"Point those butter knives into the corner, you banana-fingered cotton choppers!" I said, looking bored, and didn't waver. I unlimbered my swagger stick and slapped my gloved hand with it, letting them think it over. The gun muzzles dropped-just slightly. I followed up fast.
"Which is the anteroom to the Baron's apartments?" I demanded.
"Uh… this here is his Excellency's apartments, sir, but-"
"Never mind the lecture, you milk-faced fool," I cut in. "Which is the anteroom, damn you!"
"We got orders, sir. Nobody's to come closer than that last door back there."
"We got orders to shoot," the other interrupted. He was a little older-maybe twenty-two, I turned on him.
"I'm waiting for an answer to a question!"
"Sir, the Articles-"
I narrowed my eyes. "I think you'll find paragraph Two B covers Special Cosmic Top Secret Couriers. When you go off duty, report yourselves on punishment. Now, the anteroom! And be quick about it!"
The bayonets were sagging now. The younger of the two licked his lips. "Sir, we never been inside. We don't know how it's laid out in there. If the colonel wants to just take a look…"
The other guard opened his mouth to say something. I didn't wait to find out what it was. I stepped between them, muttering something about bloody recruits and important messages, and worked the fancy handle on the big gold and white door. I paused to give the two sentries a hard look.
"I hope I don't have to remind you that any mention of the movements of a Cosmic Courier is punishable by slow death. Just forget you ever saw me." I went on in and closed the door without waiting to catch the reaction to that one.
The Baron had done well by himself in the matter of decor. The room I was in-a sort of lounge-cum-bar-was paved in two-inch-deep nylon fuzz, the color of a fog at sea, that foamed up at the edges against walls of pale blue brocade with tiny yellow flowers. The bar was a teak log split down the middle and polished. The glasses sitting on it were like tissue paper engraved with patterns of nymphs and satyrs. Subdued light came from somewhere, along with a faint melody that seemed to speak of youth, long ago.
I went on into the room. I found more soft light, the glow of hand-rubbed rare woods, rich fabrics, and wide windows with a view of dark night sky. The music was coming from a long, low, built-in speaker with a lamp, a heavy crystal ashtray, and a display of hothouse roses. There was a scent in the air. Not the cuir russe and Havana leaf I'd smelled in the hall, but a subtler perfume.
I turned and looked into the eyes of a girl with long black lashes. Smooth black hair came down to bare shoulders. An arm as smooth and white as whipped cream was draped over a chair back, the hand holding an eight-inch cigarette holder and sporting a diamond as inconspicuous as a chrome-plated hubcap.
"You must want something pretty badly," she murmured, batting her eyelashes at me. I could feel the breeze at ten feet. I nodded. Under the circumstances that was about the best I could do.
"What could it be," she mused, "that's worth being shot for?" Her voice was like the rest of her: smooth, polished and relaxed-and with plenty of moxie held in reserve. She smiled casually, drew on her cigarette, tapped ashes onto the rug.
"Something bothering you, colonel?" she inquired. "You don't seem talkative."
"I'll do my talking when the Baron arrives," I said.
"In that case, Jackson," said a husky voice behind me, "you can start any time you like."
I held my hands clear of my body and turned around slowly-just in case there was a nervous gun aimed at my spine. The Baron was standing near the door, unarmed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt.
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
The Baron waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Jackson," he said, almost gently. "You've had a tough time of it-but you're all right now." He walked past me to the bar, poured out two glasses, turned, and offered me one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I went over and took the drink.
"To the old days." The Baron raised his glass.
I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. "I asked you how you knew my name," I said.
"That's easy. I used to know you."
He smiled faintly. There was something about his face…
"You look well in the uniform of the Penn dragoons," he said. "Better than you ever did in Aerospace blue."
"Good God!" I said. "Toby Mallon!"
He ran a hand over his bald head. "A little less hair on top, plus a beard as compensation, a few wrinkles, a slight pot. Oh, I've changed, Jackson."
"I had it figured as close to eighty years," I said. "The trees, the condition of the buildings-"
"Not far off the mark. Seventy-eight years this spring."
"You're a well-preserved hundred and ten, Toby."
He nodded. "I know how you feel. Rip Van Winkle had nothing on us."
"Just one question, Toby. The men you sent out to pick me up seemed more interested in shooting than talking. I'm wondering why."
Mallon threw out his hands. "A little misunderstanding, Jackson. You made it; that's all that counts. Now that you're here, we've got some planning to do together. I've had it tough these last twenty years. I started off with nothing: a few hundred scavengers living in the ruins, hiding out every time Jersey or Dee-Cee raided for supplies. I built an organization, started a systematic salvage operation. I saved everything the rats and the weather hadn't gotten to, spruced up my palace here, and stocked it. It's a rich province, Jackson-"
"And now you own it all. Not bad, Toby."
"They say knowledge is power. I had the knowledge."
I finished my drink and put the glass on the bar.
"What's this planning you say we have to do?"
Mallon leaned back on one elbow.
"Jackson, it's been a long haul-alone. It's good to see an old shipmate. But we'll dine first."
"I might manage to nibble a little something. Say a horse, roasted whole. Don't bother to remove the saddle."
He laughed. "First we eat," he said. "Then we conquer the world."
6
I squeezed the last drop from the Beaujolais bottle and watched the girl, whose name was Renada, hold a light for the cigar Mallon had taken from a silver box. My blue mess jacket and holster hung over the back of the chair. Everything was cosy now.
"Time for business, Jackson," Mallon said. He blew out smoke and looked at me through it. "How did things look-inside?"
"Dusty. But intact, below ground level. Upstairs, there's blast damage and weathering. I don't suppose it's changed much since you came out twenty years ago. As far as I could tell, the Primary Site is okay."
Mallon leaned forward. "Now, you made it out past the Bolo. How did it handle itself? Still fully functional?"
I sipped my wine, thinking over my answer, remembering the Bolo's empty guns…
"It damn near gunned me down. It's getting a little old and it can't see as well as it used to, but it's still a tough baby."
Mallon swore suddenly. "It was Mackenzie's idea. A last-minute move when the tech crews had to evacuate. It was a dusting job, you know."
"I hadn't heard. How did you find out all this?"
Mallon shot me a sharp look. "There were still a few people around who'd been in it. But never mind that. What about the Supply Site? That's what we're interested in. Fuel, guns, even some nuclear stuff. Heavy equipment; there's a couple more Bolos, mothballed, I understand. Maybe we'll even find one or two of the Colossus missiles still in their silos. I made an air recon a few years back before my chopper broke down-"
"I think two silo doors are still in place. But why the interest in armament?"
Mallon snorted. "You've got a few things to learn about the setup, Jackson. I need that stuff. If I hadn't lucked into a stock of weapons and ammo in the armory cellar, Jersey would be wearing the spurs in my palace right now!"