Jak disappeared around a sharp corner, beckoning them after him, moving past a section of open deck with a low rail backed by the huge stern-wheel. It was moving very slowly, barely rippling the surface of the river, easing the Golden Eagle against her moorings. It was as though the captain was letting her strain at the leash, eager to finally get sailing up the Sippi.
“Here. Thirty-one to -three.”
The keys were in the heavy oak-paneled doors, with the numbers painted on in thick gold paint. Ryan turned the handle and stepped into the room.
“Fireblast!” Even the luxuriant furnishings of the public areas hadn’t prepared him for the stylish elegance of their suite. “Like the classiest damned gaudy in the biggest ville in Deathlands,” he said.
“Dump the stuff and let’s get out on deck,” Krysty urged. “We got plenty of time to admire it later.”
The whistle was blowing again, and they heard the thunderous sound of the big paddle wheel beginning to turn with serious intent. Ryan laid the Steyr rifle on the ruffled coverlet of the double bed, along with his traveling pack, and followed Krysty into the cool morning air.
The others came out moments later, all of them exclaiming at the quality of their accommodation. Even the taciturn Armorer couldn’t restrain himself.
“Triple-class, bro,” he called after Ryan. “Worth the risk of getting the jack back at the saloon. Never traveled so high on the hog.” He ducked as a wall of spray blew up over the stern rail, splattering across his glasses. “Dark night! Have to watch myself out here!”
There was a surprisingly large crowd lining the dock as the big boat slowly pulled away, the narrow gap of water widening, the river turning to churning froth as the white-and-crimson paddle beat harder and faster.
Ryan leaned on the rail, finding a gap between a tall old man with a long white mustache, gold rings glinting on every finger, and what looked like a blond, ringleted child of twelve, in a schoolgirl’s short, lacy skirt and straw hat. Only when Ryan glanced sideways at her did he realize that the whore wouldn’t see thirty again.
“There’s Dolores Stanwyck,” J.B. said, leaning on Ryan’s shoulder.
“Where?”
“Standing by those crates. Looks kind of like she’s trying to hide and look out for us.” He waved his hat and shouted out the woman’s name. But there was far too much noise, and she continued to peer up, shortsightedly, not managing to see any of them on the deck.
Gradually they pulled out into midstream, turning around with a ponderous elegance, so that the blunt bow pointed toward Crosstown.
A SAILOR WALKED around, calling out for passengers to retire to their cabins for an hour while the ship was cleared away and made ready for the cruise, reminding them that lunch would be served in the three restaurants from noon onward. He cautioned that passengers traveling steerage on the lower decks were limited to the Bronze Room only for dining.
“We eat in the Gold or Silver,” Krysty said, pushing the door of their room behind her, closing out much of the noise of the stern-wheel.
“How do you know?”
She picked up a heavily embossed invitation card from one of the mahogany-and-ormolu tables that perched on dangerously thin legs in a corner of the chamber. “Captain’s table for supper,” she said.
“Really?”
“Look.” She held it out. ‘”Captain Melville Huston welcomes you to dine at his table this evening at seven of the clock. Casual clothes would not be fitting.'”
“I’ve only got casual clothes,” Ryan protested. “They want evening dress?”
“Your clothes are clean and neat, lover. I can’t see them turning us away.”
“Think the others have all got an invite from the captain, as well?”
Krysty put the card down again on the polished, veneered table. “Ask them later.”
They had a small balcony with sliding doors, and Ryan opened them and stepped out onto the narrow strip of deck. With partitions at either end, they had a surprising amount of privacy, and a wonderful view, high up out across the diminishing skyline of Twin Forks.
“Hey, this is something,” he said, checking automatically to see what was above them. But the side rose sheer to what he guessed had to be the top-price staterooms, the ones guarded by the cold-eyed sec men.