But still the boy ran ahead, boundingcircuitously around invisible obstacles. At first the Nameless One thought itwas strategy, to confuse the pursuit. Then, as he perceived the maneuvering totake forms that were by no means evasive or concealing, he pondered dementia.Radiation might indeed make mad before it destroyed. Finally he realized thatthe boy was actually skirting pockets of radiation. He could tell where theroentgen remained!

      Dangerous terrain indeed! The Nameless Onefollowed the trail exactly, and kept the hound to it, knowing that shortcutswould expose him to invisible misery. He was risking his health and his life,but he would not relent.

      "Are you ashamed because you areugly?" he called. He took off his great cloak and showed his own massive,scarred torso, and his neck so laced with gristle that it resembled the trunkof an aged yellow birch. "You are not more ugly than I!" But the boyran on.

      Then the Master paused, for ahead he saw abuilding.

      Buildings were scarce in the nomadculture. There were hostels that the crazies maintained, where wanderingwarriors and their families might stay for a night or a fortnight withoutobligation except to take due care with the premises. There were the houses ofthe crazies themselves, and the school buildings and offices they maintained.And of course there were the subterranean fortifications of the underworld,wherein were manufactured the weapons and clothing the nomads used-though onlythe crazies and the Master himself knew this. But the great expanse of land wasfield and fern and forest, cleared by the Blast that had destroyed themarvelous, warlike culture of the Ancients. The wilderness had returned in thewake of the radiation, open and clean.