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comrades? Surely no objection to that." A sudden thought struck him. "Not
mercies, are you? Mercies?"
"No," Ryan said simply.
"Where is Layton?" He turned to his visitors. "Layton is my nephew. My heir. I
have never married, and he is now my only living relative. A series of
accidents have Accidents. Yes."
"Layton's out having lunch at the Qiksnak, Edgar."
"Course. Thanks, Carla. I didn't realize how time was passing. Passing. Lunch.
Three eggs over easy with a double ham and hashies. Double slice of Mom's
apple pie to follow. My nephew is a well-grown lad, folks. But kindly and
brave. Only person in Snakefish who'd take up the air wag when it was found.
Uses too much precious gas, but" He smiled the smile of an indulgent uncle.
"Perhaps our visitors would care for something to eat?" the woman suggested,
standing and moving toward the door of the office.
"Course, course, course. That's a three course meal, you see." He waited for
the ripple of polite laughter at his small joke. "Give them each enough jack
for a couple of days, Carla, my dear. They can stay at the
Rentaroom. Have it charged to the civic friendliness fund."
His assistant hesitated. "There'll be a service, tomorrow, won't there? Might
be best if they all turn up.
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Otherwise"
"Otherwise the Motes could name them undesirable and then it would be a short
walk into the sagebrush and a short encounter with Azrael and his brothers and
sisters. Yes, they must attend. Tell them about it, Carla, there's a dear."
Outside the building everyone heard the angry whining of the two-wheel wags
racing past. As the sound began to fade, a cloud of dust rose toward the
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window, pressing against the glass as though it sought admission.
"Come this way, folks," Carla directed brusquely.
"Thanks for the meeting, Baron," Ryan said. "And thanks for the kindness."
"Welcome, welcome, welcome." He beamed broadly.
OUTSIDE THE COOLNESS of the shadowy building, the sun struck like the slap of
a glove. Doc coughed, doubling over, eyes popping like the stops on a mission
harmonium. They waited for him to recover his breath a little.
"Sorry, my dear friends. A small piece of California dust found its way down
into my aged windpipe, I
fear. I'm better now."
"Breaking down, Doc," Lori said, but it was said affectionately, and she took
his arm and kissed him on the cheek.
Carla attached herself to Ryan, glancing around to make sure that J.B. was
also close to them.
"Rentaroom's cheap and clean. Not many visitors come to Snakefish. You'll have
to check in any blasters, but not handguns. Never seen anything like that
rifle, Mr. Cawdor."
"It's a G-12 Heckler amp; Koch. Fires caseless rounds. Saves a lot of weight
and waste."
"Leave it at the desk. And that cannon of yours, Mr. Dix."
"Sure thing, Miss Petersen."
"Carla, please."
This time Ryan was absolutely certain. They were in the shade, but J.B.'s face
definitely flushed.
"I'm J.B., short for John Barrymore. You can call me John, if you like,
Carla."
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"John!" Jak exploded, overhearing the conversation.
"Yeah, John! You want to make something out of this, kid?"
The Armorer stood, braced, his whole body fighting tense as he faced the boy.
Ryan knew better than to interfere with J.B. on a matter of blood.
"You don't call me that," Jak said quietly, his right hand slithering toward
the back of his belt, where he kept one of his throwing knives.
"Then button up about my name, Jak. Take my meaning? Just"
The teenager grinned suddenly. "Sure, J.B., I understand. Real good."
"My goodness," Carla said. "That seemed to be rather a nasty moment."
"Just play," Krysty replied. "You get used to their ways."
CARLA LEFT THEM in the lobby of their small hotel, having made sure the rifles
were checked in safely. Before going she'd called the seven friends around her
for a last, urgent word.
"The baron is a beautiful old man, but his grip is not what it once was. There
are those in Snakefish who whisper that he is too generous with the ville's
gas. Too easy in trading with other villes in the area. He knows of the talk,
but believes that his nephew will take over from him soon."
"What about the bikers?" Doc asked. "Those angels from hell?"
"They're the ville's sec patrol," she admitted, "but their hearts aren't with
Edgar. They're allied with those who bring true power."
"The Mote family," Ryan asked.
"Yes." She dropped her voice even quieter, glancing around to ensure nobody
could overhear. "Guard yourselves against the Motes, outlanders. And when you
attend their service, take the greatest care. The greatest. If they perceive
you as any sort of threat they can be quite ruthless."
"I don't suppose there's any chance of something to eat now, is there?" Rick
asked plaintively. "I'm famished." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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