They were turned over to an older man, wearing the same casual uniform, who led them wordlessly through a large, airy entrance hall and along a short corridor toward a reception room where Ahab had told them they’d meet Nicholas Brody.
On the way they passed two half-glassed classroom doors, and Ryan peeked into both of them as they walked by.
One had a mixed class of six or seven children, looking to be about twelve. They sat at desks, staring attentively at a blackboard where a long-haired male teacher was pointing to a map of Deathlands.
The second room had about the same number of older children, around fifteen, mostly boys, who were writing busily in notebooks while a middle-aged woman in a white blouse and a tweed skirt walked up and down between the desks, dictating from a large, dark blue textbook.
Dean was too short to see through the glass in the doors and walked happily along behind the sec man.
Ryan felt a familiar chill in his guts at the sight of the classrooms, and he wondered whether this really was such a good idea after all.
NICHOLAS BRODY was a very large man with a neat beard who spoke in strangely convoluted speech patterns, with a slight hesitancy that never became a stammer.
“So this is another seeker at the well of knowledge, is it?” he said, shaking hands with Dean. “Another apostle to carry the sword at sunset against the swamping print death of the universe. Welcome, thrice welcome, Dean Cawdor.”
Despite his slightly off-putting way of talking, Ryan took an instinctive liking to the man and felt more relaxed about leaving Dean. The boy also seemed to like Brody and laughed at some of his more obscure pronouncements, though he obviously didn’t understand them.
Brody handed them both a prospectus of the school, telling them how many children were there and how they were divided into groups or “houses.”
“I base it frankly and openly upon what used to be the classical English public school system,” he said, “which offered the finest education in the history of the worldapart from a strange belief in the powers of freezing showers, cold toilet seats and a flogging every morning. We have disposed of those aspects here at the Nicholas Brody School.”
“We play games?” Dean asked.
“Sir,” Brody prompted gently. “I and my male staff are referred to as ‘sir’ and female members as ‘ma’am.’ That does not apply to the members of the security service. And we do indeed play games.”
Ryan was glad that his son hadn’t breezed in calling the man “Nick.”
RYAN WAS OFFERED A BED for the night, as well as supper. “I assume that you will join myself and the members of my peripatetic team of pedagogues in burying our snouts in the trough of sustenance. You may then bid a fond farewell to young Dean in the morning and leave him to us.” He patted Ryan on the shoulder.
“That may be done in conditions of privacy as our experience is that it can be a touch emotional with watering of the glim ducts on every side. At least the lad’s mother is not here. There is a Mrs. Cawdor ?”
“She died about five years ago.”
“My condolences. Rest assured that the boy will be well treated here. If you have any questions ? Of course, you may visit us at any time. Any time at all, even if there be a mystical conjunction of the planets and a solar eclipse, linked to a revolt among Brazilian sheep shaggers. It matters not a tittle or a jot, Mr. Cawdor. Come when you wish.”
RYAN AND DEAN HAD a little time together before supper when they were in the dormitory that the boy would share with five other lads of about the same age.
The furnishings were spare but solid. Ryan sat on one of the firm beds. “What do you think?” he asked.
The boy sat facing his father, looking suddenly younger and much more vulnerable. “I think it’ll be all right,” he said finally.
“I like Brody. Seems a straight arrow kind of a man. You back him and he’ll back you.”