Instead he went into the living room to talk with the other astronauts.
Exile’s Story
“Hot water to soak your feet in,” said Harry. “Cooked food. A change of clothes. And, man, they need you, and they’ll know it.”
“I’ll make it,” Dan Forrester puffed. “I feel light… as a feather without… that pack. And they’ve got sheep?” He’d been afraid to look at his feet, these last few days, but in a while he wouldn’t need them. They’d served him well. As for his insulin stock, well, he’d had to increase the dosage; it must be deteriorating. “Have they got a working refrigerator?”
“Refrigerator, no. Sheep, yes. We’ll have to deal with that right away. Won’t be long now, that’s the roadblock ahead.”
Their companion, striding ahead of them on the deserted road with Dan Forrester’s backpack riding lightly on his hips, stopped suddenly and glanced back.
“You’re with me,” Harry said. “It’ll be all right.” Hugo Beck nodded, but he waited for Dan and Harry to catch up. He was afraid, and it showed.
There was a sign fifty yards from the log barricade. It said:
DANGER! YOU ARE ENTERING GUARDED LAND. GO NO FURTHER. IF YOU HAVE BUSINESS HERE, WALK SLOWLY TO THE BARRICADE AND STAND STILL. THERE WILL BE NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED. KEEP YOUR HANDS IN PLAIN SIGHT AT ALL TIMES.
Under it was another, in Spanish, and beyond that a large death’s head with the universal traffic symbol for “Do not enter.”
“Strange welcome mat,” Dan Forrester said.
Rotation of work: Mark Czescu was enjoying his day of guard duty while someone else made little rocks out of big ones. It wasn’t always fun, though. Earlier there had been a family on bicycles who had won their way through the San Joaquin and had tales of cannibals and worse, and Mark hadn’t much enjoyed turning them away. He’d shown them the road north, where there was a fishing camp that was just hanging on to life.
Four people. The Stronghold could feed four more — but which four? If these, why not more? The decision was right, take in no one without special reasons, but it didn’t make it any easier to look a man in the eye and send him up the road.
Mark sat behind a screen of logs and brush where he could watch without being seen. His partners watched him. One of these days Bart Christopher was going to be slow, and they’d lose the front man at the gate…
There were three figures coming up the road, and Mark came out when he recognized the remnants of a gray U.S. Postal Service uniform. He hailed Harry joyfully, but his smile had vanished when the three trudged up to the barrier. He was looking at Hugo Beck when he said, “Happy Trash Day, Harry.”
“I brought him,” Harry said. He said it belligerently. “You know the rules, he’s got my safe conduct. And this is Dr. Dan Forrester—”
“Hi, Doc,” Mark said. “You and your damned Hot Fudge Sundae.”
Forrester managed the ghost of a smile.
“He’s got a book,” Harry said. “He’s got a lot of books, but this one he brought with him. Show him, Dan.”
It was drizzling lightly. Dan didn’t open the tape seals. Mark read the title through four layers of Baggies: The Way Things Work, Volume II.
“Volume One is in a safe place,” Dan said. “With four thousand other books on how to put a civilization together.”
Mark shrugged. He was pretty sure they’d want Dan Forrester up at the Stronghold anyway. But it would be nice to know what other gifts Forrester had available. “What kind of books?”
“The 1911 Britannica,” Forrester said. “An 1894 book of formulae for such things as soap, with a whole section on how to brew beer starting with barley grains. The Beekeeper’s Manual. Veterinary handbooks. Instructor’s lab manuals starting with basic inorganic chemistry and running up through organic synthesis. I’ve got those for 1930 equipment as well as modern. The Amateur Radio Handbook. Farmer’s Almanac. The Rubber Handbook. Peters’s Pour Yourself a House, and two books on how to make Portland cement. The Compleat Gunsmith and a set of Army field manuals on infantry-weapon maintenance. The maintenance manuals for most cars and trucks. Wheeler’s Home Repairs. Three books on hydroponic gardening. A complete set of—”
“Whoa!” Mark cried. “Enter, O Prince. Welcome back, Harry, they’re getting worried about you up at the big house. Put your hands on the rail, Hugo, Spread your legs. You carrying heat?”
“You saw me unload the pistol,” Hugo said. “It’s in the waistband. And the kitchen knife. I need that for eating.”
“We’ll just put those in the bag,” Mark said. “You probably won’t be eating here. I won’t say goodbye, Hugo. I’ll see you on the way out.”
“Up your nose.”
Mark shrugged. “What happened to your truck, Harry?”
“They took it.”
“Somebody took your truck? Did you tell them who you were?” Mark was incredulous. “Hell, this means war. They were wondering whether to take a big force Outside. Now they’ll have to.”
“Maybe.” Harry didn’t seem as pleased as Mark thought he would.
Dan Forrester cleared his throat. “Mark, did Charlie Sharps get here all right? There would have been a couple of dozen people with him.”
“Was he coming here?”
“Yes. Senator Jellison’s ranch.”
“We never saw him.” Mark looked embarrassed. So did Harry. It must be common enough to them, Dan thought sadly: Someone never got somewhere, and the only question was, would the survivor make a scene?
Harry broke an uncomfortable silence.
“I’ve got a message for the Senator, and Dr. Forrester isn’t walking so good. Have you got transportation?”
Mark looked thoughtful. “Guess we’d better telegraph that request in,” he said. “Wait here. Watch the road for me, Harry, I’ll be right back.” Mark spread both hands wide and waved from his waist, making it look casual like a shrug so that Hugo Beck wouldn’t figure out that he was signaling, then went off into the bushes.
Dan Forrester watched with interest. He’d read his Kipling. He wondered if Hugo Beck had.
The sun was falling behind the mountains; golden light and violent reds showed beneath the edges of the cloud cover. Sunrises and sunsets had been spectacular since Hammerfall, and, Dan Forrester knew, they would be for a long time. When Tamboura blew up in 1814, the dust it sent into the sky kept sunsets brilliant for two years; and that was only one volcano.
Dan Forrester sat in the cab of the truck with the taciturn driver. Harry and Hugo Beck were in back under a tarpaulin. There was no other traffic on the road, and Forrester appreciated the compliment they’d paid him. Or was it for Harry? Perhaps both together were worth the gasoline when neither alone would have been. They drove through a light drizzle, and the truck heater felt good on Dan’s feet and legs.
There were no dead bodies. It was the first thing Dan noticed: nothing dead to be seen. The houses looked like houses, with someone living in every one of them. A few had sandbagged defenses, but there were many that had no signs of defenses at all. Strange, almost weird, that there should be a place where people felt safe enough to have glass windows without shutters.