"The ship controls itself at the moment. Surely you people have craft that can do that," the Frant said, its tone admonishing.

"Yes. Of course." She turned back to the image. "Why has the corridor changed?"

"Centuries ago, there was a war here. The surface material brought into the Way—the corridor—was severely disturbed. In places you can see the Way itself."

"A war?" Patricia peered down at the mottled landscape.

"Where Jarts occupied the Way. They had traveled from gates hundreds of thousands of kilometers farther down. Those gates have since been blocked or tightly regulated. When the Axis City attempted to pass, and to regain control of the Way, the Jarts resisted. They were driven out, and this stretch of the Way, the entire distance to the Thistledown, is now blocked and deserted."

"Oh." She lay back and watched the lights twinkle around Olmy. She was exhausted. Her eyes were sandy and her throat scratchy; her chest ached and her arm and leg muscles were tense and sore. "I've been crying," she said.

"You have slept for the last twelve hours," the Frant said. "You seemed at peace while you slept. We did not disturb you."

"Thank you," she said. "This Axis City—that's where we're going?"

"Yes," the Frant said.

"What will happen to me there?"

"You will be honored," Olmy's image answered. "You are from our past, after all, and very brilliant."

"I don't like. . . fuss," Patricia said softly. "And I want to go back and help my friends. They need me."

"You are not crucial there, and we decided it was dangerous."

"I still want to return. I want you to know you are taking me against my will."

"We regret that. You will not be mistreated."

Patricia decided it was useless to argue with a ghost, assigned or otherwise. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and watched the raked and blackened landscape far below. It was difficult to feel anything for the past now, for whatever had happened before she entered the craft. Did she really want to return? Was there anything so important to her, anywhere?

Yes. Lanier. He expected help from her. She was part of his team. And Paul, her family. Dead. She felt for the letters in her pocket, and then reached for the bag containing the multi-meter, slate and processor. They had not been disturbed.

Sosnitsky was dying. Of the five corpsmen who had accompanied the battalion, two had made it into the second chamber, and they were in no mood to hide the facts from the general. One, a small, balding slight fellow with a bruise across half his face, took Mirsky aside as he approached the copse of trees

"The general has internal injuries—ruptured spleen the least among them. We don't have the blood or plasma we need, and we don't have the proper conditions for operating. He will die in an hour, maybe two. . . he's strong, but he's no superman."