put Ryan into some kind of context. Even now there were blank pages, areas where
information was not so much sketchy as entirely absent. But at least he had come
to know who Ryan was and why he had landed up in the Deathlands as a runner, an
outcast. At least he now knew why the guy refused trips to certain of the
Eastern Baronies, why he never spoke about his past, why at times he never
spoke, period.
Why he lacked an eye.
It was difficult for the Trader to identify why he had trusted Ryan on sight,
and it was especially difficult—almost impossible, in fact—to sustain that trust
when he discovered who Ryan really was and what he had done, or at least what he
was supposed to have done. That was so grisly a crime, so appalling, so outright
wicked an act of sheer malevolence and evil that even by the pretty abysmal
standards of what passed for civilization in the late twenty-first century, it
had hit an all-time low.
A man who did that wasn’t fit to live.
And yet, and yet…
Instinct—his prime, and priceless, asset: worth more to him than all the jack,
all the spare change in the known world because it had never yet let him
down—told the Trader that this was a man of probity, a man of honesty and
integrity, a man of high courage who would never stoop to a mean act or betray a
trust.
And so it had proved. From day one of their now-decade-long association, the
Trader had not regretted taking the guy on, not for a second. He’d had moments
of doubt, one or two—such as when he’d fitted that highly significant, not to
say shocking, piece into the jigsaw that portrayed the man’s past—but they’d not
lasted long. The Trader had backed his instinct and, as far as he was concerned,
once again it had not betrayed him.
The war wagon bucked violently and lurched to one side, then righted itself
under the skillful hands of its driver, Ches. Things slid off shelves, clattered
to the metal-plated floor, Cohn, the radioman, who also handled the navigation,
muttered a curse and bent to retrieve protractors, pencils, a steel rule.
J. B. Dix, seated in the co-driver’s swivel chair, smoking a long thin black
cheroot that looked as unappetizing as the Trader’s cigar, half turned to stare
impassively back at his chief.
“You want to complain about this road, boss. It’s a disgrace.”
Despite the gnawing fire in his stomach, the Trader chuckled.
“Teague’s territory, J.B. Or what he claims is his. Road care’s a low priority
around here. He’s got other things to occupy his mind.”
“Or what passes for his mind.”
“Yeah, like how to dig up more of the yellow stuff at less cost,” Ryan said. “Or
no cost at all.”
Dix lifted an eyebrow and Ryan nodded at the unspoken question.
“Slaving.”
“He’s getting to be a big man. Gotta lotta boot,” muttered Dix.
“Come a long way,” agreed Ryan.
J. B. Dix sucked on his crudely rolled cheroot. He was the Trader’s main
lieutenant, known as the Weapons Master. Whereas the Trader was merely a
businessman, it was Dix who had the knowledge of weaponry, booby-traps and so
on. A thin, intense, bespectacled man with a receding hairline, a penchant for
thin black cheroots, a fast but very devious mind and a terse, monosyllabic
conversational style, it was Dix the Weapons Master’s destiny to become a close
personal ally of Ryan’s.
The war wag’s engine bellowed throatily as Ches took her up the dial. In front
of him, across the front of the cab and below the narrow, bulletproof
see-through windshield was a bewildering array of screens and dials, button sets
and circuit breakers. Not many of these were in use. Originally all, including
the huge vehicle’s weaponry, had been linked to a central control computer, but
as no one had ever been able to figure out how it worked, the Trader’s mechs had
ripped the guts out of everything and started over. Only the fascia remained, to
confuse any hijacker who through some incredible stroke of good fortune might
manage to get inside the war wag’s cabin.