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can, Mace,” Sandow said. “Though that would lack a certain dignity ascribed to Shakers.” He began unsnapping the seams of his black robe. “Come, Gregor. Let us divest ourselves of these stupid costumes. There's no longer anyone to impress.”
        

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    3
        
        
        
        Whether it was a manifestation of his powers or just a peculiarity of his mind, the Shaker was a light sleeper. In the morning, the thin light which made its way between the heavy umber drapes of his chamber was enough to make him open his eyes and rise. At night, the sound of Mace or Gregor tip-toeing to the bath was enough to break his slumber. This night, hours before the start of the great trek, this curse was to become a blessing.
        
        His eyes opened on darkness, and he lay very still as he listened to the sound of feet in the corridor of the second floor. He heard the door to Mace's room open, and shortly after someone was pushing his own door wide. As he sat up in bed, he saw the sparkling of what seemed to be a very spastic and erratic candle flame. Behind this meager light was the silhouette of a man, a stranger. Before the Shaker could call out, the sputtering flame was thrown almost to his bed, and the shadowy figure disappeared into the corridor.
        
        Sandow leaped from the bed, grabbed one of his boots which stood beside the nightstand, and stamped out the flame. Slipping those boots on, he hurried to the doorway-just in time to have his ears tortured by the blast and the wash of flames which erupted from Gregor's room. The door to the boy's chamber was torn from its hinges and crashed resoundingly against the opposite wall of the corridor. Acrid clouds of smoke roiled into the hall and made the Shaker cough uncontrollably.
        
        “Gregor!” he shouted into the pandemonium. He received no reply.
        
        Behind him Mace thundered down the hall , and though he was pleased that the assistant was unhurt, he was grief-stricken that Gregor should be dead.
        
        Mace pushed beyond his master and stormed through the smoldering doorway into Gregor's bed chamber. He called the boy's name, his deep tones cracked in a mixture of fear and anguish. He must surely have expected to find his almost-brother crushed and ruined by the explosion. But as the Shaker reached the doorway, almost exhausted by the effort of extracting oxygen from that fouled air, Mace reappeared, nearly invisible in the thick smoke. “He's not in there,” the giant said. “He wasn't in his room when it happened.”
        
        “Thank the gods!” the Shaker said, meaning it, even though he was not a religious man.
        
        On the stairs from the first floor, there was the thud of feet, and young Gregor broke through the fumes, wild-eyed, his hair in total disarray, blood streaming down from a gash on his forehead. “Are you both all right?” he asked.
        
        “Yes,” the the Shaker said, “But you're bleeding.”
        
        “There was a man,” Gregor said. “Earlier in the night, I grew hungry and went downstairs to the kitchen in the back of the house. I was just finishing some pie and a sandwich when the explosion happened. I came for the stairs at a run and collided with him there. Before I could even ascertain if it was you or Mace, he struck me with what could have been the haft of a knife and ran into the street. I didn't give pursuit”
        
        The Shaker examined the wound, pronounced it minor. “Let's open some windows and get this awful stuff out of here,” he said. Then downstairs to the kitchen for some brew and some theorization. I have something in my room which may prove interesting.”
        
        “A tube with a sparkling fuse?”
        
        “Why, yes, Mace, it is a sparkling object I haven't seen its shape yet.”
        
        “And you suppose there was one in Gregor's room which exploded?” the giant