“Evening, Buck,” Werry said pleasantly. “Looks like the party’s going well. I brought Rob along to show him how we do these things in Alberta.”
Morlacher looked at him with cold eyes, still not acknowledging Hasson’s presence, and said, “The booze is over by the fountain.”
Werry laughed. “That’s all we need to know. Come on, Rob.” He took Hasson’s arm and began to guide him across the patio.
Hasson refused to move. “Perhaps May would like a drink.”
“I can look after May,” Morlacher said, tilting his head to give Hasson an appraising stare.
“You’re busy with the cooking.” Hasson addressed himself directly to May. “The usual, is it? Rye and ginger?”
“I …” She gazed back at him, wide-eyed and flustered. “I’m not thirsty yet.”
Morlacher tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I’ll fix the lady a drink when she’s ready. What’s the rush?”
Werry pulled harder on Hasson’s arm. “That’s right, Rob. It’s every man for himself around here.”
Morlacher nodded slowly and an unexpected look of satisfaction appeared on his face. “Talking about every man for himself, Reeve Werry, I did something today that you should have thought of a long time ago.”
“Yeah?” Werry released Hasson’s arm. “What was that?”
“You know that black hound of mine? The one I tried to shoot last year for tearing a piece out of Eddie Bennett’s leg?”
“You put him down, did you?”
“No — I put him to work. Starr and I went out to the farm and netted him today and carried him up to the hotel and turned him loose up there. Any punks who move in tonight are going to move out a hell of a sight faster.” Morlacher grinned, showing his inhumanly powerful teeth.
Werry looked impressed. “That should make a difference I’ll get one of my boys to drop him some food every day.”
“No you won’t — I want the brute to stay mean and hungry From now on he’s on a strict diet of angel food. Get it?”
“Hey, that’s a good one,” Werry said, chuckling. He turned and sauntered away across the patio, waving salaam-like greetings to people he recognised, giving the impression he had forgotten the existence of Hasson and May. Hasson, feeling betrayed, followed in his wake, noting as he did so that Morlacher and May were moving off in the direction of the house. He caught up with Werry at a portable bar where two men in white jackets were dispensing liquor in heavy goblets which were decorated with simulated rubies.
“Do me a favour,” Werry said to Hasson as soon as they had obtained their drinks, “try not to upset Buck — it only makes life difficult for me. Why were you arguing with him, anyway?”
“That’s a good question,” Hasson said in a stony voice, “but I think I’ve forgotten the answer.”
Werry looked perplexed. “I hope you’re not going to start going funny on me, Rob. I’m off to do a bit of mingling. See you around.” He moved away towards a group of men and women who were dancing in a comer of the patio.
Hasson stared after him in exasperation, then turned his thoughts to the question of what he was going to do during the next four or five hours. There appeared to be about thirty people in the general area. Many of them were dressed in duvet garments of one kind or another to ward off the early season coolness, with the result that the atmosphere of the gathering was an uneasy blend of party and heroic picnic. A number of the guests were wearing identical gold badges. Hasson spoke to a gaunt, shivering middle-aged man who was determinedly lowering drink after drink in the manner of one who wanted no memory of the occasion, and learned that the visitors were members of an association of chambers of commerce from the western States. They were on a goodwill tour of the Canadian federation and the gaunt man gave the impression of suffering deep regrets over having strayed so far north from his home in Pasadena.
Hasson remained with him for some time discussing the effects of latitude on climate. Other tourists joined in and when they heard Hasson’s British accent the conversation developed into a lively debate on the effects of longitude on climate. Hasson, far from being bored, took pleasure in his newly regained ability to mix and interact with strangers. He drank, obtained food from volunteer cooks at the grill, drank some more, danced with various women wearing gold badges, and smoked his first cigar in months.
In between times, he observed that Morlacher and May were absent from the rest of the assembly for the best part of an hour, but by then he had reached a condition of malty benevolence in which he was prepared to concede that May could have been looking at her host’s stamp collection, and in which he saw clearly that other people’s problems were no concern of his. Life on the ground, it seemed, could be perfectly acceptable as long as one was prepared to live and let live. The notion struck Hasson, retired air cop and reformed meddler, with all the force of a brand-new philosophical concept, and he was exploring its implications when the dance music was suddenly switched off and everybody near him turned to look at something which had begun to happen in the centre of the patio. He moved into a clear space to get a better view.
Buck Morlacher and two other men were wheeling a flat-bed bilaser projector into place. They locked its wheels, made some control adjustments and a glowing image of the Chinook Hotel sprang into being above the machine. The solid-seeming representation was about three metres high and showed the building as it might have appeared in the Architect’s mind, complete with scenic elevators and roof gardens. A murmur of appreciation was heard among the viewers.
“Sorry to interrupt your enjoyment, ladies and gentlemen — but I guess you knew there had to be a catch somewhere,” Morlacher announced with a grin that hovered between candour and coyness.
“Don’t worry, though — this is only going to take up a minute of your time — and I think you’ll agree it’s worth that much to become acquainted with some of the truly wonderful amenities that Central Alberta can offer to businessmen who are interested in reaching new suppliers and new markets. Now I know the Western Prairies air corridor stops a few hundred kilometres south of here, but that’s nothing but a minor detail when you think of the potential for new business that this area offers.”
Morlacher produced a sheet of paper and began to read out statistics which supported his argument. Most of his audience appeared suitably interested, although there was a stealthy drift from the outskirts of the circle in the direction of the bar. Hasson discovered that his own goblet was empty. He turned to go for a replenishment, but stopped in mid-stride as a new sound impinged on his hearing.
It was an unexpected, alien, unidentifiable sound — a ghastly hybrid between a moan and a scream which immediately conjured unwanted thoughts of demons and banshees, and which brought a coldness to the heart. Morlacher stopped speaking as the sobbing wail swiftly reached a crescendo which beat on the gathering like a siren.
It’s coming from above, Hasson thought, but before he could look upwards into the night sky there was a kind of pulpy explosion near the centre of the patio and a number of women shrieked with horror. Hasson shouldered his way forward and saw something black and incredibly bloody lying on the stone slabs.
For an instant he was able to identify the grisly object — it could have been an insane and meaningless concoction of charnel house nightmares — then he realized he was looking at the flattened, ruptured body of a large black mastiff. Spatters of crimson reached out from it in all directions. From the condition of the dog’s carcass Hasson estimated that it had been dropped from a height of several hundred metres.