IN THE MORNING Virga awakened with nerves on edge, afraid that the nightmares he'd endured were about to become realities.

He swung himself into a sitting position on the cot and gingerly tested his injured hand. It was completely numb from the wrist down. When he tried to move the crushed fingers pain began somewhere deep within his forearm and raced through agonized nerves up his shoulder and neck to the brain. He was afraid the hand was beyond repair. He stepped through the tent opening out into the white sunlight, where the desert stretched flat and dry forever, and saw Michael sitting on the ground in almost the same spot as the night before. The man's eyes were narrowed against the glare; he looked out across the vast expanse.

Virga looked around. No words were needed.

Far out, where they had watched the fires, the sky was filled with a brooding black smoke that coiled around and around like vipers twisting amid the clouds. It was like the smoke of a gigantic bomb blast, thick and heavy. Virga shivered at the ominous sight, the preview of things to come. He watched it moving with the currents of air and knew the sickening odor of it would soon reach them.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The city," Michael said.

"They've destroyed their homes? How could they?"

"No man has a home any longer," the other man said quietly. "They've gone to join Baal and the city has been set afire, possibly as an offering."

Virga stood, his arms at his sides, and watched the smoke fill the sky. He had never in his life felt as helpless as he did now; no, he corrected himself, there was one other time, but he kept that so far back in his mind that it hardly ever hurt anymore. Now he was one little speck on the world and he was helpless against the man whose power grew against the heavens like the columns of black smoke. No words could save them, not the philosophic wisdom of the saints nor even the teachings of Christ. Baal had given them what they wanted; they had been granted permission to smash at the guiding forces of reason, and they would snarl in the streets like wild dogs until they were mastered by the frenzy.

The smoke had almost reached them. It hovered across the desert. Virga watched it coming. He said, "I've got to know whether Naughton is dead or alive."

"He's dead."

"How do you know that?"

"I know," Michael said. "Perhaps he still walks and breathes and perhaps his brain still functions, but the man is dead."

"I don't believe that," said Virga, hearing the lie as he spoke it. If he had fallen into Baal's grasp there was nothing that could save him.

Michael stood up, towering over Virga. He said, "You know who Baal is, you know what he represents. You sense it. Don't look away; I can read it in your eyes. Soon Baal will be capable of burning this land to a cinder. Can a man stand against power of that nature?"

"Can a man turn his back?" Virga asked. "No. To turn my back would be my surrender to him. And if I can tear anything from him, even Naughton's corpse, I will."

The smoke touched the white desert sand and immediately blackened it with its filth. Soon the rolling darkness would engulf them like a fog at sea. Virga smelled a high, acrid odor that made his stomach churn.

Michael said, "You're an old man."

"I'm a man!" Virga said sharply. He trembled, trying to control himself. "Don't ever say that to me again."

Michael paused to let the man's anger subside. Then he said, "You want to find your friend?"

"I'm going to find my friend."

"All right then. We'll go into the city, or rather what's left of it, and I don't think that's much. Perhaps we'll find your friend with Baal." He looked directly into Virga's eyes. "Or perhaps it will not be your friend we find."

Michael stepped past Virga toward the jeep. He started to climb in and then stopped, listening for something. He looked around, his eyes scanning the horizon. Virga looked also but could see nothing beyond the silent wall of smoke. He felt the other man's tension. Michael said, "This place is haunted. I hear the mad gods shrieking for revenge. Listen."

Virga couldn't hear anything. He thought the man was insane. He said, "There's nothing."

"Oh yes," the other man replied softly. "Oh yes there is."

He took his place behind the wheel, and Virga took the seat beside him. They roared away into the smoke, throwing sand. Twenty minutes later, on the city's outskirts, they had not seen a living soul. Bodies of men and animals lay scattered everywhere as if a terrible storm had ripped through, but nothing moved. Ahead of them fires gutted the city, modern and ancient sections alike, and the entire sky was a maelstrom of searing red and whirling black smoke, a chaotic kaleidoscope.

The roar of the fires was deafening. It was as if some giant with torch in hand had walked the streets setting everything in sight ablaze. To Virga it was revolting; he had never seen so much carnage and waste. Michael drove on, his hands tight around the wheel, his narrowed eyes flickering right and left to pierce the gloom. The human storm had torn through the city's commercial district without mercy. Windows were shattered and stores had been looted. Merchandise littered the streets and Michael swept through it as if running an obstacle course.

Michael heard it first. Virga saw him lean forward almost imperceptibly, and then he also heard the loud static-garbled Arabic voice:

"... impossible to accurately count this mass of people... also members of the press from the United States, the Soviet Union, England, Germany, and Japan... the officials cannot maintain order. Already the ambulances have been... but the medical centers that have been set up here are being ravaged by those in search of drugs. I don't know if transmission is getting through..."

Michael swung the jeep to the curb and cut the engine. In the broken window of a housewares store, amid shattered goods and displays, were three televisions. Two of them were overturned and useless but the third was still operating, though the picture faded in and out. The volume had been turned up to full. The voice of a man on the brink of panic blared out into the street.

"... but we'll try to keep you informed." The newsman, a slim sunglassed Arab, stood on a platform over what appeared to be an endless sea of heads. As he spoke into a microphone he kept looking over his shoulder at the mass of humanity beneath him. Virga saw that the platform shook as bodies crushed around its base.

The newsman said, "... some call him the living Muhammad, some call him devil, but there is no mistaking the strength of this man. He has declared himself the unreachable, the untouchable savior of man and hundreds of thousands have gathered here to pay him homage. Even now I can look across and see... I can see the fires of the old city. On this site he has proclaimed the beginnings of the new age of Baal and the Baalians gathered here will soon strike the first stone into the foundations of his city. Now he..." Static overpowered the voice and Virga put his hands to his ears. When the picture had cleared the camera was panning and he saw the horrible mass of them, some groveling in the sand and others dancing wildly, both clothed and nude. In the distance there were trucks with emblems of both Middle Eastern and foreign television networks. The camera towers rose up like derricks.

"... I have never witnessed anything like this," the newsman said. The platform shook. He put a hand to the railing for support. "I feel a mixture of elation and fear. I can't describe it. I only pray that what is happening here is indeed for the good of all mankind..."

Michael sat rigid in his seat. He was motionless, staring at the television. Behind the two men, across the street, flames burst along the roof of a building and timbers cracked.

"There are people here from around the world," the Arab was saying. "This is totally without parallel. There are those who say that Baal was born with the mark of heaven. From birth, they say, he was destined to lead men to the gates of greatness. It is only for the future to decide. This is without a doubt the beginning of a new age..." He touched his earphones and listened for a moment. The picture became unfocused as tubes cracked suddenly, then regained its sharpness. "Yes... yes. It's been verified now. Yes. He is walking among the crowd now! Look at them! You can see them falling to their knees, wave after wave of them, as he passes into their midst! I can see him!" The camera panned, jerking crazily, until it had picked up the tableau of kneeling figures. People were lifting up their faces for his touch as he passed. Virga recognized the tall frame of the man who had faced him over the chessboard. Baal, though still in the distance and almost obscured, touched his fingertip to upturned faces and Virga saw the forms collapse in a writhing ecstasy.

"He's out there among the masses now!" the newsman said. "This is the first time we've been able to get a good picture, though we still can't quite see - " The platform suddenly shook violently. The newsman shouted, "Watch that boom! Get away from there!" Someone in the background, a technician, shouted, "Move away from the platform!"

The newsman was still trying to regain his composure. "The officials cannot control this crowd," he was saying, "and to move among them is a great risk... I saw someone fall a moment ago and he was trampled; the power of the crowd is too much..." He swung around and watched the moving figures as the camera photographed over his shoulder.

Suddenly Michael leaned forward. His eyes had caught something Virga had not seen.

"What was that?" the newsman shrieked. The platform shook. The crowd was pushing forward and Virga heard something like a low moan, growing in intensity. "I've just heard something!" said the newsman. "I don't know what it was!" He tapped on his earphones. "Hey! What was that? Hassan! Do you hear me?"

He listened through the earphones. Behind him the crowd surged forward. Screams and moans drowned out the voice of the newsman as he frantically shouted into his microphone. His face had suddenly become gaunt and ashen.

Virga was only peripherally aware that the row of buildings on the opposite side of the street were completely afire and smoking timbers were crashing down onto the pavement all around.

"... a few moments ago. We still don't know who or why..." The newsman looked up as if he were not certain he was still on the air. He nodded at someone. "Hassan is out there with an audio unit but he's having trouble communicating... I can't hear very well. Right now... I think only two bullets were fired... The crowd is still moving forward. GRAB THAT EQUIPMENT!" The platform shuddered and swayed. Something crashed. "IT'S GOING OVER!"

Behind Michael and Virga one of the buildings exploded in a belch of black smoke. Bits of concrete skittered along the broken sidewalk. Virga ducked his head instinctively.

The newsman was leaning over the railing. "THEY'RE TEARING HIM TO PIECES! THE MAN IS BEGGING FOR MERCY BUT THEY'RE TEARING HIM TO PIECES!" He put his hand to the headset. "What? Get out of there! Those people will tear you apart!" Then, directed back into the microphone, "Someone, a Jew, has fired two bullets into Baal at point-blank range! They're lifting Baal... they're taking him somewhere... I can't see for the people crowded around him... They're putting him in a car but the people are still crowded around. GET AWAY FROM HIM! GIVE HIM ROOM!" The Arab stopped to catch his breath. Tears of either rage or frustration were glittering on his cheeks. Static blurred his voice when he spoke again.

"... I have a report... he is seriously injured... I repeat, Baal is seriously injured. There is no controlling this crowd now... They're ripping at each other... The Jew who held the gun is - he's been torn and scattered... We're going to have to radio a helicopter to get us out of here! The car is pulling away... I don't know where they're going to take him, I don't know who fired the shots, I don't know..." He suddenly pitched forward and caught the handrail again. Beneath him fights were erupting; the screaming of the crowd was loud and bloodthirsty. The newsman cried out, "GET AWAY FROM THE PLATFORM! WATCH THAT CABLE! GET AWAY FROM THE - " and the television screen was suddenly a solid blank, cracked occasionally with a black line of static.

Michael started the engine and jammed it into gear. Across the street another building exploded. Ashes were raining down. Virga had to grab hold of the dash with his good hand to steady himself. Michael drove through the holocaust as if pursuing something, or as if something were pursuing him. He drove over curbs and down narrow stinking side streets and across the charred remains of elegant homes. Virga gritted his teeth and held on for life. The jeep plunged through the ruins of the modern section into the ancient section of the city, where already the ashes were cold and only occasional red flames lit the way in a morass of black earth and gray sky. Virga glimpsed, for an instant, the scorched walls and towers of Musallim's palace in the distance, above the burned remains of other dwellings.

They swerved onto a long street paved with rough, broken squares of stone. On both sides were high walls, veined with cracks and bearing painted Arabic slogans. Doorways were cut directly into the stone; here and there Virga saw sprawled corpses.

The engine suddenly screamed. Michael was ramming his foot down on the accelerator. Virga cried out, "What the hell are you doing?"

Ahead of them was a gleaming black limousine with closed blinds across the rear window. It was racing across the rough stones, its wheels trembling from the impact of crashing down again and again. Michael was bearing down on the limousine; his eyes were purposeful, his jaw clenched. They roared up on the left side of the car and Virga saw that closed blinds obscured the rear seat. The driver of the limousine had been unaware of their presence; he looked over and his eyes widened.

And Virga saw it was the man named Olivier.

Michael swerved the jeep to the right. Metal crashed against metal. Rubber burned. Virga shouted out, realizing that Michael was deliberately trying to run them into a wall. Virga saw fingers pull down a blind. The eyes that stared through were black, something from a nightmare. The fingers let go and the blind snapped back.

Michael wrenched at the wheel over Virga's shouted protests. This time Olivier met him in the middle of the street and the two vehicles, like bulls with locked horns, roared together. Something, a small piece of metal like a hubcap, flew up from beneath the limousine and went spinning past Virga's head. He crouched down, hearing the wail of metal beside his ear.

Olivier was trying to drive the jeep into the wall now. The limousine was screaming, forcing the other vehicle closer and closer to those stones. They were going so fast that the handwritten slogans on the ancient walls were now only a solid smear of primary colors. Metal crashed again; the jeep shuddered and Michael's hands were bone-white on the wheel. The limousine was driving them toward the wall. A headlamp smashed and glass went flying. Virga caught a glimpse of Olivier's face, grinning like a bleached skull. The jeep hit the far wall and the noise of rending metal sounded like the shrieking of a man's voice. And Virga realized it was his own.

Michael slammed on the brakes. The limousine scraped along the side of the jeep, then regained the middle of the street and roared away. The veins in his neck throbbing, Michael fought the wheel to stave off a headlong crash; he pulled the jeep away from the wall with only a slight reduction of speed, then he too had reached the middle of the street. Far ahead the limousine swerved sharply and disappeared around a corner.

They followed, seeing the limousine as it turned into a side street ahead. They lost sight of it again as it made another sharp turn.

In another few moments they came into full view of Musallim's palace. Masonry had crumbled until the place looked unused and decrepit; ashes had settled everywhere like a layer of dust. It seemed to be deserted; Virga could see neither guards nor dogs. The gate had been torn from its hinges. The jeep raced through into the courtyard. Michael skidded the vehicle up across the driveway and onto the scorched ground where it spun in a fishtail circle. The engine died.

He took the key from the ignition and looked around. There was no sign that anyone had ever been here. It could have been a mass of charred brick and shattered glass a thousand years before and no one would have known the difference. Virga saw that the huge door of the palace had been wrenched open. Now the entrance yawned obscenely.

Michael stepped out of the jeep. Before he could move there came a whine of engines gathering power and in another moment, before either Michael or Virga could cross the grounds to the private airstrip, a gleaming white aircraft burst along the black tarmac and took to the sky. A last correction of the rudder, a minor shudder along the tail, and the banshee wail of the engines had lifted, along with the aircraft, toward the northwest.

Michael stared at its slipstream. Then he said, as quietly as if he were speaking to himself, "I'm too late."

"What did you expect to find here," Virga asked. "This place has been destroyed. They've all gone."

"Yes. Now they've all gone."

"Where would they take Baal? With the hospitals afire there would be no one to treat the wounds."

Michael seemed not to be listening. He ran a hand along his forehead and then looked at the black ash his fingers had accumulated.

"Did you hear me? We've got to find where they've taken Baal."

"What?" he asked, then seemed to remember what Virga had said. "Baal was on board that aircraft. Probably they're leaving the country. Even the continent."

"What? How do you know?"

"I know," Michael said.

"Surely he'll bleed to death without medical attention. Where are they taking him?"

Michael turned away without answering. He walked back across the barren grounds to the open entrance with Virga following. Michael stopped just short of the doorway and stood peering into the dank, filth-walled interior. "Something is wrong," he said quietly.

"A trap?"

"I'm not sure. It seems that no one is here... and yet... Follow directly behind me and walk quietly. All right?"

"Yes," Virga said. "All right."

Michael stepped through and Virga followed, minding his footing on shards of broken glass and burned tapestries. The interior was ruined. The walls were scarred and burned black, carpets torn to pieces, huge mirrors shattered, exquisitely ornamented furniture ripped apart as if by axes. There was the heavy pall of smoke, the thick garbage stench of it; this place had been murdered and already smelled of decaying flesh. Michael turned to him to make certain he could go on and then they continued together through the corridors past huge rooms and marble staircases. Beneath them their feet slipped on human excrement and glass.

There was no sound. They're all gone, Virga thought. All of them. The disciples as well as their wounded master had vanished. They moved silently through the darkness; the corridors wound about them as if they crawled in the intestines of a burned carcass.

And then there was the sharp noise of glass breaking from behind closed doors on one side of the corridor. Michael tensed and waited, his hand gripping Virga's forearm to prevent him from moving, but the noise did not repeat itself.

Michael set himself and kicked through into the room beyond. The doors collapsed from their battered hinges and fell with a resounding crash to a floor of cracked stone.

They stood in the remains of what had been a dining hall. Chairs were overturned, scattered wildly about a charred, ash-topped table. There were still food-smeared dishes and pewter goblets arranged as if for a banquet. Three of the goblets had overturned and the liquid had collected in slimy puddles. Blue clouds of smoke still wafted about the room, swirling like spirits of the dead. Above the odors of smoke and decay there was something else, something that made Virga grind his teeth against its presence. It was the sickly sweet smell of the burial vault. He felt Michael tense beside him.

Someone sat at the table.

Someone who had slumped forward, overturning a crystal decanter, and whose face was now hidden in shadows. The figure, dressed in a man's ragged clothes, was emaciated and pale-fleshed. Virga gasped as he saw the terrible dark blotches on one of the exposed arms. The figure stirred, turning his face toward the muddy light that streamed through shattered doors.

"My God," Virga said. "It's Naughton."

But he knew immediately it was also not Naughton. The man who sat there perhaps resembled Naughton, in a high fine forehead now covered with festering sores, in the shape of a nose now partially eaten away by some cancerous disease, in fair hair that had been ripped away in spots to expose bloody scalp, but this was also not Donald Naughton.

The man's eyes glittered with a savage ferocity. He scooped up a goblet and, shouting out in incomprehensible rage, threw it directly at the two men.

Michael ducked. The goblet clattered against the far wall. Naughton struggled to his feet. He lifted a chair high and threw it at them; the effort made him stagger back and he fell to all fours. He growled and scurried into a corner, where his eyes glowed red in the midst of shadows.

"My God," Virga said. "They've made him into some sort of animal! Oh Jesus Christ!"

"Stay back!" Michael commanded. He stepped forward and Naughton howled like a maddened dog.

Naughton reached out for dinnerware and pieces of glass scattered about him, throwing them at the men. Michael asked Virga quietly, "What was his first name?"

"Donald," Virga said. 'Was'? Had the man said 'was'?

Naughton settled down on his haunches.

When Michael took another step forward Naughton bared his teeth.

"Be quiet," Michael said in a voice that resounded with calm authority. "Be quiet. Your name is Donald Naughton. Do you remember that name?"

Naughton cocked his head to one side, listening. He put both hands to his ears and sank his chin down against his chest.

"Donald Naughton, listen to me," Michael said. "You're still a man. You can still fight this; I want you to fight it. FIGHT IT!"

Naughton growled and looked for something else to throw.

Michael stepped forward again and bent to look across into the man's eyes. "Fight it," he commanded. He thrust his arm out, offered his palm. "Trust me. Trust me. You can fight it."

Naughton seemed confused. He shook his head back and forth in a mindless frenzy. He turned and scratched at the walls, seeking some kind of escape.

"DONALD NAUGHTON!" Michael said.

"NOOOOOO!" moaned the animal on the floor. "NOT DONALD NAUGHTON ANYMORE!"

"Jesus Christ," Virga said under his breath.

Michael sprang up from his bent position. As the diseased figure turned from the wall he was upon him. Naughton screamed, a wild cry of rage and fear. Michael clapped both hands to Naughton's temples. Virga could see the veins stand out in Michael's hands. "DONALD NAUGHTON!" he said.

The man shook himself; saliva drooled from his open mouth. Slowly, very slowly, his eyes changed. There was the brief glimmer of recognition. His entire body seemed to unwind, as if giving itself up to Michael's touch. Then he breathed, a harsh awful rattle that filled the hall with stinking breath, and collapsed in Michael's arms. Michael held him as he was racked with sobbing and gently, gently laid him down on the stone. He motioned for Virga to come forward.

Virga leaned over his friend. The sores were even more terrible than he had thought. Some unimaginable disease had ripped across the flesh, tearing like the teeth of dogs. Michael, cradling Naughton's head, said, "This man is dying. It will be his only release from the pain."

"No help now," Naughton muttered, his eyes glazed. "Too late. Now too late..." He looked up, unbelieving. "You... are... Dr. Virga... ?"

"Yes. My God, my God. What have they done to you?"

He moaned, tormented by the pain. He could fight it off only for moments at a time and when it returned it was always stronger. "All of them have left this place," he whispered weakly, haltingly. "Cresil, Verin, Sonneilton, Carreau... all of them. Baal has taken them away."

"Baal was shot," Virga said. "Where was he taken?"

Naughton looked up. Virga thought the man was smiling, just a trace of it, but he couldn't be sure. "Shot..." the man said. "No."

"Where was he taken?" Virga asked again.

Naughton was breathing harshly. The pain was coming back. It caressed him with red-hot fingers. He shuddered and Michael put his hand on the man's forehead.

"Gone," said Naughton, gasping around the agony.

"What?" Michael bent his head down to hear. "Gone where?"

"That child that child," Naughton was saying. Tears filled his eyes, streamed down his cheeks. "Oh God I held the knife... I didn't know... I couldn't think..." Michael brushed the tears away with a fingertip. "No one can stop him now," Naughton whispered.

"Baal was shot," Virga said. He glanced over at Michael. "Wasn't he?"

"Twice..." Naughton said, "shot twice. The Arabs will rise up to avenge the murder of the living Mu - oh God the pain the pain the pain - ooohhhhh!" He fought it, his teeth clenched.

Virga felt the tears on his face. "For what purpose?" he heard himself asking. Naughton looked up at him through a haze of pain.

"The destruction of the Jews... total destruction... no Jew left alive... terrorism across the world... total..."

"Why?"

Michael was staring at Virga. "Revenge," he said, answering even as Naughton whispered the word.

The breath rattled in Naughton's throat. "He plans a resurrection from death... while his disciples spread chaos and war... he waits... and... oh Jesus the pain ooohhhhh!"

Dear God in Heaven, breathed Virga. Dear God in Heaven.

"And when he returns the master will come with him..."

The man was insane, his senses destroyed. Dear God in Heaven. Vipers vipers vipers. "I don't understand," Virga said, almost to himself. "Baal was shot... he was shot..."

Michael asked softly, "Where has Baal gone?"

"No one can find him," Naughton said. He choked and dribbled a vile-smelling liquid. "Too far..."

"Where?" Michael asked. His eyes frightened Virga; they had become fierce and weirdly golden in the dim light.

Naughton blinked his eyes to regain focus. Virga could see him slipping away. "I saw... the maps," he said finally. "I heard them talking. They left me here to die... but I saw the maps..."

Michael leaned forward.

"Greenland," Naughton said, "gathering supplies at an Eskimo settlement... Avatik... then across the ice cap..." He looked away from Michael, searching for Virga. He touched Virga's hand. "Judith... she's all right?"

"Yes. Judith is well."

"They made me write the letter... They were going to use you..."

"I know."

The pale light in Naughton's eyes had almost burned away. His face was white and his lips barely moved when he spoke. Whimpering in pain, he looked up suddenly, appealingly, at Virga and his eyes were filled with tears. "I don't want to die like this," he said, "not like this..."

Virga couldn't reply. The helplessness on the man's face had taken his breath away. He stammered.

Michael pressed his hand against Naughton's forehead. "It's all right," he whispered. "Rest now. Just close your eyes and rest for a while."

"Oh..." Naughton said. He gave a small sigh and as Virga watched, the light of life flickered and vanished from his eyes. Michael folded the man's arms across the chest.

He stood up. "You should take his body back home with you. This place will be burned to the ground and the ashes buried."

"He was a very fine man."

"And now at peace."

Virga suddenly looked up sharply. "I'll ship his body to his wife for proper burial. I'm not going back yet."

Michael slowly turned on the other man and the force of his presence was almost palpable. He said, "Your part in this is done. You've found your friend. What lies ahead will not be for you."

"And how can you track him alone? Answer me that."

"I have done so for... years before this day. Alone."

"I'm going with you."

"No."

"Yes."

Michael said, "I could make you stay, you know."

"I don't know who you are but I'll tell you one thing. I am fully aware of Baal's capabilities and I am not going to go back to Boston and sit on my ass."

Michael looked at him through the gloom for a silent moment. He abruptly shrugged his shoulders. "As you wish. I don't care, I'm not going to look after you. And I repeat my sentiments that you're a fool."

"So be it," Virga said.

"Yes," Michael said. "The winter night is about to begin in Greenland - I assume you're aware of that fact - so I suggest you take along more than what you're wearing now. We will not be traveling together. If you haven't met me in the place called Avatik in three days I leave without you."

"I'll meet you."

"Yes. I believe you will. Then you'd best make your air connections and leave this country as soon as possible. I don't think it has much future. Here. I'll help you carry your friend out of this place."