Arobr Collier appeared to be still in shock when Krystal came back down the stairs with Foster’s boots and vest. Glass clenched tightly in her hand, her jaw hanging slackly, she just stared at the younger woman in mute horror. The grin of triumph on Krystal’s face abruptly dissipated, however, when she reentered the den to see Foster feeding shells into the loading gate of a short-barreled pump shotgun. The web belt was now clasped around his waist, and the holster clipped to it now contained a big automatic pistol, and as well as the two pouches, there was also a nasty-looking knife sheathed over his right hip, a coil of nylon rope and a canteen over his left, and an angled flashlight clipped opposite the bolstered pistol.
“Good God, Bass? You said you were going to try to get into that house, but you look as if you’re getting ready to go to war. A shotgun? A knife, I can see, but two guns?”
He kicked off his short Wellingtons and, sitting down, pulled on the jumpboots and began to lace them as he spoke.
“Krystal, I’m going to say some of this again, upstairs, but ni say it to you first. We—none of us—really have the slightest idea where we are, how we got here, or what our situation actually is, now or in the future. The forty-odd years I’ve lived, my dear, have taught me at least one thing: when faced with the unknown, always expect and prepare for the worst; that way, you’ll not be disappointed or taken by surprise.”
Standing again, he shrugged his arms into the vest and crossed to the cabinet to begin slipping gun shells into the elastic loops, while continuing his monologue. “I really hope to God I am being overcautious, Krys, but I get bad vibes, as Dave would say, every time I look at that tower, even from this distance. And I’m going to be a helluva lot closer to it before long.
“Now, you haven’t told me that awfully much about yourself, your background, I mean, but I get the impression sometimes that you’re into psychology or psychiatry or medicine. Under the circumstances, just consider the Winchester”—he tapped the gleaming buttstock of the shotgun—”and my Colt as security blankets. Believe me, I’d feel damned insecure if I had to go closer to that tower without them. Damned insecure!”
She smiled then. “I’m sorry, Bass, you’re right, of course. It’s just that I was raised in a home where there were no guns—they’re illegal to own in New York City, you know, and my father is a very law-abiding man. I got that feeling of … of lurking menace, of something so far beyond the ordinary as to be unnatural, supernatural, even, when I viewed the tower with your glasses, so you’re most likely right to go prepared.”
She stepped closer and swiftly kissed his lips. “Please be careful, Bass. Take care of yourself, huh? I’ve become very fond of you in a very short time.”
Taking her head in his free hand, he returned her kiss, with interest. “You’re a sweet gal, Krys, I’ll do my best. Believe me. Now, please do me another favor. See if you can snap Dave out of his fog long enough to get him down here … and the Professor, too, I guess.”
But only she and Collier came back into the den.
“Where’s Dave?”
She shook her head disgustedly. “I suppose those two are into something other than, stronger than, grass; they’re practically comatose up there. I did everything but kick him and he never even twitched.”
“Okay.” Foster nodded shortly, then asked, “Professor, have you ever fired a shotgun?” He proffered the Winchester Model 21 double twelve which had been his father’s pride.
The older man took the fine weapon gingerly, touching only the wood surfaces. There was a hint of almost reverence in his voice when he said, “This piece is truly beautiful, Mr. Foster, a work of art, nothing less. But in answer, yes, I am conversant with most categories of firearms, though I do not hunt and have not owned a weapon since my marriage.” With a note of apology, he added, “My wife, you see, considers the acquisition of firearms to be a dangerous waste of one’s resources.”