Thirty-ThreeArriving some hours later at Warren's hideaway, I ate real food, not the synthesised muck served up for me back in the City. Bread. Unleavened, he called it, but delicious. We'd ridden to his place, hardly ever slowing down, even when we crossed bare, broken country, and I was feeling shaken and confused. He had sat me down and given me water and bread and, as the shock subsided, I gradually felt more normal. The Sandman was long gone. So was the battlefield, and the City. I'd made good my escape. Now all I had to do was find out how in the name of sanity Warren the Biker had known how to find me.
Munching through his own food, he sat there, staring as if he were scanning me. I wriggled about in my seat, his gaze boring into me, disconcerting in its intensity. The creaking, pa
