“That’s right. Three days, up in the hills.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“South.”
“And you were going ?”
“North.”
She smiled with a touch of frost. “Not a man to give too much away, are you, Mr. Cawdor?”
“Man who gives everything away finds he has nothing left for himself.”
“True. Very true. Now, just along here. The third door.”
Every now and again, throughout the Deathlands, Ryan had stumbled on places where neutron bombs had left buildings virtually untouched. The town hall of Snakefish was like that. Cold stone. Benches padded with worn green leather. Doors that had frosted glass in their top halves. And names painted in almost illegible gold leaf, with their jobs.
“Milius Haldeman, Registrar. Rowena Southwell, School Inspectorate. Crawford Fargo, Highways. Angus Wellson, Divorce Counselor.”
She heard him reading the doors. “So many names and civic appointments, Mr. Cawdor. All dead these hundred years. The baron only uses a small part of the hall now. With around two thousand spuls in the ville, the administration is kind of low-key.”
She paused in front of a door, much like the others. Except that the gold paint was fresher. Edgar Brennan, Baron.
A voice responded to her brisk knock. “Come in, come in, said the mayor looking bigger and bigger and in did walk”
Doc caught the wary look of bewilderment on everyone’s faces. “Quoting an old poem,” he whispered, “not mad.”
The office of the baron was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that opened onto a balcony and overlooked the desert. There was a threadbare strip of carpet covering a floor of wooden tiles. A massive bookcase ran the length of the wall on the left. But the glass doors were cracked and the shelves only held a half-dozen tattered and spineless volumes. There was a variety of unmatching chairs and a sagging sofa. The room was totally dominated by an enormous mahogany desk, which was buried with piles of paper, folders and files. It was just possible to make out the shadowy figure of Baron Edgar Brennan of Snakefish, lurking behind them.
“Greetings, gentlemen. And ladies. Come in, come in and sit down. Down.”
Carla Petersen ran rapidly through the introductions. As with Zombie, Ryan was impressed with the way she remembered all of their names. The only one that she seemed to falter over was J. B. Dix.
They sat down, finding places among the chairs. Miss Petersen perched on the edge of a small table near the window, next to J.B.
“I would sit down as well, but I think I would vanish,” Brennan said. “I’m a little deficient in the department of leg length.”
Ryan had thought that the baron was already sitting down.
“Lost their wag three days, Edgar. Looking for food and lodging for two or three days before they move on.”
“Lost their wag!” Brennan toddled around the desk and leaned against it. “To find a wag is lucky. To lose one smacks of carelessness. How come you lost your wag? Your wag?”
Ryan was so fascinated by the strange appearance of the Snakefish baron that his mind wandered off the question. “Lost ? Oh, a fire. Lectric short. Fire in the night. Burned out. In the hills.”
“Didn’t hurt any snakes, did you?”
“No. No, we didn’t.”
“Good, good, good.”
Edgar Brennan was around four feet ten inches tall, a rotund and yet oddly dignified figure. He wore a shirt of dazzling white and a paisley cravat knotted around the throat. He looked to be somewhere in his late sixties. His pants were neatly pressed, his shoes polished to a mirroring gleam. As far as Ryan could see, Brennan wasn’t carrying any kind of blaster, which made him kind of unique among barons of Ryan’s acquaintanceship.
“We have a few rules hereabouts. Nothing too strict, I hope. Do you have a supply of jack? If you are outlanders here, I expect not. Expect not.”
“Trade ammo,” J.B. said. “Or mebbe we could work off a trade.”
Miss Petersen leaped in. “That would be fine, Mr. Dix, just fine. This ville runs mainly on its supplies of gas. We are not a poor ville. Somewhat the reverse.”