A vicious flurry of snow, peppered with sleet, stung the skin of the face and dropped visibility to a handful of paces.
Ryan called out to the blurred figure, stalking along ahead of him. “Gibson?”
“What is it now?”
“This isn’t good weather for hunting a big mutie grizzly and her cub.”
“What is it good weather for?”
“Suicide.”
She almost laughed. “Direct, aren’t you? The fact is that Professor Crichton has ordered this hunt. The repercussions for taking any other course of action are not pleasant, outlander Cawdor. Not pleasant at all.”
The blizzard lasted less than ten minutes and for a brief while the skies cleared and, miraculously, they walked along under a golden sun.
“Suicide, Cawdor?”
Ryan hesitated before replying. “If I owned all the jack in Deathlands, whitecoat, I’d stake it that the weather closes down within the hour.”
Gibson stared squint-eyed at him, unsmiling. “If you owned all the jack in Deathlands, outlander, then I might just accept your wager.”
MILDRED SUDDENLY LAUGHED.
“What is it?” Krysty asked.
“You wouldn’t get the joke, honey. Just that most of the hospitals in the old predark days were notorious for keeping people, patients, waiting for hours on uncomfortable benches in long corridors. Here we are, a hundred years or so down the line, in the heart of Deathlands, sitting on an uncomfortable bench in a long corridor, being kept waiting for hours in a hospital. Nothing really changes.”
“Guess not,” Krysty agreed. “Wonder how the guys are getting on with their hunt? Last time I looked out the window, the snow seemed to be getting worse again.”
There was nobody else around. They had been taken down to wait for the examination to begin, but they had already been kept hanging around for well over an hour.
Mildred suddenly stood. “Listen, since there doesn’t look to be any whitecoats here and a lot of the sec men have gone off after the grizzly, this could be a good moment to try to do a little scouting on my own.”
“Could cause trouble if you get caught.”
“I won’t I’ll just turn into a stupe woman and say how I’m sorry I got lost. And I was never any good at finding my way around places. Tell them I got a headache and went back to our quarters to lie down. I didn’t want anyone to come along and disturb me.”
“Sure.” Krysty reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Take care, now.”
” ‘Course.” Mildred started to walk away, then returned. “Remember what I said about this examination. Under no circumstances let them give you an injection. Or take anything to eat or drink while you’re down there.”
“My mother didn’t raise me to take no shit from no whitecoats,” Krysty replied, assuming a strong Southern accent.
“Just watch them. That’s all. See you later. Bye.” Mildred waved her hand and disappeared along the passage, through one of the innumerable pairs of double swing doors.
“YOU SURE WE’RE ON the right track, Professor Gibson?” one of the sec men asked, his voice floating from the thickly falling curtain of snow.
“I have hunted here for many years, thank you, Brunner. I can find my way around this region blindfolded and in the dark. I know precisely where we are. The trail will shortly begin to drop down and then we’ll be at Witch Hole Pond. Just concentrate on doing your job, which is to carry the supplies and be ready to open fire if we are attacked.”
“Sure thing,” he muttered in a sullen voice.
The woman stopped and peered back over her shoulder. “Remember what happened to Ellison,” she said quietly. “And also remember, Brunner, that Ellison was one of the lucky ones.”
Ryan’s prediction had been proved correct. After the falsely smiling half hour of sunny weather, the sky had clamped down once more, like a dark, malevolent god, tipping a blizzard of snow down across that part of Maine, visibility dropping to less than ten paces.
One of the sec men had slipped on a patch of slick ice and nearly gone clear off the trail, falling into the whiteout on the left. Trader had been at his heels and had reacted with lightning speed, stooping and grabbing at the straps of the man’s pack, hauling him back from the brink of the ravine, from possible death or probable injury.