Krysty liked the clean, silvered finish on a Heckler & Koch P-7A 13 pistol, which fired a 9 mm bullet out of a thirteen-round magazine. Because of the large number of rounds it held, there was a special insulating block in front of the trigger to absorb heat from the gas that retarded the slide opening. J.B. nodded his approval of her choice.
Finnegan and Hennings both went for the fifteen-round model 92 Beretta pistol with frame-mounted safety, firing a 9 mm round.
They both liked a whole rack of dull gray Heckler & Koch submachine guns with built-in silencers and fifty-round drum magazines; they fired single, triple or continuous bursts of 9 mm bullets. The card said it was a development of the famous HK-54A2 model of the 1990s.
Ryan watched J.B., strolling around the rooms of new guns, hands behind his back, lips moving as though he was silently praying. But he wasn't. He was simply comparing the various qualities of the blasters ranged all around him.
"Can't do much better than what I've got," he finally said, watching the others carry armfuls of ammo down to their dormitory.
He pulled out his Steyr AUG 5.6 mm. "Nice Browning Hi-Power over there. Might take a Mini-Uzi like Okie got. Useful if we meet a mess of muties. And a new knife or two. Mebbe stock up on grens, huh?"
There was a polite cough from behind. The men spun, each dropping instinctively into a fighter's crouch.
"My apologies, gentlemen, if I caused a shimmer of nervousness to trickle through your bodies."
"Just fuck off, Doc," said J.B., relaxing, pushing back the brim of his crumpled fedora, fumbling in his pocket for one of his favored cheroots.
"I have taken the liberty of arming myself, if you have no objection, so I can be less of a weight for you to bear on our little jaunts."
"Jaunts?" exclaimed Ryan. "What kind a blasters you got?"
"An uncle of mine, a dear, sweet man, once owned a handgun of some rarity. A weapon for the connoisseur. Also, in the right hands, one to blast off the balls of a demented stickie, if I may be excused a lapse into the vernacular."
"You may, Doc. You fuckin' may," said Ryan, smiling.
"I have taken this to aid me in my striding over the difficult terrain we seem to encounter."
He held a long ebony walking stick in his right hand. As he tossed it in the air and caught it, the glittering silver pommel was revealed. It was a beautiful carving of the head of some ferocious animal with great teeth and a mane of hair.
"Handsome, Doc," said J.B. admiringly.
"More than that, my dear Mr. Dix. Voila!" With a twist of the hand he loosened the head, drawing out a snaking rapier of polished steel from within the ebony shell. "From the plant of elegance, I pluck the flower of mortality."
"What about a blaster, Doc? Nice sword, though."
"Grudging praise from you, Mr. Dix, is better than the most fulsome flattery from the lips of lesser mortals. Yes, as I said, I believe..." He paused, looking confused. "Did I mention the handgun that an uncle?.."
"Yeah," said Ryan. "Go on."
"I saw it. Here it is." He pulled a massive blaster from the front of his frock coat.
"It's a double-barrel cannon, Doc!" exclaimed J.B. "Le Mat, ain't it? Heard of 'em. Never thought I'd see one."
Ryan extended a hand for the pistol, nearly dropping it, surprised by the weight. Doc Tanner also handed him the card that had been in the showcase.
It read, "A nine-chambered percussion revolver designed by Dr. Jean Alexandre Francois Le Mat of New Orleans in 1856, being granted U.S. Patent 15925. Manufactured in Louisiana by Pierre Beau-regard, later to fight as General for the Confederate States Army at Manassas and Shiloh. This model of a .36 caliber. The unusual element of a Le Mat pistol is that it also has a second, central, smooth-bore barrel, to take a .63-caliber scattergun round. The nose of the hammer is manually adjustable."
"Big muzzle, looks about eighteen bore," said J.B. Dix, holding the heavy blaster. "Could be good. Got ammo for it, Doc?"
"Ample, Mr. Dix, thank you. I shall take it down to our quarters. Are we to try the gateway or do we go for the great outdoors?"
"You haven't found nothin' to help operate that fireblasted gateway, Doc?" asked Ryan.
"Only what I knew already."
There it was again, the peculiar suggestion that Doc Tanner had somehow been around these redoubts before the Chill. Which was clearly impossible. That was a hundred years ago. Doc might be a muddled old fool most of the time, but he wasn't thatold. You could lay an ace on the line about that.
"So how do you know that, Doc?" asked Ryan, seeing the same question on J.B.'s lips.
"I'm not too..." He stopped speaking, looking up beyond Ryan's head into the dark shadows that clung to the corners of the high room beyond one of the narrow ob slits. "There is a vid camera up there, moving to watch us. I fear that the Keeper will know we have intruded into his sanctum sanctorum."
"His what?" asked J.B., his face creasing with irritation.
"Guess Doc means we've pissed in Quint's best pot," said Ryan. "We should go."
"Doc, you go. Take as much ammo as you can carry. Tell the others to keep to the dorm. Ryan, come with me. Somethin' you've got to see."
Doc bolstered his Le Mat and shuffled off, the tip of his sword stick rapping on the floor. Ryan followed J.B. through a smaller arch into yet another gallery of weapons.
There it was, complete with ammo of all sorts, including rounds of tracer. And a thin booklet giving a full account of the gun and how to strip and service it.
"In the big fire," said Ryan, whistling his surprise. "That's for me! What about the others?"
"No time," replied J.B. "They got what they got. You take this. I'll carry as much ammo as I can. Let's go."
It was a rectangle of metal with a night scope on the top and a pistol-grip butt and trigger on the bottom and was unlike any other weapon that Ryan had ever seen. The name was on the side, just below the sight. Heckler & Koch, Model G-12 recoilless rifle.
The outside of the book gave the main facts, and they were amazing. It fired single shot like any ordinary rifle. On continuous fire it worked at six hundred rounds per minute. But in three-shot bursts it fired at over two thousand rounds a minute: a staggering rate. The other innovation was that the 4.7 mm cartridges were caseless, which meant that he could carry a much greater supply of ammo than with a conventional weapon.
Flicking through the manual, Ryan's eye was caught by several facts he wanted to study at greater leisure. But right now, with the vids recording his every move, it would be smart to leave. He snatched the gun — nearly dropping it because of the film of oil that still covered it — filled his coat pockets with mixed ammo and quickly followed the disappearing figure of J.B. Dix.
"The big hunk called Joe just gotten himself iced," said Okie through a mouthful of doughnut. She was watching yet another old police serial, Hill Street Blues.
Ryan was lying on his narrow bed, perusing the arms manual for his new gun, occasionally helping himself from a bag of mutlicolored sugary sweets called Jelly beansthat Krysty had found.
Finn and Hennings were playing a noisy vid game called "Klingon Blasters." Hun was stretched out on her bed, running her fingers through her green hair, listening to some music called soulon her cans.