The woman led the way, heels clacking on the mosaic picture that showed, as far as Ryan could make it out, a girl carrying a sheaf of wheat, rising from the sea with a smile of simpering idiocy on her rosy, dimpled cheeks.
"You lost your wag, I believe, Mr. Cawdor?" Carla Petersen said, pausing on the wide landing for them to catch up. Rick trailed at the rear, panting with the effort of climbing.
"That's right. Three days, up in the hills."
"Where were you coming from?"
"South."
"And you were going?.."
"North."
She smiled with a touch of frost. "Not a man to give too much away, are you, Mr. Cawdor?"
"Man who gives everything away finds he has nothing left for himself."
"True. Very true. Now, just along here. The third door."
Every now and again, throughout the Deathlands, Ryan had stumbled on places where neutron bombs had left buildings virtually untouched. The town hall of Snakefish was like that. Cold stone. Benches padded with worn green leather. Doors that had frosted glass in their top halves. And names painted in almost illegible gold leaf, with their jobs.
"Milius Haldeman, Registrar. Rowena Southwell, School Inspectorate. Crawford Fargo, Highways. Angus Wellson, Divorce Counselor."
She heard him reading the doors. "So many names and civic appointments, Mr. Cawdor. All dead these hundred years. The baron only uses a small part of the hall now. With around two thousand spuls in the ville, the administration is kind of low-key."
She paused in front of a door, much like the others. Except that the gold paint was fresher. Edgar Brennan, Baron.
A voice responded to her brisk knock. "Come in, come in, said the mayor looking bigger and bigger and in did walk..."
Doc caught the wary look of bewilderment on everyone's faces. "Quoting an old poem," he whispered, "not mad."
The office of the baron was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that opened onto a balcony and overlooked the desert. There was a threadbare strip of carpet covering a floor of wooden tiles. A massive bookcase ran the length of the wall on the left. But the glass doors were cracked and the shelves only held a half-dozen tattered and spineless volumes. There was a variety of unmatching chairs and a sagging sofa. The room was totally dominated by an enormous mahogany desk, which was buried with piles of paper, folders and files. It was just possible to make out the shadowy figure of Baron Edgar Brennan of Snakefish, lurking behind them.
"Greetings, gentlemen. And ladies. Come in, come in and sit down. Down."
Carla Petersen ran rapidly through the introductions. As with Zombie, Ryan was impressed with the way she remembered all of their names. The only one that she seemed to falter over was J.B. Dix.
They sat down, finding places among the chairs. Miss Petersen perched on the edge of a small table near the window, next to J.B.
"I would sit down as well, but I think I would vanish," Brennan said. "I'm a little deficient in the department of leg length."
Ryan had thought that the baron was already sitting down.
"Lost their wag three days, Edgar. Looking for food and lodging for two or three days before they move on."
"Lost their wag!" Brennan toddled around the desk and leaned against it. "To find a wag is lucky. To lose one smacks of carelessness. How come you lost your wag? Your wag?"
Ryan was so fascinated by the strange appearance of the Snakefish baron that his mind wandered off the question. "Lost?.. Oh, a fire. Lectric short. Fire in the night. Burned out. In the hills."
"Didn't hurt any snakes, did you?"
"No. No, we didn't."
"Good, good, good."
Edgar Brennan was around four feet ten inches tall, a rotund and yet oddly dignified figure. He wore a shirt of dazzling white and a paisley cravat knotted around the throat. He looked to be somewhere in his late sixties. His pants were neatly pressed, his shoes polished to a mirroring gleam. As far as Ryan could see, Brennan wasn't carrying any kind of blaster, which made him kind of unique among barons of Ryan's acquaintanceship.
"We have a few rules hereabouts. Nothing too strict, I hope. Do you have a supply of jack? If you are outlanders here, I expect not. Expect not."
"Trade ammo," J.B. said. "Or mebbe we could work off a trade."
Miss Petersen leaped in. "That would be fine, Mr. Dix, just fine. This ville runs mainly on its supplies of gas. We are not a poor ville. Somewhat the reverse."
"Generous, I would hope. Yes, generous." Brennan's round little face creased into a smile. He gave a throaty chuckle. "We will lend a hand to any weary traveler, will we not, Carla?"
"We will, Edgar, though..."
A small cloud sailed into view and settled itself in a tiny furrow between the baron's eyes. "Yes, there is... Mustn't upset the... But a token of food and lodging for Mr. Cawdor and his comrades? Surely no objection to that." A sudden thought struck him. "Not mercies, are you? Mercies?"
"No," Ryan said simply.
"Where is Layton?" He turned to his visitors. "Layton is my nephew. My heir. I have never married, and he is now my only living relative. A series of accidents have... Accidents. Yes."
"Layton's out having lunch at the Qiksnak, Edgar."
"Course. Thanks, Carla. I didn't realize how time was passing. Passing. Lunch. Three eggs over easy with a double ham and hashies. Double slice of Mom's apple pie to follow. My nephew is a well-grown lad, folks. But kindly and brave. Only person in Snakefish who'd take up the air wag when it was found. Uses too much precious gas, but..." He smiled the smile of an indulgent uncle.
"Perhaps our visitors would care for something to eat?" the woman suggested, standing and moving toward the door of the office.
"Course, course, course. That's a three coursemeal, you see." He waited for the ripple of polite laughter at his small joke. "Give them each enough jack for a couple of days, Carla, my dear. They can stay at the Rentaroom. Have it charged to the civic friendliness fund."
His assistant hesitated. "There'll be a service, tomorrow, won't there? Might be best if they all turn up. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise the Motes could name them undesirable and then it would be a short walk into the sagebrush and a short encounter with Azrael and his brothers and sisters. Yes, they must attend. Tell them about it, Carla, there's a dear."
Outside the building everyone heard the angry whining of the two-wheel wags racing past. As the sound began to fade, a cloud of dust rose toward the window, pressing against the glass as though it sought admission.
"Come this way, folks," Carla directed brusquely.
"Thanks for the meeting, Baron," Ryan said. "And thanks for the kindness."
"Welcome, welcome, welcome." He beamed broadly.
Outside the coolness of the shadowy building, the sun struck like the slap of a glove. Doc coughed, doubling over, eyes popping like the stops on a mission harmonium. They waited for him to recover his breath a little.
"Sorry, my dear friends. A small piece of California dust found its way down into my aged windpipe, I fear. I'm better now."
"Breaking down, Doc," Lori said, but it was said affectionately, and she took his arm and kissed him on the cheek.
Carla attached herself to Ryan, glancing around to make sure that J.B. was also close to them.
"Rentaroom's cheap and clean. Not many visitors come to Snakefish. You'll have to check in any blasters, but not handguns. Never seen anything like that rifle, Mr. Cawdor."
"It's a G-12 Heckler & Koch. Fires caseless rounds. Saves a lot of weight and waste."