Kinsbourne had been a convenient find. Where the river had widened and slowed and the dense forests had curled back its vast maw on an open plain, there was room to a comfortable village. Over the gentle slopes on the north , something stranger was found to accommodate the burgeoning community. Where the fields that had made Kinsbourne such an inviting port surrendered to the trees, a strange structure parted the forest. A ramp of cement and metal, wide enough to let two dozen people stand shoulder to shoulder, lifted itself regally from the gentle hillocks and plunged away into darkness.

It made for a convenient entrance to the center of the continent, and its size and mysterious origins drew religious interest. Pilgrims traveled it, looking for the secret history of their giant deities. Explorers would travel its length until professional pride got the better of them, and then they'd descend the side roads into the forest and trailblaze. Broken-down steamer trucks became stations, and tiny homesteads hunkered under the buttresses. Nobody was quite sure how far the High Road went, although explorers claimed to have reached the far edge toppled into a crevasse at the foot of the mountains hundreds of miles on the interior.

For most people, the nearer forests held their own interests. At first furs and lumbers were the draw, and the Road made for extremely convenient trading. As the trees found themselves rising as Kinsbourne's Upper Walks, farmers moved into the places the lumberjacks had logged, and subsidiary roads provided paths deeper and deeper inland. That was when the ruins had start to turn up. It was well known that the continent had had previous inhabitants. Not one to look a gift continent in the millions of unmarked graves, settlers generally turned out pockets where they found them and got on with their lives. Out in the wilderness, however, the buildings became more numerous. They held curios, and geegaws, and the societies were vastly interested in every object they could find there. Homesteaders claimed there were great secrets hidden in the old compounds. The secret to everlasting life! The answers to the universe! The equation for a long lasting engine solvent that also serves as a beard wax!

Kingsley sat amidst trunks in the bed of a huge canvas-backed steamer truck. He'd been charged with guarding his master's possessions and had promptly realized the task was unnecessary, given as he was the only one in the truck bed and furthermore the possessions consisted of two carpet bags full of clothing Veldt had only brought along to appease the laundress, a few books, and a large crate too heavy to be stolen and too boring-looking to be worth it. So he'd settled in for his favorite pastime, watching. It had been exciting for the first few hours; he'd stared through a flap in the canvas as first the university station, then the gables and stalls of Kinsbourne, and finally the ramparts of the Upper Walk had slid sideways out of view. He'd even sat for a while entranced by the fields of corn and beans separated by ancient stone walls, with roughly-clothed folk tending plants, animals, and farming equipment visible from the sides of the High Road. Soon, though, huge trees towered overhead, an innumerable army of faceless sentries. Periodically a small village would shake free of the overgrowth, and the caravan would grind to a halt, unloading new settlers and enthusiastic pilgrims. Caravaneers hawked their wares to starry-eyed fungus farmers and the scholars would rifle through the curio stores of local ruins-raiders, but the periodic starts and stops had begun to set Kingsley's teeth on edge.

Kingsley wasn't especially surprised when the truck jolted to a stop and instantly his hand steadied a homicidal steamer trunk. A complaint rose in his throat but good manners stifled it and he swatted the canvas aside so he could peer at the goings on outside. A fat man in pink pajamas flopped off the back of the next truck, and scrambled away. Someone landed on his back, and wrenched him backwards. Men descended the squat truck rapidly, and finally, the two huffing contestants were glaring at each other through a prison of arm bars. Finally, the fat one was released, and his attacker was frogmarched away from the group. He wrenched away from the two men holding his wrists and casually hauled himself into Kingsley's truckbed. Kingsley peered timidly at the colossus. It struck a match and thunder corresponded, illuminating an angular face with thick-knit eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard. Kingsley scowled as he settled on the floor and steadied the tipping steamer. A coolie with a beard, smoking a cigarette, getting in fights. Suddenly his security role had been expanded. As the cigarette flared to life, a gentle staccato of rain began its all-night percussion piece on the canvas.