Description: One Humming tunelessly, the ragpicker walked the barren, empty wasteland in the aftermath of the rainstorm. The skies were still dark with clouds and the earth was sodden and slick with surface water, but none of that mattered to him. Others might prefer the sun and blue skies and the feel of hard, dry earth beneath their feet. Others might revel in the brightness and the warmth. But life was created in the darkness and damp of the womb, and the ragpicker took considerable comfort in knowing that procreation was instinctual and needed nothing of the face of nature''s disposition that he liked the least. He was an odd looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical tatterdemalion. He was tall and whipcord thin, and he walked like one of those of those long-legged water birds. Dressed in dark clothes that had seen much better days, he tended to blend in nicely with the mostly colorless landscape he traveled. He carried his rags and scraps of cloth in a frayed patchwork bag slung over one shoulder, the bag bursting at the seams with its load, looking very much as if it would rip apart completely with each fresh step its bearer took. A pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble, scavenged from a dead man some years back, but still holding up quite nicely. Everything about the ragpicker suggested that he was harmless. Everything marked him as easy prey in a world where predators dominated the remnants of a decimated population. He knew how he looked to the things that were always hunting. He knew what they thought when they saw him coming. But that was all right. He didn''t mind. He had stayed alive this long by keeping his head down and staying out of harm''s way. People like him, they didn''t get noticed. The trick was in not doing anything to call attention to yourself. So he tried hard to give the clear and unmistakable impression that he was nothing but a poor wanderer who wanted to be left alone, but you didn''t always get what you wanted in this world. Even now, other eyes were already sizing him up. He could feel them doing so, several pairs in several different places. But those eyes that belonged to the animals - the things that the poisons and chemicals had turned into mutants - were already turning away. Their instincts were sharper, more finely tuned, and they could sense when something wasn''t right. Given the choice, they would almost always back away. It was the eyes of the human freaks that stayed fixed on him, eyes that lacked the necessary awareness to judge him properly. These were the predators that seldom sensed the danger and so almost never turned away. Two were studying him now, deciding whether or not to confront him. He sighed. He would try to avoid them, of course. He would try to make himself seem not worth the trouble. But, again, you didn''t always get what you wanted. He breathed in the cool, damp air, absorbing the taste of the rain''s aftermath on his tongue, of the stirring of stagnation and sickness generated by the pounding of the sudden rain, of the smells of raw earth and decay, the whole of it marvelously welcome. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could pretend he was the only one left in the world. He could pretend that what remained of the world was his and his alone. He could think of it all as his private preserve, his special place, and imagine that he was all that was left and everything belonged to him. He could pretend that nothing would ever bother him again. His humming dropped away, changing to a little song: Ragpicker, ragpicker, what you gonna do. When the hunters are hunting and they''re for hunting you. Ragpicker, ragpicker, just stay low. If you don''t draw attention they might let you go. He hummed a few more bars, wondering if he had gotten past the predators. He was thinking it was almost time to stop and have something to drink and eat. But that would have to wait. He sighed, his lean, sharp-featured face wreathed in a tight smile that caused the muscles of his jaw to stand out like cords. Ragpicker, ragpicker, you''re all alone. The hunters that are hunting want to pick your bones. Ragpicker, ragpicker, just walk on. If you wait them out they will soon be gone. He crossed a meadow, a small stream filled with muddy water, a rocky flat in which tiny purple flowers were blooming and a withered woods in which a handful of poplars grew sparse and separate as if strangers to each other. Ahead, there was movement in a rugged mass of boulders that formed the threshold to foothills leading up to the next chain of mountains, a high and wild and dominant presence. He registered the movement, ignored it. Those who had been watching him were still there and growing restless; he must skirt their hiding place and hope they were distracted by other possibilities. But there didn''t appear to be anyone else out here other than himself, and he was afraid that they would come after him just because they were bored. He continued on furtively, still humming softly. Daylight leached away as the clouds began to thicken anew. It might actually rain some more, he decided. He glanced at the skies in all four directions, noting the movement of the clouds and the shifting of their shadows against the earth. Yes, more rain coming. Better that he find shelter soon. He stalked up the slope into the rocks, his long thin legs stretching out, meandering here and there as if searching for the best way through, trying to move away from the watchers, trying to pretend he was heedless of them, that he knew nothing of them and they, in turn, should not want to bother with him. But, suddenly, his worst fears were realized and just like that they were upon him. They came out of the rocks, having moved from their previous hiding place, two shaggy-haired, ragged men, one large and one small, both carrying blades and clubs. One was blind in one eye and the other limped badly. They had seen hard times, the ragpicker thought, and they would not be likely to have seen much charity and therefore not much inclined to dispense any. He stood where he was and waited on them patiently, knowing that flight was useless. "You," one-eye said, pointing a knife at him. "What you got in that bag of yours?" The ragpicker shrugged. "Rags. I collect them and barter for food and drink. It''s what I do." "You got something more than that, I''d guess," the second man, the larger of the two, the limper, said. "Better show us what you got." The ragpicker hesitated, and then dumped everything on the ground, his entire collection of brightly colored scarves and bits of cloth, a few whole pieces of shirts and coats, a hat or two, some boots. Everything he had managed to find in his travels of late that he hadn''t bargained away with the Trolls or such. "That''s crap!" snarled one eye, thrusting his knife at the ragpicker, nearly pricking him with the tip. "You got to do better than that! You got to give us something of worth!" "You got coin?" demanded the other. Hopeless, the ragpicker thought. No one had coin anymore and even if they did it was valueless. Gold or silver, maybe. A good weapon, especially one of the old automatics from the days of the Great Wars, would have meant something, would have been barter material. But no one had coins. "Don''t have any," he said, backing away a step. "Can I pick up my rags?" One-eye stepped forward and ground the colored cloth into the ground with the heel of his boot. "That''s what I think of your rags. Now watch and see what I''m gonna do to you!" The ragpicker backed away another step. "Please, I don''t have anything to give you. I just want you to let me pass. I''m not worth your trouble. Really." "You ain''t worth much, that''s for sure," said the one who limped. "But that don''t mean you get to go through here free. This is our territory and no one passes without they make some payment to us!" The two men came forward again, a step at a time, spreading out just a little to hem the ragpicker in, to keep him from making an attempt to get around them. As if such a thing were possible, the ragpicker thought, given his age and condition and clear lack of athletic ability. Did he look like he could get past them if he tried? Did he look as if he could do anything? "I don''t think this is a good idea," he said suddenly, stopping short in his retreat. "You might not fully understand what it is that you are doing." The predators stopped and stared at him, not quite believing what they were hearing. "You don''t think it''s a good idea?" said the one that limped. "Is that what you said, you skinny old rat?" The ragpicker shook his head. "It always comes down to this. I don''t understand it. Let me ask you something. Do you know of a man who carries a black staff?" The two exchanged a quick look. "Who is he?" asked one-eye. "Why would we know him?" The ragpicker sighed. "I don''t know that you do. Probably you don''t. But he would be someone who had real coin on him, should you know where to find him. You don''t, do you?" "Naw, don''t know anyone like that,"

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