There was no Stormer outpost in Philadelphia—in fact there was no one there at all. Bonner figured it was the perfect place to stop off before he and his crew made their descent on Washington.

They coasted down Locust Street, looking down the deserted cavernous streets that intersected with it. Philadelphia had once been the place where those things known as the United States of America had been born. Bonner had done a fair amount of exploration in the city and he found, here and there, fine monuments dedicated to ideals that had been dead for decades. Chiselled everywhere were words that were as dead as the dead world: liberty, justice, freedom, peace, brotherhood. A foreign language, thought Bonner sadly.

They had made good time from New York. That was one thing you could say for Leather. He had had some of the main roads cleared of the trash—at least one lane—because the man was no fool. He knew that to keep his empire together he had to be able to move his men quickly to wherever they might be needed to keep things in order. They had to move fast.

At the comer of Locust and Broad they stopped.

"So," said Starling, "where you want to lay up?"

"The stadium, I think," said Bonner.

"Fine."

Bonner led them along Broad Street past the same gaunt buildings they had all seen in a dozen cities. He brought them to a halt before the great, gray bulk of a giant, ancient stadium.

"There's an entrance over here," he said; "we can drive right in ..."

The three vehicles roared into an echoing tunnel and out onto the faded green carpet that looked like a dark green island in the center of the huge, silent stadium. The field was marked with fading lines and dotted about with small square canvas bags. At the very center of the triangle formed by the lines was a slightly raised mound.

"What the fuck was that for?" asked Harvey in bewilderment. He looked into the sea of seats.

"They used to play games here," said Bonner. "People would sit up there and watch."

"They would just sit there and watch?"

"That's right."

"How fucking boring can you get. Could they shoot at the guys down here?"

"No."

Bonner's force pulled their rigs up next to a deep dugout in the ground, right at the base of the seats. Inside the depression there was a bench that ran the length of it with a couple of old black telephones on the wall.

"What the fuck you s'pose this was for?"

"Special seats of some kind, I guess," said Bonner.

"And these things?" said Cooker pointing at the phones.

"Cooker," said Bonner, "I'm not even going to try to tell you."

"And you'd never get . . . what was that shit you told me about, Bonner?" Starling laughed, as if enjoying a huge joke on Bonner.

"Radio and television," said Bonner sheepishly.

"Yeah, Cooker, buy this. Bonner tole me once coupla years ago that before the bomb—" Starling started to laugh as if the joke was just too funny to contemplate—"Bonner tole me that before the bomb they used to be able to send words and pictures through the air. Just through the air. Like from here to fucking Chi-town. I mean, can you believe it?"

"What do you mean through the air?"

"Beats the shit out of me ..."

Cooker throught about this a moment, then screamed with laughter. "Through the air! Through the fucking air!"

Bonner shook his head slowly. He didn't quite understand it either. He busied himself with setting up the camp at the base of the seats. He didn't want to be exposed far out in the middle of the field.

Bonner was checking over the engine of his car while this conversation went on. He had pounded a lot of miles into the frame and engine in the past few days and he was worried that his trusty old warhorse would fail now when the journey really required power and speed. He couldn't help smiling to himself, though, when he heard the note of disbelief in Harvey's voice.

"They," he thought. They watched a game, they didn't get to shoot at the players, they were boring, they must have been crazy . . . They. They were the people of the old days. To Harvey and Starling and even to Bonner they were a weird species, an extinct genus of man that the new man—the Starlings and the Bonners, even the Leathers—could never understand. Even in this shattered world Bonner constantly came upon reminders of how strange the old world had been, how unknowable the long dead had been. When Bonner was brought down, when his day came, he knew he would go to his death still unable to understand a bunch of people who could sit and watch a game forty thousand strong and then make it rain fire and death on a world they lived in.

"So why didn't the grass grow?" asked Cooker.

Starling squatted down and ran his hand over the covering of the field.

"You know, it ain't grass," he said in amazement.

"Phony grass?"

"Yep."

Bonner laughed. That proved it. A whole race of people could create phony grass and then kill themselves. The old times must have been peculiar times indeed.

They ate some of the supplies looted from the Stormers. Bonner opened, with some difficulty, a jar that had almost rusted shut.

"What's that stuff?" asked Starling.

Bonner read the torn label. "Peter Pan Extra Super Crunchy Peanut Butter."

"Who was this guy Pan?" asked Cooker suspiciously.

With great difficulty Bonner opened the jar.

"Looks like shit," said Starling.

"It does too, doesn't it," said Bonner.

Daintily, Starling dipped a finger into the mixture. "Tastes like it too."

"Maybe the Mean Brothers want it," said Bonner. The mountainous men squatted on the fringe of the group, sitting on their haunches like grizzlies. Their weapons were laid across their knees as if the Mean Brothers were afraid that the shovel and the axe would try and sneak away when their owners weren't looking.

"Here," said Bonner, "take it."

One of the brothers grabbed the jar, sniffed at the rim and then plunged one huge fist into the brown paste. He licked it off his hand, smiled and nodded vigorously at his brother.

"They like it," observed Bonner.

"Let's give them all of it. They look like they take quite a heap of filling."

"I can't look at them and eat at the same time," said Cooker.

"You," said Starling, "you make a Radlep look good."

"Bonner," whined Cooker, "tell him not to start." Night fell and gradually talk dried up. Harvey sang quietly:

"By a waterfall, I'm calling yoooooooo We could share it all beneath a ceiling of bloooooo." "Shut your fuckin' mouth," said Starling sleepily . . . Bonner was awakened by the touch of one of the Mean Brothers. Bonner's eyes snapped open. It was still dark, but he could see the Mean's big face looming above his own like a full moon.

"What is it?" whispered Bonner, instantly awake. The Mean Brother seemed to be transmitting directly into his own brain. He could feel the giant's sensing of the danger that seemed about to drop over them like an all-encompassing web. The Mean pointed up into the shadowy stands. Bonner's eyes strained against the dark. At first he saw nothing, then, as his eyes focused he became aware of a number of dark shapes moving silently down the rows of seats, darting from cover to cover, getting closer.

Bonner nodded grimly. If the Mean Brothers hadn't been awake then Bonner and his crew would have very few minutes of life left to them. He had made a mistake, he had gotten careless. It wouldn't happen again.

"Okay," whispered Bonner, "wake the others. You done good, Meany . . ."

The white teeth of the colossus shone in the darkness. He squeezed Bonner's shoulder affectionately. Bonner returned to the moving shadows. There were a lot of them. His eyes darted to the .50 calibre at rest on its mounting. He resisted the urge to snatch off the canvas cover and start blasting. It would be better to wait.

A figure loomed up out of the dark and Bonner went for his knife but before he could strike he recognized one of the Mean Brothers. Bonner relaxed. With a thud, the brother dropped something at Bonner's feet, like a retriever dog. Bonner bent down and peered. Lying there, blood oozing from a jagged slice, was the bloody, tattered head of the Radlep. He had been decapitated with one, vicious chop of the Mean Brother's shovel. The Mean had been on a scouting mission. He pointed into the stands and screwed his face up in a terrible grimace.

Bonner understood at once. They were being stalked by a Radlep force and a big one.

"Bonner?" It was Starling. "What's up?"

"Radleps."

"Shit." That was Harvey.

All at once the peaceful night exploded. Marxie shot a blood-red flare into the sky and it burned bright and hot, casting a great wave of crimson light over the baseball field. Bonner glanced into the seats. There seemed to be a hundred Radleps, the muzzles of their weapons bright with blue flame. Bullets tore up the carpet. A Starling arrow answered the salvo, exploding in a forest of seats. Pieces of Radleps catapulted into the sky.

As if it was a part of him, the tiny Steyr began chattering in Bonner's hands, spitting bullets into the darkness. A stream of fire poured back at him, clattering around the scanty protection of his automobile.

Harvey cowered at his side. "Harvey," ordered Bonner, "get up on that gun."

Harvey's eyes, wide and white with fear, swivelled up, staring at the gun.

"Bonner, man . . ."

Bonner nudged him hard with the hot barrel of the Steyr. "Get up there," he ordered through clenched teeth.

Like a diver summoning up his courage before the cold plunge, Harvey took a deep breath, then leapt for the gun. He slammed a belt of ammunition into the chamber and began firing. Bonner could see the big bullets chopping a furrow through the bodies of Radleps who were standing up in the seats like statues.

Starling's arrows were exploding in the stadium like roman candles. The sound rolled around the giant space like thunder, caroming off the great arched walls. Cooker gibbered and capered like a monkey, fire gushing in short spurts from his thrower like water from a burning fountain. The little gas-hound kept his wits about him. After each burst from his terrible weapon he rolled, darted, scampered, left, right, forward, backward never allowing a Radlep to pick up his flash and bring him down. He danced like a dervish, the heavy tanks rocking back and forth on his back. He paused, panting, pumped up the pressure frantically, then slashed into the seats again with a blast of liquid death. The place he stood a moment before was shredded by bullets.

A Radlep tumbled down onto the field and made straight for Bonner. From the man's throat came the tortured scream of a man blazing with hate and lust for the kill. He held an M-16 before him, the long and heavy barrel spitting hot lead into the dark. Bonner took him down with a burst of fire that sliced into the big mutant's chest. He fell heavily on his gun.

Radleps were advancing on the little band. Bonner and his men were laying down fire like a heavy rug but they kept coming. Bonner, Starling, Cooker and Harvey were falling back now, making the most of the little protection they had. Bullets thudded into the body work, shredding the smooth worn tires. Bonner caught two Radleps in a single spray of gunfire. They were close when they died—Bonner could see the flesh shredding off them—and their comrades were getting closer.

Harvey slipped down off Bonner's car. He fell down next to Bonner.

"You take 'em. If they come any closer I'll get my ass sliced off."

Bonner whipped out the Winchester and its double barrel burst whipped into a Radlep who had made it within fifteen feet of their defenses. The shot slashed across the man's face, instantly turning his deformed features into a soggy mass of bone and meat.

"Bonner," yelled Starling, "throw me some ammo."

Bonner grabbed a handful of clips from the well of his car and flung them at Starling who crouched behind his own vehicle. In that moment, fire let up enough for a Radlep to jump up on the seat of Bonner's car. Bonner looked down the barrel of an M-16. Bonner spun to his right, scrabbling for a knife. A rip of bullets tore up the turf. The Radlep advanced. He was smiling. Bonner whipped the knife at the man's neck. The blade and a burst of gunfire hit the man at the same time.

Bonner flung himself back into position grabbing for the Steyr. Radleps don't retreat, it was a hard and fast rule. But they could be slowed down. Radleps were stopping all over the field, kneeling down in the open, returning the fire that Bonner and company sent their way. Radleps were falling.

But more were dying than Bonner could account for. Then he saw that from up in the stands were the flares of a half a dozen muzzle flashes. The Radleps were caught in a crossfire, a windstorm of bullets that meant death for all of them. With renewed vigor Bonner poured fire into the Radlep ranks. He wondered who his sudden, unexpected and absolutely welcome allies were.

As suddenly as the battle began, it stopped. A moment of silence, followed by a sudden, final burst of fire from a Radlep. Like a set of precision machines, every gun on the field turned on him. Bullets cut him to shreds. Then came cool silence. Bonner stood up slowly. He looked up at the stands.

"Who's hit?" he yelled.

"I'm not," said Starling.

"Me neither," said Harvey.

"Those Radleps ain't so tough," said Cooker.

"Where are the Means?" asked Bonner.

"They're around here someplace," said Harvey, "or else they're dead."

"Nobody hurt?" asked Bonner incredulously.

A voice echoed out of the stands. "Who are you?" The voice was female and Bonner recognized it immediately. Bonner smiled in the darkness.

"Sister Clara," Bonner yelled, "if you see two men the size of bears up there leave 'em alone. They're with us."

There was a long silence. "Who knows my name?"

"It's me, Bonner!"

"No shit!" A half dozen voices, all women, shouted greetings.

"Hey, Bonner," called Starling, "did the Sisters save our ass?"

"Sounds like."

"Hey, Sisters," shouted Starling, "you still ugly old dykes?"

"Starling, I'll come down there, cut your tongue off and stuff it up your ass."

"She would too," said Starling.

Just then the Mean Brothers came loping back onto the field. They carried a half dozen Radlep heads in each hand. They looked as if they had just returned from a day of gathering flowers in a meadow someplace.

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