Leather. If Jojo didn't want you to see the man, you didn't.

"Hey, Jojo," called Bart.

Jojo, a fat, dirty little man with a self-important air, stopped. "Yeah? Do I know you?"

"Bart. I'm a Stormer in Drexy's outfit."

"So what are you doing here? Drexy is s'posed to be up on patrol in the gap."

"We ran into some trouble . . . Listen, I gotta tell Leather something."

Jojo crossed his arms across his chest, supporting his fat little tits, like a woman. "So tell me."

Bart took a deep breath. "Drexy's dead. The whole outfit got sliced ... By Bonner.''

Jojo nodded. "Fer Chrissake, keep your voice down. Jesus, where did you see him last?"

"Up near the Pittsburgh ruins."

"Was he inbound?"

"Figure so,"

"You better see Leatherman."

Jojo steered Bart past the elite that waited patiently for an audience and into the private wing of the big house. Here was Leather's lair. He kept his women and his slaves there, a Radlep was posted every few yards in the long corridor.

Colley, the general commanding the Stormtroopers, was about to be shown into Leather's office when Jojo stopped him.

"Take a seat, Colley. We gotta go in. This is important."

"For fuck's sake, Jojo, I been waiting two hours to see the man."

"Too bad."

"Wait. That's one of my boys you got there. What's your name?"

Bart was about to answer when Jojo cut him short. "None of your fucking business, Colley."

"Yeah, I know him, he's with Drexy. You a deserter?" Colley had grabbed Bart by the shirt front.

Jojo stepped between them. "Colley, sit your ass down and don't bother me." He pushed the Stormer commander back toward a delicate-looking little chair.

Like a chastened dog Colley sat down and silently swore that there would come a day when Jojo wasn't going to be quite as powerful. They would have some accounts to reckon then.

Jojo pushed Bart into Leather's office. Bart had never been in there before and he could hardly take it all in. It was a circular room, bare except for a big wooden desk, its top littered with three or four different handguns. There was no chair in front of it. No one sat in Leather's presence.

"Leather," said Jojo timidly, for even he was afraid of him, "this guy has something you should hear."

Leather swung around in his big swivel chair and placed his feet on the desk. Every time Bart saw Leatherman it was a shock. He was a big man with shaggy dirty hair that hung down to his shoulders. His chest was as broad as a barrel and it was scarcely contained by the tight leather shirt he wore. It was tucked into leather pants that Bart could see were made of leather that was soft and supple, like the skin of a young girl.

He was unshaven. A dark stubble spread across his face then thickened into a bushy moustache that drooped on either side of his thick, cruel lips. His blue eyes were wide-set and stared with an intensity that seemed to pass right through you. But the most noticeable feature was the jagged scar on his face. It began up underneath the black eyepatch and ran like a claw down the side of his face to his powerful chin.

Leather fixed his one good eye on Bart.

"What?"

"I came to tell you, sir, that me and my patrol were jumped up in the gap and wiped out."

"Whose patrol?" Leather spoke very softly, his voice was deep and gravelly.

"Drexy's. He's dead."

Leather raised a bushy eyebrow. "No shit?" He sounded completely uninterested.

"Tell him who sliced you," prompted Jojo.

"His name was Bonner."

A very slow smile spread over Leather's chopped-up face. "Bonner, huh?"

"Yessir."

"He took you all?"

Bart knew he had to lie. "No way, sir. He was leading a big band of raiders."

"Don't lie to me, asshole. Bonner doesn't work with raiders."

Bart paled. "He had one guy with him."

"One fucking guy. Against how many Stormers?"

"Seven." Bart knew he was a dead man. His throat had gone very dry. Just then Bart realized there was another person in the room. Behind, next to the fireplace, Marx, the captain of the Radleps, sat on the floor cleaning a gun. Marxie was allowed to sit when Leather was there.

"What do you think of that, Marxie? Seven to two."

Marx shrugged. He was the worst burn victim Bart had seen. The skin on his face was mottled and blistered. A piece of his cheek was missing and Bart could see the broken yellow teeth in his jaw. The Radlep drooled a little. Bart turned away in disgust.

Marx shrugged again. "Bad," he said, through his cracked lips.

"How long ago was this?"

"Six days."

"He coming this way?"

"Dunno, sir."

"He is," said Leather matter of factly. "Thanks for the information, it's nice to know where the man is."

Bart heaved a sigh of relief. It looked like he was going to make it out of there alive. All he wanted to do was get back out into the air. He was never, ever, going to get himself in a mess like this.

"Wait," said Leather, "what's your name?"

"Bart," said Bart.

"Bye, Bart."

"Thank you, sir." Bart made for the door.

Leather looked at the guns on his desk, like a kid trying to decide which candy to choose. He picked up a Ruger Redhawk Double Action revolver and levelled it at Bart's head.

"Bye, Bart," he said, and pulled the trigger. The report of the shot filled the room. Marx didn't look up, Jojo winced at the sound and out in the hall, people glanced idly at Leather's door. No big deal. It happened all the time.

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