“I have taken this to aid me in my striding over the difficult terrain we seem
to encounter.”
He held a long ebony walking stick in his right hand. As he tossed it in the air
and caught it, the glittering silver pommel was revealed. It was a beautiful
carving of the head of some ferocious animal with great teeth and a mane of
hair.
“Handsome, Doc,” said J.B. admiringly.
“More than that, my dear Mr. Dix. Voila!” With a twist of the hand he loosened
the head, drawing out a snaking rapier of polished steel from within the ebony
shell. “From the plant of elegance, I pluck the flower of mortality.”
“What about a blaster, Doc? Nice sword, though.”
“Grudging praise from you, Mr. Dix, is better than the most fulsome flattery
from the lips of lesser mortals. Yes, as I said, I believe…” He paused, looking
confused. “Did I mention the handgun that an uncle…?”
“Yeah,” said Ryan. “Go on.”
“I saw it. Here it is.” He pulled a massive blaster from the front of his frock
coat.
“It’s a double-barrel cannon, Doc!” exclaimed J.B. “Le Mat, ain’t it? Heard of
’em. Never thought I’d see one.”
Ryan extended a hand for the pistol, nearly dropping it, surprised by the
weight. Doc Tanner also handed him the card that had been in the showcase.
It read, “A nine-chambered percussion revolver designed by Dr. Jean Alexandre
Francois Le Mat of New Orleans in 1856, being granted U.S. Patent 15925.
Manufactured in Louisiana by Pierre Beau-regard, later to fight as General for
the Confederate States Army at Manassas and Shiloh. This model of a .36 caliber.
The unusual element of a Le Mat pistol is that it also has a second, central,
smooth-bore barrel, to take a .63-caliber scattergun round. The nose of the
hammer is manually adjustable.”
“Big muzzle, looks about eighteen bore,” said J. B. Dix, holding the heavy
blaster. “Could be good. Got ammo for it, Doc?”
“Ample, Mr. Dix, thank you. I shall take it down to our quarters. Are we to try
the gateway or do we go for the great outdoors?”
“You haven’t found nothin’ to help operate that fireblasted gateway, Doc?” asked
Ryan.
“Only what I knew already.”
There it was again, the peculiar suggestion that Doc Tanner had somehow been
around these redoubts before the Chill. Which was clearly impossible. That was a
hundred years ago. Doc might be a muddled old fool most of the time, but he
wasn’t that old. You could lay an ace on the line about that.
“So how do you know that, Doc?” asked Ryan, seeing the same question on J.B.’s
lips.
“I’m not too—” He stopped speaking, looking up beyond Ryan’s head into the dark
shadows that clung to the corners of the high room beyond one of the narrow ob
slits. “There is a vid camera up there, moving to watch us. I fear that the
Keeper will know we have intruded into his sanctum sanctorum.”
“His what?” asked J.B., his face creasing with irritation.
“Guess Doc means we’ve pissed in Quint’s best pot,” said Ryan. “We should go.”
“Doc, you go. Take as much ammo as you can carry. Tell the others to keep to the
dorm. Ryan, come with me. Somethin’ you’ve got to see.”
Doc bolstered his Le Mat and shuffled off, the tip of his sword stick rapping on
the floor. Ryan followed J.B. through a smaller arch into yet another gallery of
weapons.
There it was, complete with ammo of all sorts, including rounds of tracer. And a
thin booklet giving a full account of the gun and how to strip and service it.
“In the big fire,” said Ryan, whistling his surprise. “That’s for me! What about
the others?”
“No time,” replied J.B. “They got what they got. You take this. I’ll carry as
much ammo as I can. Let’s go.”
It was a rectangle of metal with a night scope on the top and a pistol-grip butt
and trigger on the bottom and was unlike any other weapon that Ryan had ever
seen. The name was on the side, just below the sight. Heckler & Koch, Model G-12