“Shit, I dunno if I’d feel so inclined if it was one of mine, but it wasn’t. We don’t have nothing like that around here. Yeah, people’ve talked of a machine like that, but we just put that down to jolt.”
It was a startling revelation, but there wasn’t time for the companions to think too closely about the implications of what the baron said, as he had already launched into a long, rambling discourse on the ville of Crossroads, with a number of asides about people whose names meant nothing to the companions, but obviously inspired great laughter among the baron’s people.
The gist of his dissertation, as far as any of the companions could glean, was that the ville had been a small truck stop in predark times. As some kind of network and civilization had begun to build once more, the old blacktop roads that threaded across the country became invaluable trade routes for the convoys of traders that began to ferry goods and chattels across the remains of the land. So the population of Crossroads had grown and prospered, as they played host to a succession of convoys, many with jack and goods to spare for a good time.
The arable fields that the companions had come through on their journey were virtually useless. The same mutie plant genetics that had caused the stunted dwarf elms had also affected the crops, with the result that some scrub farming was done near the ville in order to keep a basic crop going, and to grow grain for the ville’s own potent brand of alcohol, but otherwise the whole economy of the town existed thanks to the convoys that passed through.
“So I guess I don’t really have any objection to you folks staying on awhile,” Robertson concluded, “but you know that you’ll have to work for your keep.”
“Never had it any other way,” Ryan replied.
“Well, I’ll tell you what. You can all spend some time with my sec—” he cast a glare at the sec men who had been taken “—and sharpen these stupe bastards up a little. Not taking anything from you, but they shouldn’t have been taken that easily. Other than that, you can be bar sec—” he indicated Ryan and J.B. “—while you’se two can help on the farming,” he added, indicating Dean and Jak. ‘”Cause I’ll tell you what, we’re shorthanded right now. There’s some kind of sickness started, and our doc here ain’t too sure what it is.”
A coldness ran through Jak as he heard this, and he thought of his nightmare. Krysty and Mildred exchanged glances as the baron continued. “He could do with some help. You two women and the old man can help. I heard two of you addressed like you were halves.”
“Yeah, guess we are,” Mildred said softly. “But it depends what we find.” They were soon to know.
“THIS IS WHAT we’re up against.” Hector shrugged helplessly. “I’ve seen most of the things that get caught around here, and just about every type of clap that there is.” He allowed himself a sheepish grin when Krysty looked at him questioningly, “Hell, this is a trader’s ville, with too many gaudies for its own good sometimes, the amount of trade they have to keep up to survive. But anyway, that’s not anything to do with this, I’m sure of that.”
Mildred, Krysty and Doc were standing in the middle of the large, one room shack that constituted the ville’s medical facility. There were twenty beds, lined ten to each side of the room. The healer, a thin, stooped man called Hector Murray, stood beside them. His face was drawn with worry, lined with too many sleepless nights. Large, limpid blue eyes held their gaze steadily, and he had a distracted habit of running one hand through his thinning hair while the other stayed firmly in his jacket pocket.
He reminded Mildred of interns she had known in her old, predark life, and she liked him instantly. He had acquired enough knowledge, and traded enough med supplies, to cope with the general run of problems in a ville like this, but was obviously baffled by something that he had never come across before.