The giant mutie had been removed from the cabin. Ryan risked a quick glance inside and saw that it had been completely stripped. The three bodies of the horsemen had also vanished. From the odd fragments of bone and torn cloth it looked as if the wolves had gotten to them before the search party from the ville.
Once they'd successfully circled around the community, the companions stopped for food. Ryan and Krysty ate sparingly of the dried meat and fish, and sipped at their canteens, replenishing them from the adjacent river. Rick hardly touched his food, but he drank heavily, draining the canteen and nodding his thanks as Ryan topped it up for him.
"You have to eat, Rick," Krysty urged. "And you should harvest the water. Might not be any where we're going."
"Food makes me wanna puke, and I get so dry I could..."
"You still have to eat."
"Why?"
"Just to keep your strength."
"What strength is that, lady?" He laughed bitterly. "One round with My Little Pony'd put me into rehab for a month."
"Little pony?" she asked, puzzled.
"Forget it."
"But I'm interested in the past and things like that, Rick."
He shook his head. "You wanna play, you gotta pay, Krysty. Be there or be square, like the man said. Radio said they was just refugees. Don't let the sun catch you crying." His eyes were closed and he seemed to have slipped into a weird kind of trance.
Krysty turned to Ryan, who shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me, lover. Guess it's like Doc. Some things a man just doesn't get over. Not all the way, all the time."
Rick stopped mumbling to himself and looked up at Ryan. "Truest thing you ever said, good buddy. Let's get moving again."
Ryan's toothache was becoming much worse, hurting to such an extent that he didn't even want to risk breathing in cool air through his mouth. But the effort of the long walk, often having to help Rick along, made him pant.
"Fireblast! What's the Russkie word for 'dentist,' Rick?"
The freezie paused. "I think it's zubnoy vrach, but I'm not really sure. I guess you just pull a face and point at the tooth that hurts and the guy'll draw it for you. Not a lot different from visiting the fang factory up in Queens."
"Great. Thanks a whole load, Rick. Do the same for you one day."
They kept moving for most of the day. By keeping to the sides of the roads they were generally able to dodge into the trees and scrub if they saw or heard anyone coming.
Rick's Russian was only put to the test once.
Toward the end of the weary afternoon, as the setting sun threw their elongated shadows down a narrow, winding blacktop, they saw a wooden-wheeled cart coming slowly toward them, drawn by a pair of oxen. They were being driven by an elderly peasant with a long grizzled beard. Nobody else was with him, and the wagon was clearly empty.
Krysty and Ryan exchanged glances. One man, alone. They'd seen a number of small farms and cabins on both sides of the road, set back among tilled fields, mostly surrounded by groves of trees. Men and women were working in the drying mud, taking advantage of the change in the spring weather. Most wore assorted furs and rags, and none showed any particular interest in the trio of strangers. But a shot could bring them running in seconds.
"No point in running, lover," Krysty whispered.
"Nope. Rick? Mebbe time for you to do your stuff for us."
"What?"
The freezie was patently at the end of his tether, both physically and mentally. His face was as white as water-scoured bone, and he staggered. A dozen times he'd have fallen if it hadn't been for either Ryan's or Krysty's helping hand.
"Russkie. Get your talking head on, Rick. Just say as little as possible. 'Good day,' or 'Hi, there,' or whatever."
"Hell's bloody bells! I've just this second forgotten every goddamned word of Russian that I ever learned in my entire life."
The wagon was nearly on top of them and they all stepped aside to give it passage. Ryan and Krysty tried to keep their faces turned away, both holding a cocked blaster under their long furs.
The old man looked down at them from his high seat, tugging on the reins so that the cart began to slow. Fearing this could indicate the beginning of a lengthy conversation on the price of corn or the recent disease among young pigs, Ryan risked a glance at Rick, who was swaying back and forth like a man entering a deep trance.
"Talk, you triple-stupe bastard!" Ryan growled in a low, urgent voice.
Rick offered, "Good day," in Russian and was greeted only with a suspicious silence. "The sun is warm and the snow is gone."
The wagon was still moving, at barely walking pace. "Too late for the sowing as ever!" the peasant moaned, flicking out at the oxen with the tip of a long whip.
Rick didn't risk any further attempts at social chatter. He stepped to the side of the track and slumped down on a large boulder, shoulders shaking. It wasn't until they reached him, having watched the cart rattle on down the road, that Ryan and Krysty realized the freezie was laughing.
"Sorry. Nervous relief. Felt like a character in a made-for-TV spy movie. I said, 'The sun is warm and the snow is gone.' I had this feeling he was going to reply something like, 'And the count is frying turbot with my grandmother tonight.' Then we'd exchange microfilms. Oh, Jesus! All he did was moan about the fucking weather."
Ryan and Krysty joined in his laughter. It was a good moment.
Chapter Fifteen
Major-Commissar Zimyanim was becoming puzzled puzzled and a little intrigued.
"Who's in command out at Peredelkino, Alicia Andreyinichna?" he asked.
"Lieutenant Ulyanov, I think. Why? Is something wrong out there?"
"No. Yes." He paused. "Possibly. Just these reports he keeps sending me."
"What about them, Comrade Major-Commissar? Is it trouble?"
He shuffled the files. As he looked down at them, the morning sunlight bounced off the top of his polished skull.
"Three men missing. Horses found. No, two found. It's believed wolves took the other one. Bodies found. All shot at medium range by heavy-caliber handblasters. Good observation that! Bright boy. Could go far. Old woman's missing. Never found her. Bones. Figures the wolves again. And her mutie son found dead, standing upright in a doorway."
"Guerrilla band?" the girl suggested.
"No. Food taken, he thinks. And some furs. Why would killers steal furs and food with spring coming in fast? Slay five people? Why? Then the jeep patrol saw a trio of strangers. One-eyed man, redheaded woman, short man in glasses. I checked that. Rimless glasses. They were in furs. Stolen furs, would you say, Alicia Andreyinichna?"
"Could be. But there isn't much out that way now, is there?"
"Now?"
She blushed at the sudden sharp look he threw her. With the pockmarks and the drooping mustache she realized he looked like old pictures of the Tartar gallopers who had ruled the steppes centuries ago.
"Yes, of course. Once, I think, there were many rich houses. Dachas built by the wicked Stalin for his friends. Later used by others. Even the Americans had one there."
Zimyanin picked up a pencil and rolled it between finger and thumb, nodding.
"So? Interesting. And then a kulak driving his ox cart sees three strangers on the road to the city. Man with one eye, tall woman with red hair very red hair, he says to Lieutenant Ulyanov and a third person. Pale of face. Dark glasses. He walked slowly with a stick. A sickly cripple, thought the old peasant. But this one spoke a kind of Russian."
"A kind of Russian?"
"Precisely. Not like someone from that region, nor, he thought, like someone from the city. So, it means he could have come from a different part of the land."
"Have you asked the Bureau of Internal Movements if they know of..."