Eclipse at Noon by James Axler

“Three to one,” Ryan said.

“Three to two, surely. Lover?” Krysty looked at Doc. “Got the chance to hang up the jury, Doc. You for going on or for quitting?”

“Ah, me, I hate choices! Selecting and rejecting. Decisions that might prove correct or might prove fatally wrong. If only one were blessed with twenty-twenty foresight instead of flawless hindsight. But mankind is so fallibleand womankind, of course, my dear Mistress Wroth and Dr. Wyeth. To stay, per-chance to die. If these rogues are out to get us, then surely they might try and follow us, even if we take to the terra firma.”

Ryan rubbed his finger against the side of his nose. “Can’t argue with that, Doc. They might.”

“Then might we not be safer if we stay here? As has been pointed out, we are surrounded by people.”

“Scum of the earth, Doc.”

The old man nodded. “Possibly so. But it could be that even the scum of the earth might offer us some scant protection from these wicked folks. To flee into the wilderness would, mayhap, lay us open to an ambush at any moment. They might know the terrain hereabouts far better than we do.”

Ryan grinned. “Your combat planning’s improving, Doc. Can’t argue too much with what you say.”

“And I admit that I am relishing this soft, rich life for a few days, Ryan, my old friend.”

“Yeah, me too,” he admitted. “Well, I’ll swing my vote behind staying aboard the Golden Eagle.” He shook his head at the general smiles from his companions. “But we have some tight rules while we’re sailing north.”

“Stick together and keep eyes open,” Jak offered. “Those rules?”

“Sure. No going anywhere alone. Men like Wolfram and Magus won’t do what you expect. They’ll strike like lightning from a clear summer sky. Fast and totally lethal.”

Krysty hugged him and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Glad we’re going to see the vacation through, lover. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

ALMOST DIRECTLY above them, the grossly fat figure of Gert Wolfram was stretched out on a silken sofa, chasing the jolt dragon through a silver pipe, eyes closed, a beatific smile smeared across his jowls.

“So far so good, my dear Magus,” he whispered throatily. “Will you not participate?” He gestured with the onyx mouthpiece of the ornamented bong.

The skinny man was standing by one of the side windows, looking out into the starlit night. He waved the offer away. “You know I keep my brain clean and my hands steady and my eyes open, Gert. You would do well to remember who we are going against. Not some backwoods gang of careless chillers.”

“I know that, old friend. Ryan Cawdor and his scummy companions might be the most dangerous of our enemiesour living enemiesin all Deathlands. I shall be ready and alert when the moment comes to put our plans into execution. But there is time to relax before that.”

The Magus reached up to scratch his right eye. There was a grating sound of steel on steel. A thin smile stretched the seamed muscles of his rebuilt face. “True, there is still a little time before we strike. A little, little time.”

Chapter Eighteen

The night passed peaceably.

From everything that Ryan knew about their two enemies, he considered it unlikely that they would make their attack in some crude, brutal way. It wouldn’t be hard to smash in the shutters over the windows and lob in a handful of frag grens or flamers or implodes.

But that wasn’t usually the way of Wolfram or the Magus.

When the moment came for them to take their awaited vengeance against Ryan and J.B., it would be something unexpected, something more subtle. The point, not the edge.

Nonetheless, Ryan made sure they all bolted their windows and doors.

There was no point in taking chances in case Wolfram and the Magus came up with a cunning double bluff, chose a full-frontal attack. All things were possible.

THEY HEARD THE NEWS about the killing of Diego Kahla from one of the busboys.

“Stripped and stabbed,” said Richard, a short, crop-headed blond lad in a spotless white apron, his name printed on a card pinned to his T-shirt. “Nobody heard a thing.”