I was groggy, now even weaker with relief, blurted out the words without thinking.
“He’s fine. I’m fine. However we would have been a lot better if you had waded into this fracas sooner.”
I saw him wince at the words, wished I could take them back. You never can.
“I’m sorry, I really am. I had to wait, see what he could do. I know that you’re good, Jim. I knew you could at least hold him. I’m sorry but I had to see how fast he could move before I took him on. I had to wear him down, not get touched. I knew I could do it-and I moved as soon as I knew. Sorry . . .”
“Reporting,” our guard-guy-girl said. “The Red One is unconscious.”
She lowered the small, coin-sized communicator as I stalked towards her, hands out and ready to strike.
“Who were you talking to? Whose side are you on? What’s happening here? Speak-or get demolished.”
The guard, spear lowered and pointed at me, stood her ground. “The answer to your questions is arriving now. There.” The point of her spear moved to indicate a spot behind me. A ruse? Who knew, who cared. I turned and looked at Iron John’s giant throne.
Which was slowly turning on some invisible axis. Floyd and I both faced that way, hands raised automatically on the defense. A black opening was revealed and, as the throne stopped moving, there was motion in the darkness beyond. Two figures appeared, walked out into the room.
Both women.
One of them was Madonette.
“Hi, guys,” she said, smiling and waving. “I’d like to introduce a new friend, Mata.”
The woman was about my height, regal of bearing in her dark robe touched with gold embroidery. Her expression was composed, peaceful; small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, a touch of gray to her hair, were the only signs of age.
“Welcome to the other side of Paradise, Jim,” she said-and held out her hand. Her handshake was firm and quick. I opened my mouth but could not think of anything relevant to say.
“I know that you have many questions.” Her words filled the gap. “M of which xill be answered. But it would be wisest to postpone our little chat until we are out of this place. A moment, please.”
She took a very efficient-looking hypodermic from the reticule hanging at her waist. Uncapped it and bent to brush aside the thick hair on his leg to give Iron John a quick injection.
“He will sleep the better,” she said. “Bethuel-will you lead the way?”
The guard raised her spear in a quick salute, then marched resolutely past the throne and into the opening. Madonette touched Steengo’s cheek, then waved Floyd to her. “Help me carry him. Jim will have enough to do just moving himself.”
I resented the remark-a blotch on my masculine pride but before I could stumble over they had lifted him and were following the guard, Bethuel.
There were no lights in the tunnel behind the throne. At least none until Mata had entered behind us and sealed it once again. Pale illumination flickered into existence. More than enough to see by. Nor was it a long walk to the open door at the far end. We emerged into a large, red brick room that could have been a mirror-image of the one that we had just left.
Just in physical size, though. Here the walls were covered by pleasant hangings, tapestries of sunshine and floral landscapes. Instead of the swords and shields that adorned the other. The stained-glass windows here depicted scenes of mountains and valleys, villages and forests. Unlike Iron John’s windows which featured the clash of battle, spackle of gore. This was altogether more civilized.
As was the murmur of concerned voices from the women in attendance here. They tenderly carried Steengo to a couch where another woman, dressed in white, ministered to him. I dropped into the nearest chair and scowled around at all the female bustle. My voice, louder and more censorious than I had intended, cut through the peaceful scene.
“Now would somebody, anybody, tell me just what the hell is going on.”