"Cleveland it is," he said. He pulled several maps from the glove compartment and used a yellow marker to draw his course along the highways. He had spent the last few days stealing hundreds of books and optical disks from libraries in Washington and Richmond, and buying hundreds of others from bookstores. He had passed all of these on to three middle-aged men in Richmond, and he had no clear idea what they were going to do with them; he hadn't asked. Clearly, the Boss was interested in literature.

With some relief—he did not enjoy thievery, even in a good cause—he took to the open road.

Spring was coming fast. The hills surrounding the Pennsylvania Turnpike were already rich green, and trees were bringing forth leaves that they would not have time to shed. There would be no summer or autumn.

Reuben shook his head, thinking about that, hands on the wheel. When he was on the road, the network rarely spoke to him, and that gave him plenty of time—perhaps too much time—to wonder about things.

He refilled the LeBaron's tank in New Stanton and parked in front of a diner. After a quick meal of a hamburger and a small green salad, he paid his tab and looked over a rack of postcards, choosing one showing a big white barn covered with Pennsylvania Dutch hex symbols. Purchasing a few stamps from a machine, he scribbled on the back of the card,

Dad,

Still working steady here and elsewhere. Thinking about you. Take care of yourself.

Reuben

and dropped it into the box outside the diner.

He made it to Cleveland by eight. A quiet rain fell as he checked into an old hotel near the bus depot. He parked the LeBaron in a public parking garage, uncomfortably aware that he would not be driving it to the final destination. Somebody would pick him up and take him there.

He was no more than a couple of miles from Lake Erie, and that—so the network had told him—was where he would have to be in the early morning.

Reuben regarded himself in the bathroom's spotty mirror. He saw a big kid with a patchy beard and strong, regular features. He saluted the big kid—and the network —and went to bed, but didn't sleep much.

He was scared. Tomorrow, he would meet other people in the network—some of the people behind the voices. That didn't frighten him. But . . .

Something in the lake waited for them.

How much did he trust the Secret Masters?

What did it matter?

He'd be on the lake shore, at the Toland Brothers Excursion Terminal, at six a.m., clean-shaven and freshly showered and dressed in the new suit he had purchased in Richmond for just such an occasion.

Chapter 56

56