'This is a charity race, of course.'
  'Absolutely. And in a situation like this it's not whether you win or lose -'
  'It's how you play the game.'
  'Right.'
  'Right.'
  'Well they're both in sight of the Houses of Parliament now as they come round the bend 
of Whitehall. And the crowds are cheering their boy on, but I really think it's a lost 
cause -'
  'Mind you, he brought something special out of the bag in Sweden.'
  'He did. He did.'
  'Maybe he'll do it again.'
  
  Joel ran, and the gap between himself and Voight was beginning to close. He 
concentrated on the man's back, his eyes boring into his shirt, learning his rhythm, 
looking for weaknesses.
  There was a slowing there. The man was not as fast as he had been. An unevenness had 
crept into his stride, a sure sign of fatigue.
  He could take him. With courage, he could take him.
  And Kinderman. He'd forgotten about Kinderman. Without thinking, Joel glanced over his 
shoulder and looked behind him.
  Kinderman was way back, still keeping his steady marathon runner's pace unchanged. But 
there was some-thing else behind Joel: another runner, almost on his heels; ghostly, vast.
  He averted his eyes and stared ahead, cursing his stupidity.
  He was gaining on Voight with every pace. The man was really running out of steam, 
quite clearly. Joel knew he could take him for certain, if he worked at it. Forget his 
pursuer, whatever it was, forget everything except overtaking Voight.
  But the sight at his back wouldn't leave his head.
  'Don't look back': McCloud's words. Too late, he'd done it. Better to know then who 
this phantom was.
  He looked again.
  At first he saw nothing, just Kinderman jogging along. And then the ghost runner 
appeared once more and he knew what had brought McCloud and Loyer down.
  It was no runner, living or dead. It wasn't even human. A smoky body, and yawning 
darkness for its head, it was Hell itself that was pressing on him.
  'Don't look back.'
  Its mouth, if mouth it was, was open. Breath so cold it made Joel gasp swirled around 
him. That was why Loyer had muttered prayers as he ran. Much good it had done him; death 
had come anyway.
  Joel looked away, not caring to see Hell so close, trying to ignore the sudden weakness 
in his knees.
  Now Voight, too, was glancing behind him. The look on his face was dark and uneasy: and 
Joel knew somehow that he belonged to Hell, that the shadow behind him was Voight's 
master.
  'Voight. Voight. Voight. Voight-' Joel expelled the word with every stride.
  Voight heard his name being spoken.
  'Black bastard,' he said aloud.
  Joel's stride lengthened a little. He was within two metres of Hell's runner.
  'Look.. . Behind. . . You,' said Voight.
  'I see it.'
  'It's. . . come. . . for. . . you.'
  The words were mere melodrama: two-dimensional. He was master of his body wasn't he? 
And he was not afraid of darkness, he was painted in it. Wasn't that what made him less 
than human as far as so many people were concerned? Or more, more than human; bloodier, 
sweatier, fleshier. More arm, more leg, more head. More strength, more appetite. What 
could Hell do? Eat him? He'd taste foul on the palate. Freeze him? He was too 
hot-blooded, too fast, too living.
  Nothing would take him, he was a barbarian with the manners of a gentleman.
  Neither night nor day entirely.
  Voight was suffering: his pain was in his torn breath, in the gangling rags of his 
stride. They were just fifty metres from the steps and the finishing line, but Voight's 
lead was being steadily eroded; each step brought the runners closer.
  
  Then the bargains began.
  'Listen. -. to. . . me.'
  'What are you?'
  'Power. . . I'll get you power. . . just. . . let. . . us win.'
  Joel was almost at his side now.
  'Too late.'
  His legs elated: his mind spun with pleasure. Hell behind him: Hell beside him, what 
did he care? He could run.
  He passed Voight, joints fluent: an easy machine.
  'Bastard. Bastard. Bastard -' the familiar was saying, his face contorted with the 
agonies of stress. And didn't that face flicker as Joel passed it by? Didn't its features 
seem to lose, momentarily, the illusion of being human?
  Then Voight was falling behind him, and the crowds were cheering, and the colours were 
flooding back into the world. It was victory ahead. He didn't know for what cause, but 
victory nevertheless.
  There was Cameron, he saw him now, standing on the steps beside a man Joel didn't know, 
a man in a pinstripe suit. Cameron was smiling and shouting with uncharacteristic 
enthusiasm, beckoning to Joel from the steps.
  He ran, if anything, a little faster towards the finishing line, his strength coaxed by 
Cameron's face.
  Then the face seemed to change. Was it the heat haze that made his hair shimmer? No, 
the flesh of his cheeks was bubbling now, and there were dark patches growing darker 
still on his neck, at his forehead. Now his hair was rising from his head and cremating 
light was flickering up from his scalp. Cameron was burning. Cameron was burning, and 
still the smile, and still the beckoning hand.
  Joel felt sudden despair.
  
  Hell behind. Hell in front.
  This wasn't Cameron. Cameron was nowhere to be seen:
  so Cameron was gone.
  He knew it in his gut. Cameron was gone: and this black parody that smiled at him and 
welcomed him was his last moments, replayed for the delight of his admirers.
  Joel's step faltered, the rhythm of his stride lost. At his back he heard Voight's 
breath, horridly thick, close, closer.
  His whole body suddenly revolted. His stomach demanded to throw up its contents, his 
legs cried out to collapse, his head refused to think, only to fear.
  'Run,' he said to himself. 'Run. Run. Run.'
  But Hell was ahead. How could he run into the arms of such foulness?