One, had once suffered a fearful crack to the skull and had thereafter boasted
for days that he was the Trader’s grandfather—and his grandmother, too.
Blinking his eye, Ryan realized that it was no blurred vision from a dream or
nightmare before him, but something all too real.
It was night, and they were in a hollow protected from the biting wind by the
slope of the land. Several fires, fuelled by pyrotabs, burned all around. To one
side was the indistinct white shape of the buggy. It was tipped over. Ryan
blinked and turned, and was relieved to see Krysty and J.B., both seemingly
unhurt, though the Armorer was as white as the snow and had a bloody nose. But
his chest was rising and falling steadily. Then Krysty moaned and, even as Ryan
watched, put her hand to her head, opening her eyes.
“Where…? “she began.
“Don’t talk,” said Ryan, quickly. “We’re prisoners.”
“Silence!” ordered Uchitel, grinning at his success in finding the right word
from his tattered phrase book.
The girl sat up, burying her head in her hands. “I feel sick,” she said.
J. B. Dix now also recovered consciousness and sat up and looked around. He said
nothing at first. Taking off his glasses, he polished them on his sleeve, then
replaced them. Finally he retrieved his beloved fedora and placed it on his
head.
He looked at Ryan without expression. “They say anything?”
“Not well—I think they’re foreign. Have you seen their blasters?”
Uchitel was watching them, trying to catch what they were saying. He did not
want to appear foolish before his fellows.
“Yeah. They all got the old Makarov nine-mil pistols with double-action
triggers. A few of ’em are carryin’ Dragunova sniper’s rifles. Lot of
Kalashnikovs and seven-point six two sub-MGs, all Russian. Never seen any in the
Deathlands, only in the old manuals. You heard ’em talk?”
“Not really. They don’t look like us.”
Many of the faces were Oriental: slanted eyes, sallow complexions, straggly
beards and long, black moustaches. The four or five women visible had coarse
features and large hands. Not one of them looked at all like a mutie.
Almost all of them looked like vicious murderers.
“Can you offer us service?” asked Uchitel, looking from face to face.
“What?” said Ryan.
“We are lost and desire directions.”
“Who are you?” he asked the tall Russian.
Uchitel turned the pages of his book with laborious slowness.
“Ah. Who are you?” he repeated. Pointing to his chest, he said, “Uchitel.” Then,
widening the gesture to include the rest of the band, he added, “We are
Narodniki.”
“I’m Ryan Cawdor. This is Krysty Wroth. And this is J. B. Dix.”
Beneath him, Ryan felt the earth tremble, as though some immeasurably huge
animal had stirred in its sleep. The guerrillas wore thick furs, with hoods of
leather and gauntlets of fur-trimmed hide. From the maps that they’d seen in the
redoubt, Ryan knew that Russia had been very close to the old United States in
this region, being almost within sight of the coast of Alaska. But there had
been no sign that the Russians had ever crossed the ice as invaders.
“It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Uchitel, stumbling over
the last word.
“Talks like Doc, doesn’t he?” said Krysty. “Like from the old times. Back in
Harmony, I read books and that’s how they talked. Mebbe that’s what that book
is.’ It helps him talk to us.”
Ryan nodded. “Must be, since it seems none of them speak our language. But watch
it, it could be a trick.”
There was another minor tremor, this time accompanied by a faint rumbling of the
earth. The flames in the fires danced as if some invisible giant had blown on
them. Some of the horses whinnied in alarm, and several of the Russians looked
uneasily at one another. It was fast growing dark, and the wind was carrying
sharp flakes of ice in its teeth.
Stamping his booted feet on the ground, Bochka, the Barrel, muttered something
to Britva, who was at his side. Uchitel looked angrily toward him. “You fear a
small shake of the earth, Bochka? It would take a large crack to swallow you