He knew he had scored, then. The earringed officer’s nostrils flared. “That’s Colonel Bezoar, if you please. And I’ll wager there are some areas where that’s not true, Mr. Inspector. Florida, perhaps? And Alaska?”
Gordon shrugged. Both states had gone silent the day after the first bombs fell. There had been other places too, such as southern Oregon, where the militia had not dared enter, even in strength.
Bezoar stood up and walked to a bookshelf. He pulled down a thick volume. “Have you ever actually read Nathan Holn?” he asked, his voice amiable once again. Gordon shook his head.
“But, sir!” Bezoar protested. “How can you know your enemy without learning how he thinks? Please, take this copy of Lost Empire… Holn’s own biography of that great man, Aaron Burr. It just might change your mind.
“You know I do believe, Mr. Krantz, that you are the sort of man who could become a Holnist. Often the strong need only have their eyes opened to see that they have been cozened by the propaganda of the weak, that they could have the world, if only they stretched out their hands and took it.”
Gordon suppressed his initial response, and picked up the proffered book instead. It probably wouldn’t be wise to provoke the man too far. After all, he could probably have both northerners killed with a word.
“All right. It might help pass the time while you arrange our transportation back to the Willamette,” he said, quite calmly.
“Yeah,” Johnny Stevens contributed, speaking for the first time. “And while you’re at it, how about paying the extra postage it’ll take to finish delivering that stolen mail we’re going to take back with us?”
Bezoar returned Johnny’s cold smile, but before he could reply, they heard footsteps on the wooden porch of the former ranger station. The door opened and in stepped three bearded men dressed in the traditional green and black fatigues.
One of them, the shortest but easily the most imposing figure, wore only a single earring. But it glittered with large, inset gems.
“Gentlemen,” Bezoar said, standing up. “Allow me to introduce Brigadier General Macklin, U.S. Army Reserve, uniter of the Oregon clans of Holn and commander of the American Forces of Liberation.”
Gordon stood up numbly. For a moment he could only stare. The General and his two aides were among the strangest-looking human beings he had ever seen.
There was nothing unusual about their beards or earrings… or the short string of shriveled “trophies” that each wore as ceremonial decorations. But all three men were eerily scarred, wherever their uniforms permitted view of their necks and arms. And under the faint lines left by some long ago surgery, the muscles and tendons seemed to bulge and knot oddly.
It was weird, and yet it occurred to Gordon that he might have seen something akin to it, sometime in the past. He could not quite remember where or when though.
Had these men suffered from one of the postwar plagues? Supermumps, perhaps? Or some sort of thyroid hypertrophy?
In a sudden recognition Gordon knew that the biggest of Macklin’s aides was the pig-ugly raider who had struck so quickly on the night of the ambush by the banks of the Co-qunie, knocking him to the ground with the punch of a bull before he could even begin to move.
None of the men was of the newer generation of feudal-survivalists, young toughs recruited all through southern Oregon. Like Bezoar, the newcomers were clearly old enough to have been adults before the Doomwar. Time did not seem to have slowed them down any, however. General Macklin moved with a catlike quickness that was intimidating to watch. He wasted no time in pleasantries. With a jerk of his head and a glance at Johnny, he made his wishes known to Bezoar.
Bezoar pressed his fingers together. “Ah. Yes. Mr. Stevens, if you would please accompany these gentlemen back to your, um, quarters? It appears the General wants to speak with your superior alone.”
Johnny looked at Gordon. Obviously, if given the word, he would fight.
Gordon quailed inwardly under the burden of that expression in the youth’s eyes. Such devotion was something he had never sought, not from anybody. “Go on back, John,” he told his young friend. “I’ll join you later.”
The two hulking aides accompanied Johnny outside. When the door had closed, and the footsteps receded into the night, Gordon turned to face the commander of the united Holnists. In his heart he felt a powerful determination. There was no regret, no fear of hypocrisy here. If it was in him to lie well enough to bluff these bastards, he would do it. He felt full within his postman’s uniform, and got ready to give the best performance of his life.
“Save it,” Macklin snapped.
The dark-bearded man pointed a long, powerful hand at him. “One word of that crap about a ‘Restored United States’ out of you, and I’ll stuff your ‘uniform’ down your frigging throat!”
Gordon blinked. He glanced at Bezoar and saw that the man was grinning.
“I am afraid I’ve been less than open with you, Mr. Inspecter.” There was a clear lilt of sarcasm this time in Be-zoar’s last two words. The Holnist Colonel bent to open a drawer in his desk. “When first I heard of you I immediately sent out parties to trace your route backwards. By the way, you are right that Holnism is not very popular, in certain areas. At least not yet. Two of the teams never returned.”
General Macklin snapped his fingers. “Don’t drag this out, Bezoar. I’m busy. Call the jerk in.”
Bezoar nodded quickly and reached back to pull a cord on the wall, leaving Gordon wondering what he had been trying to find in the drawer.
“Anyway, one of our scouting parties did encounter a band of kindred spirits in the Cascades, in a pass north of Crater Lake. There were misunderstandings, most of the poor locals died, I’m afraid. But we did manage to persuade a survivor—”
There were footsteps, then the beaded curtain parted. The svelte blond woman held it open and watched coldly as a battered-looking man with a bandaged head stumbled into the room. He wore a uniform of patched, faded camouflage, a belt knife, and a single, tiny earring. His eyes were downcast. This survivalist was one who seemed less than joyous at being here.
“I would introduce you to our latest recruit, Mr. Inspector,” Bezoar said. “But I believe you two already know each other.”
Gordon shook his head, thoroughly lost. What was going on here? To his knowledge he had never seen this man before in his life!
Bezoar prodded the drooping newcomer, who looked up, then. “I cannot say for certain,” the unsteady Holn recruit said, peering at Gordon. “He might be the one. It was a passing event, really, of so… so little consequence at the time…”
Gordon’s fists balled suddenly. That voice.
“It’s you, you bastard!”
The jaunty Alpine cap was gone, but now Gordon recognized the salt-and-pepper sideburns, the sallow complexion. Roger Septien seemed far less serene than when Gordon had last seen the man — on the slopes of a death-dry mountainside, helping to carry away nearly everything Gordon owned in the world, blithely, sarcastically, leaving him to almost certain death.
Bezoar nodded in satisfaction. “You may go, Private Septien. I believe your officer has suitable duty arranged for you, tonight.”
The former robber and onetime stockbroker nodded wearily. He didn’t even glance again at Gordon, but passed outside without another word.
Gordon realized that he had blundered in reacting so quickly. He should have ignored the man, pretended he didn’t recognize him.