"Mondamay!" he shouted as the truck shuddered. "Can you hear me?"
"Of course. Red. I wouldn't neglect you at a time like this. My, it's coming on fast!"
The truck creaked and twisted. The engine sputtered twice. A door opened, then slammed.
"What the hell is it?"
"A large, tanklike device packed with an amazing array of weapons and guided by a disembodied human brain which is, I believe, somewhat mad. I don't know
whether it really hails from around here or was shipped here to await your coming. Are you familiar with it?"
"I think I've heard of battle wagons like that somewhere along the line. I'm not certain where, though."
The sky caught fire like a sudden dawn, and a wave of flame rolled toward them. Mondamay raised an arm and it halted as if it had encountered an invisible wall, boiling for half a minute before it finally subsided.
"He's got atomics, all right Neatly done, that," he commented.
"Why are we still alive?"
"I blocked him."
Mondamay's arm flared for a moment and a distant hilltop took fire.
"Right in front of him," he observed. "That crater will slow him. You had better be going now, Red. Flowers, take him away."
"Right."
The truck turned and headed back across the field, still changing shape as it bounced along.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Red shouted.
The sky blazed again, but the small fireball was blocked, filtered, dimmed, forced back.
"I have to cover your retreat properly," came Mondamay's voice, "before I'll be free to deal with him. Flowers will get you back to the Road."
"Deal with him? How do you propose doing that? You can't even—"
There came an enormous explosion, followed by a burst of static. The truck shook, but continued on toward the dirt road. Dust swirled about them.
"—fully operational again," came Mondamay's voice. "Flowers was able to analyze my circuits and direct me in repairing myself—"
There came another explosion. Red was looking back, but their camping area was filled with smoke and dust. He was momentarily deafened, and when his hearing
returned, he realized it was Flowers's voice that was now addressing him.
"—are going? Where did you say we are going?"
"Huh? Out of here, I hope."
"Next destination! Coordinates! Quick!"
"Oh. C Twenty-seven, eighteenth exit, fourth right off that, second left from that, third left from that It is a large white building. Looks sort of Gothic."
"Got that?" she said.
"Yes," Mondamay's voice came through the static. "If I can locate the Road, I will try to follow when this is finished."
There came another explosion, followed by uninterrupted static. They hit the dirt road, turned and con. tinued on.
Two
Randy faced the slim Victorian gentleman whom he had met in the foyer. The man's bag was on the bench near the door. He ran a hand through light, thinning hair.
"... That is correct," he said. "Three days ago. They shot it out right in this parking lot. And I'd come down this way for a holiday! Violence!" He shuddered. The tic at the left comer of his mouth returned. "Mr. Dorakeen departed that night. I really cannot tell you where he went."
"Is there anyone here who could?" Randy asked.
"The host—Johnson—perhaps. They seemed to know one another."
Randy nodded.
"Could you tell me where I might find Johnson?"
The man gnawed his lip and shook his head, looking past Randy, across the dining room and into the bar, where an argument between a stunning redheaded woman and a heavyset black man was taking place.
"Sorry. Today seems to be his day off. I've no idea where he's gone. I can only suggest that you inquire at the desk, which is in the bar. Excuse me."
He moved around Randy, took a nervous step in the direction of the altercation. At that moment, however,
it ended. The woman said something sweet and taunting, smiled, turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
He sighed, retraced his route around Randy and picked up his bag. He offered the woman his arm as she approached. She took it and they departed together. He nodded sharply to Randy as they went out the door.
The man who had been arguing with the woman ;
stared at Randy as he entered the bar.
"Pardon me, but don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked. "You look very familiar ..."
Randy studied the dark features.
"Toba. The name's Toba," the other added.
"I don't believe so," Randy said slowly. "My name's Randy Carthage. C Twenty."
"Guess not, then." Toba shrugged. "Let me buy you
a beer, anyway."
Randy looked around the room—rough wood and ironwork; no brass, no mirror. There were four people at the bar, which also served as a reception desk, and two were at another table. ;
"The bartender stepped out a few minutes ago. Draw yourself a beer—they're very informal here—and I'll settle up when he comes back."
"Okay. Thanks."
Randy crossed the rush-strewn floor, filled a mug from the keg on the rack, returned to the table and seated himself across from Toba. There was a halffilled glass to his right and the chair stood angled away from the table beyond it. |
".., bitch," Toba muttered softly. Then, "Traveling this way on business?" he asked. |
Randy placed Leaves on the table, shook his head and sipped his beer. I
"I was looking for a guy, but he's already left."
"Just the opposite of my problem," Toba said. "I know where the guy I'm looking for is. I just stopped here for lunch. Then the damn girl I'm working with
picks someone up and takes off to visit a half-assed ruin! Now I'm going to have to get a room here and wait till she's done with him. Probably a day or two, damn it!"
"Who is he, anyway?"
"Huh? Who?"
"Your friend. The Englishman you were talking with."
"Oh. I don't know him. I was just asking him something. But he did say his name is Jack, if that's any help."
"Well, that's his problem, poor bastard."
Toba took another drink. Randy did the same.
"What?" came a raised voice, French-accented, from one of the men at the bar. "You have never been beyond C Seventeen? My God, man! You owe it to yourself to get as far as early C Twenty at least once in your life! To fly, that is why! A man is not complete until he has known the freedom of the heavens! Not the big sky-boats that came later, where you might as well be taking your ease in a provincial parlor—no! You must leave your petty bourgeois concerns behind and get up in a light craft with an open cockpit where you can feel the wind and the rain, look down at the world, the clouds, up at the stars! It will change you, believe me!"
Randy turned to look at him.
"Is that who I think it is?" he asked, and he heard Toba chuckle. But they were both distracted at that moment by the arrival of the woman.
She came in through the hall entrance on the left, opposite that from the restaurant. She wore black denim jeans bloused over high, efficient-looking boots of the same color, and a faded khaki shirt; a black scarf bound her black hair above a broad forehead, heavy brows, large green eyes, and a wide, unpainted mouth.
The butt of a weapon protruded from the holster at her right hip, and its heavy belt also bore a sheathed hunting knife on its left side, low on her narrow waist. She
was close to six feet in height, full-breasted, somewhat wide across the shoulders, and moved with her head held high. She carried a large leather purse as if it were a football.
Her eyes cast about the room for only a moment, then several quick strides bore her to the table at which Randy and Toba sat, and upon which she dropped the purse.
The half-filled glass the redhead had left toppled, slopping its contents toward Toba and into his lap.