There were unmistakably two sets of large, fresh boot marks.

One set headed in the direction she had come, the second overlay them and came back the other way.

Somebody had been down here recently, perhaps within the last few days. And if she followed the second set of boot marks they must eventually lead to an exit. It might just be another one of those sealed shafts, of course, but what had she got to lose now?

Holding the torch low and moving in a half-stoop she set off, following the tracks down one of the feeder tunnels.

For a hundred yards the trail was easy to follow. Then it gradually began to be obscured by other prints, as though several people had walked back and forth over a short distance, treading the soil flat and hard. That sort of traffic would suggest a junction or place of special interest, but the tunnel was quite bare at that point. Biting her lip she pressed on, hoping the trail would become clearer.

And in a few yards it did, reducing to just two sets of boot marks once more. Except that now the top set of prints was facing in the opposite direction.

Barbara frowned and went back to the point at which the tracks had become obscured. There was still nothing to be seen but why the heavy traffic? She knelt down and examined the ground closely. Caught in the angle between ledge and wall were a few grains of pale grit and sand, distinctly lighter in tint than the concrete of the tunnel itself.

She looked up at the wall, holding the torch flat so that its beam skimmed the surface, and ran her fingertips over the harsh cold concrete. Very gradually she began to make out a disc a little over a yard across that was not quite flush with the surrounding wall.

Perhaps it was a maintenance hatchway of some kind, she thought. If she had been less weary she would have wondered why it was not marked more distinctly. But she was close to the limits of her endurance and all she could think about was finding a way out.

She banged on the hatch with the flat of her hand, then with her clenched fist.

'h.e.l.lo!' she called out. 'Is there anybody in there? Please help me... I'm lost.'

There was no response or any sound to indicate anybody was on the other side. She banged again, beginning to feel desperate.

'Please answer if you can hear me. I just want to get out of here and back up to the surface.'

Without any warning there came a slight grating noise.

The hatch disc moved smoothly inwards like a plug and swung to one side. In the darkness beyond she could just make out the vague form of a large man.

'Thank you,' Barbara gasped. 'I was beginning to...'

A gun barrel emerged from the shadows, there was a soft pop of air and Barbara felt something sting her neck.

Instinctively she clawed at the spot and felt the end of a tiny dart protruding from her skin. She tried to call out but already an insidious numbness was spreading through her body. The torch fell from her limp fingers on to the ledge; coming to rest, it threw her shadow across the arch of the tunnel.

With an expression of wide-eyed surprise frozen on her face, Barbara silently toppled backwards into the black waters of the culvert.

Chapter Eight.

Sport Once the Sentinel Club had been the city rendezvous for the elite of Arkhaven, when they travelled to the capital from their country estates across the continent. When the war with the Taklarians had started the club had filled with men in uniform; discussing battles or preparing to join their regiments. Few had ever returned.

Now half its rooms were closed, roboservers gathered dust and only a handful of human servants remained. It had become the meeting place for the sons of those who had gone to war.

The only uniforms to be seen were worn by the young men in service with the wall batteries. Though the batteries were essential to the city there was little satisfaction in the duty.

Without the possibility of actual combat it was the sort of work that could be left to machines and Functionaries.

That was the trouble, the young men thought. There was no fun to be had in Arkhaven any more. All they could do was while away the days until the Ship lifted.

Settling on a new world would be an adventure of sorts, naturally, but for the first few generations at least life would be very Spartan and basic. They would not be able to take the comforts and luxuries they would wish for with them, and so it seemed sensible to make the most of the freedom they had while it lasted.

Which explained the group of a dozen or so young men, together with three or four like-minded female companions, that was gathered in the club lounge in the small hours of the morning. A fair amount of drink had already been consumed and some people were already beginning to complain.

'Isn't your man ever going to call, Plax?' the Honourable Orm Herstwell the Third asked, one arm around his girlfriend, the other holding a gla.s.s.

'He hasn't let me down yet,' Plaxander Vendam reminded him. 'And if you want to drive straight for a change, hold back on the drink. I'm not having you spin me off again.'

'You spun into me!' Herstwell retorted indignantly. 'Just you choose the course and I'll race you, Plax. Tell you what, we'll both have a bottle of any brew you name before we start, then I'll show you I can beat you drunk or sober!'

There was a loud chorus of disbelief as his companions showed what they thought of his challenge.

Plax's personal phone rang. He waved the rest into silence before answering.

'Lesitor here, sir,' said a thin voice from the speaker. 'I thought you would be interested to know that a party of NC2s has just escaped from the camp.'

'Have they indeed? Will we find them at the usual place?'

'I'm afraid the Watch have already been alerted. I had to leave them in the warehouse at the back of the old Reliance building off Fourteenth Avenue.'

'I know it. How many?'

'Fifteen men and two women, sir?

'A good field. Well done. Expect the usual consideration.'

He rang off and turned to the others with a broad smile on his face.

'The quarry is out of the traps and the hunt is on!'

His friends cheered. Gla.s.ses were drained and ceremonially smashed in the fireplace, where the last cords of timber that would ever be hewn on Sarath were burning. Then the young men s.n.a.t.c.hed up their coats, and poured out through the lobby and down the steps to their waiting cars.

Doors were sealed and idling gyros were revved.

Headlights flicked on. Bracing struts retracted, leaving the vehicles balanced on their single broad central wheels. At a signal from Plax the gyrocars rolled out of their parking bays.

Reaching the main thoroughfare they turned away from the towering bulk of the Ship and raced down one of the long avenues that radiated out from the centre of Arkhaven. They were heading towards the spa.r.s.ely populated and unfashionable suburbs and industrial parks, weaving in and out of the light night traffic, heedless of squeals of brakes and angry horns.

Private cars were another luxury the new world would not be able to support, so they might as well make the most of them. And what better way than a hunt for the most challenging prey Sarath could still provide?

The warehouse was a great echoing vault, its bleak expanse of floor broken only by a single central line of supporting pillars.

It felt as though it had been deserted for some time. What it had formerly contained, Gelvert did not know. Now it was giving shelter to seventeen men and women who were huddled in one corner. After months in the camp the open s.p.a.ce was intimidating.

Gelvert dabbed his bruised cheek with a moistened handkerchief once again. Trying to take that ring from the Doctor had been a mistake. Who would have thought the old man's companion would be so handy with his fists? And had the two of them also been responsible for raising the alarm so soon? The escapees had barely crossed the waste ground before the whole camp had lit up. Lesitor, who'd been leading them, had been dismayed at the rapid reaction evidently he had counted on having more time to get clear. But he had found a truck and taken them away from the area the Watch would concentrate on.

Yes, Lesitor had fulfilled his part of the arrangement; but then they'd paid him enough. Still, he had got them to a place of safety which was all he'd promised. Once they were hidden he'd wished them luck and left. The rest was up to them. Over the next few days they would work their way closer to the centre of the city, spying out the land as they went. Apparently there was a huge repository near the Ship which housed the thousands of items of cargo that were steadily being loaded into its holds. If they could enter that un.o.bserved and conceal themselves properly they would simply be carried on board. It would be an uncomfortable trip, but what did that matter as long as they survived? Over the last ten years Gelvert had lost his family, his land and his self-respect. Now he had only his own life left.

The thought caused him to glance across at Tressel, who was sitting next to him.

Tressel would be their guide. He knew the city. Unlike the rest of them he was a native of Arkhaven. He had been a middle-ranking Functionary until he had criticised the Church too openly. Now he burned with an inner desire to defy the system that had rejected him. Unfortunately he was no natural rebel and Gelvert wondered if he had the strength to see the thing through.

'We'll hole up here another half-hour then make a start,'

Gelvert said. 'What's the best route that'll keep us off the main avenues?'

In the dim reflected street light Tressel's face was just a pale blur but his tone was unmistakably hesitant. 'I'm not really sure. I haven't been to this area before. I'll get my bearings in the morning.'

Gelvert sensed the others were looking at them. 'What do you mean you're not sure?'

'I've lived near the centre for eight years, like everybody else who could manage it,' Tressel said bitterly. 'We didn't travel this far out unless we had to.'

'Huddling close to your precious Ship for comfort, I suppose,' Gelvert said.

'Why not...? It was safer there. Listen, I promise I'll guide you as best I can, but I don't know every back street. It's a big city.'

Gelvert snorted in disgust, got up and went to a small access door set in the great slab of the side wall. Carefully he opened it a crack to let some light in. Across an expanse of bare yard was the long bulk of another building that he took to be a fabrication plant of some sort. A few of its roof lights were glowing. Rising above and beyond it were residential towers aglitter with shining windows.

Standing so that the others couldn't see what he was doing, he took out of his pocket the only item he'd managed to s.n.a.t.c.h from the Doctor and examined it by the city light. As he'd thought, it was just a key. It hardly mattered to what. He put it back in his pocket by reflex, though it was probably useless. Why couldn't he have taken something more...

The loading doors at the far end of the warehouse suddenly rolled aside and beams of light flooded the interior with stark brilliance. There came the hum of powerful motors and a cacophony of car horns. Wild yells rang out, echoing back from the walls: 'Spied them!' 'The chase is on!' 'I see game!'

Eight or ten racing gyros rolled into the warehouse, spreading out and circling towards the NC2s who scattered in alarm, half blinded by the lights.

Gelvert did not wait to see any more. He flung the access door open the rest of the way and plunged out into the night.

Feet clattered behind him as a few of the NC2s followed his example. From the interior of the warehouse he heard cries and yells and the incessant beeping of horns.

Who were these crazy people?

The NC2s were only halfway across the yard when lights flared at their backs, throwing elongated flickering shadows before them. With whining motors three gyrocars bore down on them. As they sped past, Gelvert and the others fell flat and rolled aside.

He heard bangs as compressed air was released and a swish as something flew past him. One of his fellow runners was rolling on the ground entangled in a mist of netgun mesh.

A second was clawing at a snag line that had adhered to his side. As the line drew taut he was pulled off his feet and dragged along the ground behind the car that had fired it.

Tyres screeched as the cars came to a halt and pivoted around, gyros buzzing in protest. Yells of triumph came from the drivers who had caught their quarries.

Gelvert scrambled to his feet and ran towards the corner of the factory building, desperate to get off the open ground. The third gyrocar sped after him. He saw the pa.s.senger lean through the side window and raise his weapon. Gelvert dived even as the gun popped. He was not quite fast enough. The soft ball of a snag-line shot struck him on the arm. The micro-encapsulated bubbles of adhesive within it ruptured and set on contact with the air, binding themselves to his sleeve. Before the line could tighten he tore off his coat, scrambled to his feet and dashed madly away in another direction.

A low wall marked the boundary of the loading yard, with a border of shrubs and low trees between it and the main road.

If he could reach that...

He succeeded just vaulting the wall and crashing into a th.o.r.n.y bush even as the gyrocar braked at his heels, its wheel screeching in a cloud of rubber. Ignoring the scratches he hauled himself upright and plunged alongside the shrubbery in a crouching run, keeping close to the wall. The lights of the car blazed out of the loading yard and swung along the road after him. What would happen when he ran out of shelter?

Suppose another car joined the pursuit and got ahead of him?

Fear lent Gelvert the courage to do the last thing his pursuers expected.

He bent down, scrabbled up handfuls of wet earth and pebbles, then leapt out into the path of the oncoming car. As its brakes squealed he threw his improvised missiles as hard as he could.

The wet earth splattered across the windshield, blinding the driver, even as pebbles clattered off it. One must have struck the gun-wielding pa.s.senger because he cried out and fell back into the body of the car. Dazzled by the brilliant headlights, Gelvert could only throw up his arms in a futile gesture against the seemingly inevitable impact.

The car swerved madly, a side fender practically brushing his thigh, veered across the road and crashed into the shrubbery. For a second the motor gave a shrill whine of protest then cut abruptly.

Gelvert turned and ran. A little way down the road, on the opposite side, was a tubeway tower. He darted across to it.

Ignoring the escalator for fear of the noise it would make as his presence activated it, he pounded up the external foot ramp.

Panting, he stumbled out on to the elevated plaza deck with its tiny arcade of shops that flanked the tube station. As he had hoped it was deserted, the shop fronts dark and only a few lights shining around the station access itself. He edged into the shelter of a planter trough and peered over the parapet wall back towards the warehouse.

Gyrocar headlights illuminated the yard, their beams picking out moving figures. The distant sound of shouts and laughter drifted up to him. Bound forms were struggling on the ground while others stood over them, apparently teasing their captives and giving them the occasional prod and kick.

Would their capture be enough to satisfy the hunters, or might they come after him again? Should he stay put while he had some cover, or try to put as much distance between him and his pursuers as he could?

Before he could decide flashing lights appeared at the end of the avenue accompanied by the growing wail of sirens.

Gelvert shrank back into the shadows. Obviously somebody had called the City Watch. A patrol car and van appeared out of the night and turned into the warehouse yard, drawing up beside the cl.u.s.ter of gyrocars. Watchmen climbed out and unhurriedly went over to them. It all seemed very casual.

Feet pounded on the ramp below and Gelvert just had time to duck down as two figures appeared. Looking through the plants he saw they were Tressel and Semanov, one of the female escapees. They were glancing desperately about them as though unsure which way to go next. If they stayed there in the light for too long somebody would surely see them!

'Over here... and keep your heads down!' Gelvert hissed.

They joined him beside the wall. Together they peered down at the scene in the warehouse yard.

The prisoners were being untangled from nets and snag lines and marched into the Watch van. There were cheers and catcalls from those who had brought them down. Meanwhile torches flashed about the gyrocar Gelvert had caused to crash.

With a whir of motors it backed out on to the road again.

'Who are those people?' Semanov asked Tressel in a whisper. 'What's their game?'

'From the look of their cars I'd say they were probably from the Elite families,' Tressel said bitterly. 'Youngsters with nothing better to do. You hear stories about them but the authorities don't usually do a thing about it. They've got influential parents.'

'They could have run us down we could have been killed!' Semanov exclaimed.