than if it were solid metal. Five of the faces looked
absolutely bare. The sixth had a round button recessed in it.

From the way they looked at it neither Pop nor the girl had the faintest
idea of what it was. I certainly hadn't.

"Had he pushed the button?" the girl asked. Her voice was throaty but
unexpectedly refined, as if she'd done no talking at all, not even to
herself, since coming to the Deathlands and so retained the cultured
intonations she'd had earlier, whenever and wherever that had been. It
gave me a funny feeling, of course, because they were the first words
I'd heard her speak.

"Not from the way he was holding it," I told her. "The button was
pointed up toward his thumb but the thumb was on the outside of his
fingers." I felt an unexpected satisfaction at having expressed myself
so clearly and I told myself not to get childish.

The girl slitted her eyes. "Don't you push it, Ray," she said.

"Think I'm nuts?" I told her, meanwhile sliding the cube into the
smaller pocket of my pants, where it fit tight and wouldn't turn
sideways and the button maybe get pressed by accident. The tingling in
my right arm was almost unbearable now, but I was getting control over
the muscles again.

"Pushing that button," I added, "might melt what's left of the plane, or
blow us all up." It never hurts to emphasize that you may have another
weapon in your possession, even if it's just a suicide bomb.

"There was a man pushed another button once," Pop said softly and
reflectively. His gaze went far out over the Deathlands and took in a
good half of the horizon and he slowly shook his head. Then his face
brightened. "Did you know, Ray," he said, "that I actually met that man?
Long afterwards. You don't believe me, I know, but I actually did. Tell
you about it some other time."

I almost said, "Thanks, Pop, for sparing me at least for a while," but I
was afraid that would set him off again. Besides, it wouldn't have been
quite true. I've heard other buggers tell the yarn of how they met (and
invariably rubbed out) the actual guy who pushed the button or buttons
that set the fusion missiles blasting toward their targets, but I felt a
sudden curiosity as to what Pop's version of the yarn would be. Oh well,
I could ask him some other time, if we both lived that long. I started
to check the Pilot's pockets. My right hand could help a little now.

* * * * *

"Those look like mean burns y