"Good God," Spencer said. "Replacements, in case the real one dies?"
"I believe so," Gladhand nodded. "They'll be mature in another week, I'd judge, if they were already recognizable. We can't waste time, you see."
"Yes," Thomas agreed. "What is it you're hoping to do? In long range terms, I mean?"
"Kill Pelias—it was our bombs that nearly did him in last week—and institute a new government, hopefully in time to defend the city against Alvarez."
"What sort of new government?"
Gladhand shrugged. "A better one than this Pelias has given us. I know of a man with an indisputably valid claim to the mayor's office. We will, I hope, manage to establish him when Pelias is finally disposed of."
Thomas pondered all this. "Were you the ones who made that assassination attempt on Pelias ten years ago?"
Gladhand smiled oddly. "No. That attempt was none of our doing. Besides, our organization has only been in existence for eight years."
"Does Pat know?" Thomas asked. "Is she in this?"
"Yes. I told her about it two days ago. She's in."
"Well, what do I do to join? Sign something in blood? Scalp a cop?"
"No, none of that. We're very informal in that respect. Take my word for it that you're a member. I did want to tell you all this today, though, so you could help Spencer out tonight. He's going to make the final arrangements on a purchase of 100 rifles, in a bar called the Gallomo. I'd prefer it if he wasn't alone, and you two seem to work well together."
"Sure, I'll go along," agreed Thomas. "How are we going to get all those rifles back here, though?"
"We won't," said Spencer. "Assuming the guns haven't already been sold, we're just going to make a down payment. Delivery will be in a couple of days, through the sewers."
"I'll want both of you to carry pistols," Gladhand instructed. "Just in case, you know." He picked, up his crutches. "In the meantime, have some lunch, and Spencer can fill you in on the details." He swung himself erect and reentered the building.
Four hours later Thomas was doing his best to eat a particularly gristly beef pie. "The drinks here might be okay," he told Spencer, "but the food is vile."
"Well, hurry up and finish it," Spencer said. "The guy's supposed to be here in ten minutes, and you've got your face in a damned pie."
The pie had cooled off, and things were beginning to congeal in it, so Thomas pushed it away. "If things get rough we can throw it at somebody," he said.
"Yeah, and—don't turn around. He's here. Good. That means we outbid city hall."
Thomas slowly picked up the pitcher and refilled his beer glass. "Is he coming over here?" he whispered.
"He's getting a drink first. Making it look unplanned, I suppose. Ah, here he comes."
Peter McHugh sat down and nodded to Spencer. "Who's your buddy?"
"A colleague," Spencer said. "He's okay. City hall didn't go for it?"
"Oh, they claimed to, but my partner suspected they didn't really intend to pay him. He has good instincts for that kind of thing."
"Where is he?"
"Out in the wagon; he'll be in in a minute. You've got the five grand?"
Spencer nodded and kicked the knapsack under the table.
"Good, good." McHugh took a sip from his glass of wine. "Not bad," he observed. "How's the food here?"
"Terrible," Thomas said, pointing at the pie.
McHugh peered at it. "Oh, yeah." He looked up. "Here's my partner now," he said.
Thomas didn't look around, so he didn't see the new arrival until he sat down. "Mr. St. Coutras!" he said in surprise when he saw the white-bearded old man.
"You two know each other?" McHugh asked, puzzled.
"What do you know, it's Thomas the famous runaway monk," St. Coutras said, "You're with these guys?" he asked, nodding at Spencer.
"I am now," Thomas told him. "I certainly wasn't when I met you. And my name is Rufus, please."
"Hah! Rufus? Oh well, whatever you say."
"They've got the money," McHugh said impatiently.
"Okay," St. Coutras said. "Now listen," he said to Spencer. "Pick up the guns Saturday, that's the day after tomorrow, under the third manhole on New Hampshire, south of the wall. That's right above the city college, near Vermont."
"I know where it is," Spencer nodded. "When Saturday?"
"Thirty-three hundred hours. Be there. We won't wait around. If—"
McHugh half stood up, reaching quickly in his coat. A loud bang sounded behind Thomas, and McHugh was kicked backward over his chair, his gun spinning across the floor.
"No one else is going anywhere, are they?" inquired a cultured voice from behind Thomas's shoulder. Four smooth-faced android policemen surrounded the table as Albers picked up McHugh's fallen chair and sat down.
From where he sat, Thomas couldn't see McHugh's body. Spencer could though, and looked sick, scared and angry.
"Foolish of you to miss our appointment, St. Coutras, old boy," Albers smiled, taking a sip of McHugh's wine. "Very tolerable Petite Syrah," he remarked. "Is the food equal to it?"
Thomas pointed mutely at the congealed pie. "Yes, I see," Albers said with a shudder. "At any rate—these two young men, then, must be members of our own Los Angeles resistance underground! What are your names?"
"Edmund Campion," Thomas said.
"Dan McGrew," said Spencer.
"Uh huh. So you thought you'd sell to a rival market, eh, St. Coutras? That's known as treason, my friend. You'll be hanged and we'll appropriate your guns. For nothing. And you lads will be hanged, too, never fear—after a few days with the city interrogator, naturally." He picked up the wine glass again, then froze. He turned a sharp stare on Thomas. "What did you say your name was?" His voice was like a slap in the face.
"I forget," Thomas said. "It was a phony name anyway."
"I know that. You just said the first name that popped into your head, didn't you?"
Puzzled and terrified, Thomas simply nodded.
"Right," Albers grinned. "Edmund Campion. The name of a… saint. Let's see—you're the right size, dark hair…" He leaned forward and stared at Thomas more closely.
Through his tension and fear Thomas felt a taste of relief. At least it's over, he thought. Now he would find out why they were hunting him with such determination.
"This is him, isn't it, St. Coutras?" Albers said. "Thomas, our long-sought fugitive."
St. Coutras shook his head. "Wrong, Albers," he said. "Are you going to grab every dark-haired young man who thinks of saints when he's in trouble? You bastards are really grabbing at straws."
"Hmm." Albers frowned thoughtfully. "Of course you'd say that in any case, to keep your bargaining position… What the hell. We'll take all of you in for a little intensive interrogation, hey? Maybe even send a coach to Merignac; bring back a monk who could absolutely identify this damned Thomas. Up, now, and march outside. Put that down, you monster," he added to one of the androids, who had furtively picked up the pie.
Next to the old gun-runner's cart five horses were tied to a rail in front of the Gallomo. One of the androids frisked the prisoners, removing pistols from Spencer and Thomas and a short, large-calibre sleeve-gun from St. Coutras.
"Handcuff the prisoners," Albers directed the android, "and lay them in the back of the old man's cart."
When the cold metal rings were clicked viciously tight around Thomas's wrists, the android lifted him as easily as an armful of lumber and dropped him face down into the empty cart bed. A moment later St. Coutras and Spencer were dumped in on either side of him.
"Stay loose, lads," the old man gasped. "They haven't got us in the pan quite yet."
Thomas could see no basis for hope, but felt a little better for St. Coutras's words.
"All right," Albers ordered. "You three follow us back to city hall—and don't forget to bring the spare horses, idiots. You drive the rig and I'll ride along to keep an eye on our little guests."