The other intruder went to work on the smaller equipment. It took them just three minutes to smash the war room beyond repair. A.A. Catto shut her eyes. It was all over. With no replacements for the equipment the war room could never be rebuilt. She had lost the war.
Possible alternatives flashed through A.A. Catto’s mind. She could rush the intruders in a single futile gesture. She could commit suicide. She could feel the tiny ornate needle gun in the concealed shoulder holster. It would be so simple just to …
Then, abruptly, her mind changed gear. She pushed forward through the aides.
‘Help me, please, help me.’
The intruders pointed their weapons at her. A.A. Catto ignored them and ran straight up to the one they’d, called chief.
‘Please help me, get me away from here.’
She threw her arms round him and started sobbing. He grasped her shoulders.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I was his mistress. He’s mad now. He wouldn’t let me go.’
‘Whose mistress?’
‘His. Catto’s. He started this whole war. He’s insane. He calls himself Catto the Great.’
Bannion looked at the girl suspiciously. Somehow she looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she had a record in Litz. He dismissed the thought.
‘I heard a rumour that the leader here was maybe a woman.’
A.A. Catto turned large tear filled eyes up at Bannion.
‘That’s impossible. How could a woman start all this?’
Without thinking, Bannion put a protective arm round her.
‘Where is this Catto?’
‘He’s not here. He went to Litz to inspect his army.’
‘Litz?’
‘That’s right.’
The four intruders looked meaningfully at each other. Bannion’s face became grim.
‘I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him any more.’
A.A. Catto looked appealingly at him.
‘You’ll help me get away from this awful place?’
Bannion patted her shoulder.
‘We’ll do what we can.’
As he spoke, a tiny earth tremor shook the bunker, but no one paid too much attention to it.
***
As the dawn broke over Quahal, the fire fight that had gone on for most of the night had wound down to some sporadic shooting in and around the ziggurat. The Wanderer got carefully to his feet,
From the number of bodies that lay between him and the ziggurat, wearing green combat dress, it was obvious that the squad from Litz had taken terrible punishment. The even larger number in black fighting suits were a silent testimony, however, that they had given better than they’d received.
He stretched his aching muscles, and slowly shook his head. His speculation of man’s folly was interrupted by an extended burst of gunfire. It forcibly reminded him that the fighting was by no means at an end.
There were no indications, where he stood, as to which side might be likely to prevail. The Wanderer was unwilling to go any closer to find out. It seemed to him that his best policy might be to take himself off to a safer vantage point, and simply wait until there was some kind of positive outcome.
He looked round. The mountain loomed behind the ziggurat. Most of it was still shrouded in early morning mist. It looked to be by far the most secure refuge.
To get to the mountain, he realized that he had to pass the ziggurat. Determining to give it a very wide berth, the Wanderer began walking.
Once he was away from the grisly relics of the night’s fighting, the Wanderer began to realize that it was, quite possibly, a very pleasant morning. He hummed experimentally to himself. He found the effect quite pleasing. The only thing that spoiled his mood was the crash of gunfire that constantly punctuated any train of thought.
He passed the ziggurat without being noticed. Once the grim black building was behind him, he quickened his pace and headed directly for the mountain. He’d been walking for about five minutes when he spotted another figure, apparently going in the same direction.
The figure hadn’t noticed the Wanderer. It walked along almost parallel to him. As far as the Wanderer could tell it was unarmed, and wore some kind of white fringed outfit that made it hard to determine the figure’s sex from a distance.
The figure stopped. It had obviously spotted the Wanderer. The Wanderer also stood still. For a few moments neither of them moved. Then the figure began to move slowly towards the Wanderer.
As it came nearer, the Wanderer saw that it was a man. He was tall and well built with a deep tan. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored glasses, and his black hair was greased back in an elaborate pompadour. His white buckskin suit with its fringes and rhinestone decorations was an incongruous garment for the middle of a war zone. The Wanderer stood very still and watched him come. The man walked with a concerned saunter. His thumbs were tucked in the white leather studded belt that was slung round his hips.
As he got within about ten paces of the Wanderer, the man raised a hand in greeting.
‘Hi there.’
The Wanderer nodded.
‘Morning.’
The man nodded towards the mountain.
‘You aimin’ t’ go up yonder?’
‘It seemed as good a place as any.’
The man grinned.
‘You reckon to get away from the fighting?’
‘It didn’t seem to be my fight.’
‘I guess I figured much the same. You mind if I walk along with you for a piece?’
The Wanderer shook his head.
‘I don’t mind. Feel free.’
They started for the mountain again. The man kept glancing at the Wanderer as though something was puzzling him. The Wanderer wished he would take off the mirrored glasses so he could see his eyes. He decided to bring things to a head. He looked at the man.
‘Listen, friend, is there something about me that bothers you?’
The man looked over the top of his glasses.
‘I don’t want to cause no offence, mind.’
‘Go ahead.’
He jerked his thumb at the ziggurat.
‘I just don’t remember ever seeing you back in that place.’
The Wanderer smiled.
‘That’s easy. I was never there. At least, not when you were. I just arrived.’
The man frowned.
‘You mean you came in with those guys attackin’ the place?’
‘Kind of. I was their guide. People call me the Wanderer.’
‘The Wanderer?’
‘Right.’
There was a pause. The man seemed unwilling to volunteer any information about himself. The Wanderer wouldn’t let him get away with it.
‘Do you have a name, friend?’
The man shook his head.
‘No, not really.’
The Wanderer raised his eyebrows.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What I said. I don’t have what you’d rightly call a name.’
‘Why not?’
‘I never got given one.’
‘Huh?’
‘I’m a replica.’
The Wanderer looked at him sympathetically.
‘That’s rough.’
The replica shrugged.
‘It’s a living.’
‘Who exactly are you a replica of?’
‘I dunno for sure. I was told I was some character called Presley. Elvis Presley.’
‘Who the hell was Elvis Presley?’
The replica shrugged again.
‘I don’t know. It was a custom job. It wasn’t in the regular catalogue.’
The Wanderer tugged at his beard.
‘Maybe I should call you Presley.’
‘No.’
‘Elvis, then?’
‘No! Neither of them!’
The Wanderer took a step back in alarm.
‘Hold on now. I was just trying to be sociable.’
‘I just don’t want to be called by either of those names. They were printed on me. Nobody asked me about it. You know what I mean?’