“What model’s that, Buford?” J.B. asked. “Standard, angle-eject or the big-bore?”
“You surely know your firearms, outlander Dix,” the diminutive man replied, shaking his long, narrow head from side to side approvingly. “It is the big-bore model. Chambered to take the .375 round.”
The Armorer nodded. “Stupe of me. ‘Course it is. Should’ve spotted the rubber recoil pad on the end of the stock. Put a good hole in a bear with that.”
Buford beamed. “I most certainly hope so. Let me reintroduce my colleague, Professor Dorothea Gibson. Thea for short. You all met her at the meal.”
Like many of the whitecoats, Thea Gibson was slender, standing close to six feet. Her iron gray hair was scraped back into a tight knot at the back of her head. Her bright blue eyes were as cold as Arctic pack ice, one looking at Ryan, the other seeming to have a life of its own, roaming off toward the overhead clock. On her shoulder she had a slender Anschutz Kadett bolt-action rifle with a scope sight.
“Kind of dainty blaster for going after bear, ain’t it?” Trader said.
“A .22 bullet will kill the largest creature, if it is aimed correctly,” she replied in a prim little voice. “And I have five of them in this rifle.”
“Remind me to keep out of your way.” Trader grinned.
“Like all men you have a preoccupation with size, outlander Trader,” she stated. “As in other areas of life, you are totally under a misapprehension.” She glanced toward her colleague. “Time is wasting, Ladrow. Shall we go?”
“Yes, of course, Thea. Is everyone ready? We have a day’s provisions in packs carried by the security forces who are accompanying us.”
“Then, let’s do it,” Ryan said.
“BASTARD BALL-FREEZING,” Trader complained before the hunting party had even gone a hundred yards from the main entrance of the institute.
“Should’ve stayed home with the girls,” Abe said. “Or you should’ve borrowed some warmer clothes.”
“Day I need advice from you, Abe, is the day that hell freezes over.” He shivered theatrically, clapping his hands together. “And that might just be today.”
There had been an old predark thermometer fixed to the outside of the building by the doors, and Ryan had glanced at it as they walked past. It was showing an ambient temperature of minus eight degrees, but there was a biting near gale blowing in from the northeast that must have brought a windchill reading of nearer minus twenty-five.
The snow had eased, but there was still a scattering of fine, grainlike flakes whirling past. The wind was picking them up and spinning them around the parking lot like miniature tornadoes of white powder.
Everyone had covered as much exposed flesh as possible against the icy blast. Scarves and gloves were essential wear. Dean had on his dark blue peaked cap, pulled low over his eyes, and trudged behind his father, trying to use him as shelter from the worst of the wind.
Doc slapped the boy on the back. “Bear it bravely, young’un. Foot it featly. This is nothing compared to some of the cold times that I knew in old days.”
“Don’t care about old days. Care that it’s so rad-blasted cold here and now, Doc.”
“I can recall a time that the hairs up inside my nose froze into ice.”
Dean grinned. “I known it that cold, Doc. I remember up near the Lakes one winter when I took a spit and it froze in the air and tinkled on the ground as solid ice.”
Jak was walking with them, his long hair seeming to mingle with the snow, his face like carved ivory, ruby eyes glowing. “Once came north from swamps,” he said. “Near Lantic. Birds dropped dead from sky with cold. Covered fields for miles.”
Trader was exercising as he stepped along, holding the Armalite by the barrel and swinging it as if he were aiming for a homer into the heart of the bleachers. “You lot are just home babies,” he said, scornfully. “Talking about how cold it once was. None of you can imagine the years that followed on the heels of the long nuke winters.”
“Tell us, Trader,” Ryan said, nudging J.B., both of them knowing that Trader had an infinite capacity for rattling off the tallest of tales.