LATE IN THE AFTERNOON of the next day, rumors began to reach the city—the merchants on the long coast run from La Jolla and Oceanside told of hundreds of campfire lights glimpsed in the valleys south of El Cajon, and of streaks of smoke and raised dust on the southern horizon during the day. At sunset the inevitable suspicion was confirmed by the Escondido mail rider: General Alvarez of San Diego had mobilized his army and was marching north.
During the next two days details trickled in—agreed, contradicted and amplified each other—until the full situation was clear. Alvarez was advancing up route five with a force of a thousand men and eight siege-mortars.
Los Angeles’ buffer states Santa Ana and Orange sent ambassadors racing to the city to beg troops for the defense of their borders—and were reluctantly denied aid by major-domo Lloyd, who was said to have turned them away with tears in his eyes. Souveraine of Santa Ana declared that he couldn’t, unsupported, defend his unwalled city, and that he’d side with Alvarez when the time came. Smith of Orange came to the same decision, with, as he put it in the letter he sent to Lloyd, “incalculable reluctance.”
Thursday morning dawned clear and warm, for the Santa Ana wind was still surging in off the desert. One week exactly had passed since the bombing of Mayor Pelias’ chambers; and the crowds that gathered around the news-loudspeakers sent despairing groans up into the cloudless blue sky when it was announced, once again, that the mayor was still unconscious.
Blaine Albers glanced contemptuously down at the clamoring crowd twenty storeys below him and, pushing open the window, flicked the ash of his cigar out at them. “You haven’t answered my question, Lloyd,” he said quietly, turning back to the room.
Across the table an old man sweated and stared hopelessly at the litter of ashtrays and scattered papers. “I can’t tell you,” he whispered.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No. He’s under a… doctor’s care, and he might—honestly—recover any day. Any hour.”
The four other men in the room shifted impatiently in their seats, and one stubbed out a cigarette.
“Listen,” said Albers, “even if he’d come out of it an hour ago it might have been too late.” He struck his fist on the table. “Aside from the police, we have no army! Had you realized that? Our draft program is impossible to enforce. The few men we get desert the first time you take your eyes off them. We can’t afford mercenaries. What, Lloyd, do you have to suggest?” His voice had risen during this speech to a harsh yell.
“Find…” the old man quavered, “find Brother Thomas.”
“Why? What the hell is the connection between Pelias and this delinquent monk?”
Lloyd sagged. “I can’t tell you.”
Several of the other men sighed and shook their heads grimly.
Albers spoke softly. “Lloyd, I’m sorry to have to say this. Tell me, now, where Pelias is, and what this monk Thomas has to do with the situation; or we’ll question you with the same methods we’d use on any criminal.”
Lloyd was sobbing now. “All right,” he said finally. “You win.” He stood up slowly and crossed to the window. “God help us all,” he said, and quietly rolled over the sill and disappeared.
For a full ten seconds no one spoke; then Albers went to the window and looked out. The section of the crowd directly below was churning about with, perhaps, more energy than it had shown before. Aside from that, the view had not changed.
“That,” he said to the others, “is the second time one of our major-domos has killed himself. His predecessor, Hancock, you know, hanged himself in his bedroom six years ago.”
The others nodded dumbly. “What can we do now,” one asked, “besides grab some ready cash and run for Bakersfield?”
“Idiot,” Albers said. “It’s not time to run yet. Alvarez couldn’t get here before Sunday even if he was already across the Santa Margarita River, and he isn’t.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But our hold on the city just went out the window. We’ve got no authority at all, now.”
“Maybe we could claim to know where Pelias is hidden?” suggested one of the others.
“No. Tabasco, damn his android eyes, almost certainly does know. He probably knows whatever the secret about this monk is, too.”
“What could that monk have or know that they could want so badly?” wondered the one he’d called an idiot.
“I don’t know,” Albers answered softly. “But I’d say if we want to keep any hand at all in this game, we’d better find him before Tabasco’s police do.” He flung himself into a chair. “We’ll worry about that a little later,” he said. “Right now, show that gun dealer in, Harper.”
Harper stood up and went to the door. “Come in here,” he said when he opened it.
A moment later a tall old man with a white beard and mane strode into the room. He was dressed in sun-faded dungarees, and puffed furiously on a battered corncob pipe. “Look here, boys,” he growled, “if you want to make a deal, then let’s talk. If not, I’ll be on my way. But I’m not going to wait one more—”
“I apologize, Mr. St. Coutras,” Albers said. “It was not our intention to keep you waiting. Sit down, please.”
St. Coutras took a seat and rapped the still-smoking tobacco out of his pipe onto the floor. “All right,” he said. “Do you want the hundred Brownings or not?”
“We do,” Albers said. “We’ve decided we can pay you a hundred solis per rifle.”
“Goddamnit, I said a hundred and fifty. I can’t go below that and make a living.”
“What kind of living do you think you’ll make if Alvarez takes this city?” hissed Harper.
“The same as now,” the old man replied. “Everybody needs guns.”
“He’s right, Harper,” Albers said. “Shut up.” He looked intently at St. Coutras. “Would you take the difference in bonds?”
The old man considered it for a full minute. “I’ll take a hundred in cash and a hundred in bonds per rifle. That way, you’ll be sure of getting good merchandise from me, since I’ll have a ten-thousand-soli stake on your side of the table. If Alvarez takes the city, he’s sure not going to honor any bonds issued by his predecessors.”
“Good point,” Albers nodded. “Okay. Hastings, draw up the papers. And Harper, you get busy on tracking down that damned runaway monk. Get some details on why he left the monastery. It occurs to me to doubt old Lloyd’s story that the kid stole the season’s wine-money.”
“Runaway monk?” St. Coutras repeated curiously.
Albers frowned. “Yes. He… uh, has some information we need.”
“His name isn’t… Thomas, is it?”
Hastings’ pen halted in mid-air; Harper froze halfway out of his chair. Albers slowly lit another cigar. “Why?” he asked. “Have you met a runaway monk named Thomas?”
“Yeah. A week ago. Last Friday morning. Gave him a ride into town.”
“That’d be our boy, all right,” Albers said.
“Have you seen him since?” Harper asked quickly.
“Nope.”
“Where did you drop him off?” Albers asked.
“The north gate,” St. Coutras answered. “On Western Avenue. Why, what’s he done?”
“We have no idea. But somehow he’s the key to a lot of desperately important questions. Would he remember you?”
“Sure.”
“Kindly?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Good.” Albers took a long, contemplative pull on his cigar. “Do you have an apprentice or partner or somebody, who could bring the guns in without you?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I want you to stay here and smoke this blasted monk out of whatever hole he’s hiding in. We’re pretty sure he hasn’t left the city, but the police haven’t been able to get any leads on him at all. What we’ll do is check with the monastery and find out what his interests and skills are, and then send you to places where he’s likely to show up. And when you see him, grab him. We’ll give you as many men as you like to help.”
“I’d be working with the police?” St. Coutras asked doubtfully.
“No; as a matter of fact,” Albers said, “you will, practically speaking, be working against the police. We don’t want Tabasco to get hold of the monk.”
“Hmm. This post pays well, of course?”
“Of course. And carries a five-thousand-soli—cash!—bonus if you bring him in.”
“Well, I’ll give it a try,” the old man said. “I’ve done weirder things.”
“Good,” Albers said, with his first smile of the day. “We’ll have a rider to the Merignac monastery and back by three this afternoon, and you’ll be able to start searching before sundown. You’ll—”
“I get a thousand a day to look for him,” St. Coutras remarked.
Albers’ face turned red, but his smile held its ground. “That’s right,” he said levelly. “Where are you staying?”
“At a friend’s place. Never mind where. I’ll come back here at four-thirty. See you later, gents.” He got up, clamped his pipe in his mouth and left the room.
“I don’t like his attitude,” Harper complained. “Are you really going to pay him all that money? I think you promised him more than the city owns.”
“He’ll be paid, all right,” Albers rasped. “We’ll give him a few dozen of his own bullets, in the head.”
Harper grinned and nodded, and was about to speak when a girl leaned in the door. “Police Chief Tabasco is here to see major-domo Lloyd,” she said.
“Send him in,” Albers said. “None of you say anything, hear?” he added to his four companions.
Police Chief Tabasco was tall, with fine blond hair cut in bangs over his surprisingly light blue eyes. His face was pink and unlined. When he stepped into the room he made the five men look scrawny and unhealthy by comparison.
“Where is major-domo Lloyd?” he asked.
“Well,” Albers said thoughtfully, “to tell you the truth, he’s dead.” Harper didn’t interrupt, but clearly wanted to. Tabasco raised his golden eyebrows. “You see,” Albers went on, “he admitted to us that Mayor Pelias is dead, and then immediately regretted betraying that secret, and leaped,” he waved at the open window, “to his death.”
“You’re lying,” Tabasco observed calmly. “Pelias is alive, and Lloyd knew it. He and I looked in on the comatose mayor earlier this morning. You killed Lloyd, correct? Why?”
“Oh, hell,” Albers said, sitting down. “Okay, I guess Pelias is alive. No, we didn’t kill Lloyd. I threatened him with torture if he wouldn’t spill a few secrets, and he dove out the window. Look, Tabasco, if we’re going to govern this city, there are several things we’ve got to know. First, where is—”
“You’re not going to govern this city.”
“Oh? Who is, then? Pelias? Lloyd? Alvarez? You?”
“Why not me?” Tabasco asked quietly.
Albers leaned forward. “Are you getting delusions of humanity? Listen, the people of this city would rather have a trained dog for mayor than a damned grass-eating, vat-bred android. Don’t you know that? You creatures are just barely put up with as policemen. If—”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Tabasco said, a little heatedly. “But I would remind you that I control—absolutely—the only armed force available to Los Angeles, whereas you have nothing, not even—”
“I’ve got Thomas,” Albers said.
“Who?”
“Thomas. The monk from Merignac. I have him.”
“You’re lying again,” Tabasco said, but his eyes were lit with desperate hope.
“Believe that, if you like,” said Albers carelessly. “I’ve got him, anyway. And I don’t need you.”
“I knew you were lying,” Tabasco said, the hope leaving his eyes. “If you really had him you’d know how much you do need me. And you’d know better than to sneer at androids. I want all five of you out of the city by sundown tomorrow. I’ll instruct my officers to shoot any of you on sight after that. Do you understand?”
“Why, you filthy—we’re the—you can’t tell the city council to—”
“I’ll assume you do understand. Goodbye, gentlemen. May we never meet again.”
Peter McHugh put down his coffee cup and newspaper and stood when he heard booted feet pounding up the stairs.
“That you, John?” he called, his hand hovering over a .38 calibre revolver lying on the wicker table beside him.
“Yes,” came the answer, a moment before John St. Coutras burst into the room.
“Up and saddle the horses,” the old man barked. “If we move quick we can get out of this doomed city with no trouble.”
“What? Wait a minute. What happened at city hall? You didn’t hit anybody, did you?”
“No. But I got Albers to agree to so many crazy payments that I know he means to kill me. Hell, he even offered me a thousand a day to look for some monk. If we can get outside the city walls within the next hour, we—”
“Hold it. Listen to me. I got another offer for the guns. A hundred and fifty apiece.”
St. Coutras halted. “You did? From who?”
“I don’t know his name. We’ve been dealing through an intermediary, a red-haired kid named Spencer. But the offer’s genuine, I’m convinced. We’ll deliver the crates through the sewers, from north of the wall.”
St. Coutras ran his fingers through his beard ruminatively. “This is a hundred and fifty cash we’re talking about?” he asked in a more quiet tone of voice.
“Nothing but. The kid wanted to give me five thousand down, right there. Had it in a knapsack. I told him I’d have to see you before I could take it.”
“Well,” The old man sank into a chair. “Is there any more of that coffee?”
“Coming up, boss.”
Thomas looked critically at the final couplet of his sonnet while he chewed on the back end of his pen; after a few re-readings of the poem he decided it would do, and slid the paper into the box he’d appropriated for his personal belongings. The first eight lines of it he’d written the night before, in a bleak mood brought to a head by eight consecutive cups of black coffee and three stout maduro cigars, and enough of the mood had carried over to the morning for him to write the last six lines immediately upon awakening.
He had stood up, stretched, and was pulling on his pants when a loud crack sounded from the floor above him. Splinters and dust whirled down through one of the beams of morning sunlight.
He bounded upstairs to the stage, where he found Gladhand and five villainous-looking men staring at a small, ragged hole in the polished wood of the stage. Smoke was still spiraling up from it.
“What the hell,” Thomas said, unable to come up with anything better, but feeling that he ought to say something.
“Oh, good morning, Rufus,” Gladhand said. “Nothing to be concerned about, that explosion. Just a special-effect device we’re testing.”
“More special effects?” For four days now Gladhand had been consulting furtive men—“technicians,” he called them—and buying dozens of sturdy, heavy wooden boxes that he stored carefully in the basement. He’d explained, in answer to Thomas’ questions, that the boxes contained the wherewithal for various spectacular special effects he intended to use during the scene in the play in which the god Hymen appears.
Gladhand now nodded vaguely. “Oh, yes. I’ve decided to have a few miracles and apparitions and such things take place when Duke Frederick gets converted by the holy man in the wilderness.”
“But that’s only referred to. How will—”
“I’ve written in a new scene so as to have it take place on stage. Plot’s too rickety otherwise. Look, I’m pretty busy right now, but I want to talk to you later. Meet me… on the alley balcony right after the noon rehearsal, okay?”
“Okay.”
Thomas wandered to the dining room and wheedled a late breakfast of coffee and sweet rolls from Alice, who had already begun to put everything away. He sat down at one of the long tables and gulped the oily coffee. After she’d rinsed out the pots and wiped down the counters, Alice sat down beside him with her own cup of coffee.
“You’re a late sleeper these days,” she remarked, looking through her purse for a cigarette. “How are you and Pat getting along these days?”
“Horrible.”
“Oh, you had a little fight? Well, don’t worry, it—”
“We didn’t have a fight,” Thomas said. “We never have fights. We just have… bafflements. Each of us is certain the other’s lost his or her mind.”
“Well, maybe you two just aren’t meant for each other.”
“Yeah,” Thomas admitted, trying not to gag as he sipped at the coffee. “Logically speaking, that’s true. But when we do get along—and we do, sometimes—it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Which is most common? Getting along or not getting along?”
“Oh, not. By a long shot.”
Alice shook her head with mock pity. “De course ob de true luhv nebbah did run smoooth,” she leered in some badly-imitated dialect, as she picked up the two empty cups and walked bizarrely into the kitchen.
Thomas stared after her and then slowly got to his feet and went below to put his shoes on.
Ten minutes later he was sitting in the greenroom, going over his lines with the girl Skooney, who obligingly read all the other parts. After a while Pat came in and sat down, and Thomas regarded her warily out of the corner of his eye, trying to get a clue to her current mood.
“You’re not paying a hundred percent attention to this,” Skooney said.
“Oh, I think I’ve got it down pretty well already. Thanks, Skooney.”
“Anytime,” the girl said, getting up to leave.
“Morning, Pat,” he said when Skooney was gone.
“Hi, Rufus,” she answered with a friendly smile. Aha, Thomas thought; she’s in good spirits. And in the morning! Absolutely unprecedented. The feeling that had spawned his sonnet began to evaporate.
“Hey, noon rehearsal in five minutes,” Lambert called, walking through the hall.
Thomas inwardly cursed the interruption; but then reflected, after Pat had blown him a kiss and darted out of the room, that the rehearsal call had probably saved him from unwittingly puncturing her good mood. Anything, it seemed, could cast her into heavy depressions or smoldering anger—a kiss at the wrong time, the lack of a kiss at the right time, a careless sentence, a carefully considered opinion—and her good cheer was always slow to return.
It’s too bad she’s the first girl I ever really knew, Thomas thought. I have no way of knowing whether all girls are this way or if she’s unique. I wonder if every guy heaves an instinctive sigh of relief when he’s kissed his girl goodnight, and the door is shut, and he can go relax by himself?
The noon rehearsal went quickly. Gladhand wasn’t watching as closely as he usually did; his corrections were infrequent and brief, and he had the actors skip over two scenes that he didn’t feel needed any work. The theatre manager seemed preoccupied, and kept staring into space and running his fingers through his thick black beard.
By one-thirty everyone was wandering offstage and deciding whether to eat in the theatre or at a restaurant somewhere, and Skooney was switching off her treasured lights.
Ben Corwin was sitting on the balcony when Thomas got there. The old man’s moustache, beard and shirt were dusted with brown powder, and he was sneezing and sniffling so hard that he could only wave and blink his wet eyes at Thomas by way of greeting.
“That stuff is going to kill you,” Thomas remarked. “Why don’t you drink, instead?”
Corwin managed to choke, “Good enough for androids… good enough for me.”
Thomas sat down, wishing he had a really cold beer. This blasted desert wind is getting tiresome, he thought. I’ll never lose this cold while it keeps up.
The plywood door dragged open after a minute or so, but it was Spencer, not Gladhand, who stepped out onto the balcony.
“Howdy, Rufus,” he said. “Clear out of here, Ben. Important conference coming up out here. You’ve got to move on.” The old man uttered an obscene suggestion. “Will you leave for a five-soli bill?” Spencer asked, pulling one out of his pocket and holding it just out of reach of Ben’s waving, clutching hands.
Finally the old man struggled to his feet. “Give it here,” he said clearly.
“It’s yours,” said Spencer, letting him take it. “Go buy yourself a bottle of your favorite white port.” Muttering incoherently, Corwin tottered down the stairs.
“A conference?” Thomas inquired as Spencer sat down.
“Yeah, sort of. I’ll let Gladhand explain.”
The door grated open again and Gladhand wobbled out on crutches, closely followed by Negri. “Two more chairs, Bob,” the theatre manager said. Negri ran to fetch them, and in a moment the four of them were seated facing each other.
“There’s something it’s high time you learned, Rufus,” Gladhand began.
“Before it’s too late, sir,” Negri said, “reconsider. It’s crazy to trust—”
“We’ve been through this, Bob,” Gladhand said, a little impatiently. “Be quiet.”
“Sir,” Negri pursued, “might one—”
“Might one bugger off, Negri?” Gladhand said angrily. “Robert, you see,” he went on calmly, “doesn’t want me to tell you. He doesn’t trust you, Rufus.”
“I have no idea what’s going on here,” Thomas said, truthfully.
“Let me explain,” Gladhand said. “We are a theatre company, are we not? Right. But, lad, that’s not all we are. The Bellamy Theatre is a front—no, that’s not quite right—is the secret, uh, center of the only organized resistance force in L.A. My employees are guerrilla soldiers as well as actors.”
Thomas blinked, and then nodded slowly, trying to assimilate the idea. “That explains one or two odd remarks and looks,” he said. “Ah! And those ‘special effects’ are really weapons?”
“Some of them,” Gladhand nodded. “Some of them really are special effects devices. Don’t get the idea that the play is simply a mask, a cover. Our guerrilla efforts are no more important than our dramatic ones.” He lit a cigar. “Would you leave us, Robert?”
Negri raised his eyebrows incredulously.
“Leave us,” Gladhand insisted, and Negri stalked inside, pausing to give Thomas a look of pure hate. “You showed good… aptitude,” Gladhand continued, “in that foolish raid on the android barracks last week. I’d have taken you into our confidence right then, if it weren’t for the fact that the police were devoting so much time and effort to catching you. I was afraid you’d be seized at any time, and so for security reasons I kept you in ignorance of the… other half of our activities.”
“And… what changed your mind, sir?” Thomas asked.
“Things are quickly coming to a head. A crisis nears. Major-domo Lloyd committed suicide this morning; Alvarez has certainly reached the Santa Margarita River by now; and every two-bit politico south of Glendale is trying to take the reins of the city. I need every good man I can get, and it would be the exaggerated caution of a madman for me to keep you in the dark any longer. By the way, do you gentlemen recall those half-matured androids you saw under glass in that secret android brewery last week?” Thomas and Spencer nodded. “Well, Jeff told me at the time that the face they all wore looked familiar. Today it struck him whose it was. He swears it was the face of Joe Pelias.”
“Good God,” Spencer said. “Replacements, in case the real one dies?”
“I believe so,” Gladhand nodded. “They’ll be mature in another week, I’d judge, if they were already recognizable. We can’t waste time, you see.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “What is it you’re hoping to do? In long-range terms, I mean?”
“Kill Pelias—it was our bombs that nearly did him in last week—and institute a new government, hopefully in time to defend the city against Alvarez.”
“What sort of new government?”
Gladhand shrugged. “A better one than this Pelias has given us. I know of a man with an unarguably valid claim to the mayor’s office. We will, I hope, manage to establish him when Pelias is finally disposed of.”
Thomas pondered all this. “Were you the ones who made that assassination attempt on Pelias ten years ago?”
Gladhand smiled oddly. “No. That attempt was certainly none of our doing. Anyway, our organization has only been in existence for eight years.”
“Does Pat know?” Thomas asked. “Is she in this?”
“Yes. I told her about it two days ago. She’s in.”
“Well, what can I do to join? Sign something in blood? Scalp a cop?”
“No, none of that. We’re very informal in that respect. Take my word for it that you’re a member. I did want to tell you all this today, though, so that you could help Spencer out tonight. He’s going to make the final arrangements on a purchase of a hundred rifles, in a bar called the Gallomo. I’d like it if he wasn’t alone, and you two seem to work well together.”
“Sure, I’ll go along,” Thomas said. “How are we going to get all those rifles back here, though?”
“We won’t,” said Spencer. “We’re just going to make a down payment, assuming the guns haven’t already been sold. Delivery will be in a couple of days, through the sewers.”
“I’ll want you both to carry pistols,” Gladhand said. “Just in case, you know.” He picked up his crutches. “In the meantime, get some lunch, and Spencer can fill you in on the details.” He swung himself erect and re-entered the building.
Four hours later Thomas was doing his best to eat a particularly gristly beef pie. “The drinks here might be okay,” he told Spencer, “but the food is vile.”
“Well, hurry up and finish it,” Spencer said. “The guy’s supposed to be here in ten minutes, and you’ve got your face in a goddamned pie.”
The pie had begun to cool off, and things were beginning to congeal in it, so Thomas pushed it away. “If things get rough we can throw it at somebody,” he said.
“Yeah, and—don’t turn around. He’s here. Good. That means we outbid city hall.”
Thomas slowly picked up the pitcher and refilled his beer glass. “Is he coming over here?” he whispered.
“He’s getting a drink first. Making it look unplanned, I suppose. Ah, here he comes.”
Peter McHugh sat down and nodded to Spencer. “Who’s your buddy?”
“A colleague,” Spencer said. “He’s okay. City hall didn’t go for it?”
“Oh, they claimed to, but my partner suspected they didn’t really intend to pay him. He’s got good instincts for that kind of thing.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s out in the wagon; he’ll be in in a minute. You’ve got the five grand?”
Spencer nodded and nudged the knapsack under the table with his foot.
“Good, good.” McHugh took a sip from the glass of wine he’d brought to the table. “Not bad,” he observed. “How’s the food here?”
“Terrible,” Thomas said, pointing at the pie.
McHugh peered at it. “Oh, yeah.” He looked up. “Here’s my partner now,” he said.
Thomas didn’t turn around, so he didn’t see the new arrival until he sat down. “Mr. St. Coutras!” he said in surprise when he got a look at the white-bearded old man.
“You two know each other?” McHugh asked, puzzled.
“My God, it’s Thomas the famous runaway monk,” St. Coutras said. “You’re with these guys?” he asked, nodding at Spencer.
“I am now,” Thomas told him. “I certainly wasn’t when I met you. And my name is Rufus, please.”
“Hah! Rufus? Oh well, whatever you say.”
“They’ve got the money,” McHugh said impatiently.
“Okay,” St. Coutras said. “Now listen,” he said to Spencer. “Pick up the guns Saturday, that’s the day after tomorrow, under the third manhole on New Hampshire south of the wall. That’s right above the city college, near Vermont.”
“I know where it is,” Spencer nodded. “When Saturday?”
“Eleven at night. Be there, we won’t wait around. If—”
McHugh half stood up, reaching quickly in his coat. A loud bang sounded behind Thomas and McHugh was kicked backward over his chair, the gun he’d reached for spinning across the floor.
“No one else is going anywhere, are they?” inquired a cultured voice from behind Thomas’ shoulder. Four smooth-faced android policemen surrounded the table as Albers picked up McHugh’s chair and sat down.
Thomas, from where he sat, couldn’t see McHugh’s body. Spencer could, though, and looked sick, scared and angry.
“Foolish of you to miss our appointment, St. Coutras, old boy,” Albers smiled, taking a sip of McHugh’s wine. “Very tolerable Petite Syrah,” he remarked. “Is the food equal to it?”
Thomas pointed mutely at the congealed pie. “Yes, I see,” Albers said with a shudder. “At any rate—these two young men, then, must be members of our own Los Angeles resistance underground! What are your names?”
“Edmund Campion,” Thomas said.
“Dan McGrew,” said Spencer.
“Uh huh. So you thought you’d sell to a rival market, eh, St. Coutras? That’s known as treason, my friend. You’ll be hanged and we’ll appropriate your guns. For nothing. And you lads will be hanged, too, never fear—after a few days with the city interrogator, naturally.” He picked up the wine glass again, then froze. He turned a sharp stare on Thomas. “What did you say your name was?” His voice was like a slap in the face.
“I forget,” Thomas said. “It was a phony name anyway.”
“I know that. You just said the first name that popped into your head, didn’t you?”
Puzzled and terrified, Thomas simply nodded.
“Right,” Albers grinned. “Edmund Campion. The name of a…saint. Let’s see—you’re the right height, dark hair…” He leaned forward and stared at Thomas more closely.
Through his tension and fear Thomas felt a taste of relief. At least it’s over, he thought. Now I’ll find out why they’ve been hunting me with such determination.
“This is him, isn’t it, St. Coutras?” Albers said. “Thomas, our long-sought fugitive.”
St. Coutras shook his head. “Wrong, Albers,” he said. “Are you going to grab every dark-haired young man who thinks of saints when he’s in trouble? You bastards are really grabbing at straws.”
“Hmm.” Albers frowned thoughtfully. “Of course you’d say that in any case, to keep your bargaining position… What the hell. We’ll take all of you in for a little intensive interrogation, hey? Maybe even send a coach to Merignac, bring back a monk who could absolutely identify this damned Thomas. Up, now, and march outside. Put that down, you monster,” he added to one of the androids, who had furtively picked up the pie.
Five horses were tied to a rail in front of the Gallomo, next to the old gun-runner’s cart Thomas had ridden to the city in, a week ago. One of the androids frisked the prisoners, removing a pistol apiece from Spencer and Thomas and a short, large-calibre sleeve-gun from St. Coutras.
“Handcuff the prisoners,” Albers directed the android, “and lay them in the back of the old man’s cart.”
The cold metal rings were clicked viciously tight around Thomas’ wrists, and then the android lifted him as easily as an armful of lumber and dropped him face down into the empty bed of the cart. A moment later St. Coutras and Spencer were dropped in on either side of him.
“Stay loose, lads,” the old man gasped. “They haven’t got us in the pan quite yet.”
Thomas could see no basis for hope, but felt a little better for St. Coutras’ words.
“All right,” came Albers’ voice. “You three follow us back to city hall—and don’t forget to bring the spare horses, idiots. You—you’ll drive the rig and I’ll ride along to watch our little guests.”
The cart rocked on its creaking springs as Albers and one of the androids climbed up onto the seat. “Don’t look up, friends,” Albers said, “but rely on it that I am staring down at you with a revolver in my right hand. I can’t afford to kill any of you yet, but I sure won’t hesitate to blow off an arm or two. Okay, Hamburger or whatever your name is, move out.”
Thomas heard the snap of the reins, and the cart lurched and rattled as it turned out of the parking lot and east onto Beverly. In a moment followed the snare-drumming of hooves on cobblestones as the five horses fell in behind.
“What time is it, Captain?” inquired St. Coutras politely.
“Shut your filthy hole, traitor,” Albers snapped. “Step on it, will you?” he said to the android driver, and Thomas felt the cart’s speed increase. He glanced over at St. Coutras, and the old gun-runner winked at him.
The cart leaned and creaked as it weaved to pass slower vehicles. The steady roar of the cobbles under the wheel-rims had risen in pitch. “Don’t stop for him,” Albers snarled. “Go around! There, grab that space! Oh yeah?” he shouted to some outraged driver they’d cut off. “Well, how’d you like to—oh Jesus, look out!”
The cart’s brakes squealed and Thomas was thrown forward.
“Hit the back brake!” St. Coutras called out commandingly, “or we’re doomed!”
A deep, hollow boom shook the cart to its axles, and immediately St. Coutras was up on his knees. “Run for it, Aeolus!” he howled, and butted his white-maned head into the driver’s shoulder. The horse leaped forward in a sudden burst of speed and the android, off balance, pitched off the bench into the street.
The old man frantically wrestled his manacled hands under his legs as the driverless cart picked up speed. When, a second later, he’d got them around in front of him, he vaulted onto the driver’s bench and caught the flapping reins.
“Go, Aeolus, darling!” he yelled to the horse.
Thomas rolled over and managed to drag his own hands around to the front. “Have you got a gun?” he shouted to St. Coutras. “They’re coming up fast behind us.”
The driver held the reins in his teeth for a moment while he groped under the bench; there was a wooden click and he came up holding a pistol. Thomas took it and turned around.
The three android riders were terribly close, and even as Thomas raised the pistol one of them got off a shot at him which almost burned his cheek as it passed. Thomas fired full into the rider’s face, and the android rolled off the back of its horse. The other two fell back a little.
Thomas’ next shot went wide as St. Coutras wrenched the speeding cart around a tight corner. Spencer was sitting up, looking tense but cheerful. A bullet splintered the bench over his head and he ducked low. “Careful of those bastards, Rufus!” he yelled.
Thomas nodded, and squeezed off a shot at the nearer rider. It tore a hole in the android’s arm, but didn’t slow it down. Thomas’ next shot crippled its horse, and mount and rider tumbled across the street in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
“Only one more!” Thomas called.
This one stood up in the stirrups now, raising its pistol in both hands for one well-aimed shot. Thomas centered the android in its sights, and both guns roared simultaneously.
Thomas spun violently back into the cart bed, his gun whirling away into the street, as the last android clutched its exploded belly and rolled off its horse.
Spencer grabbed Thomas’ shoulder. “Where are you hit?” he demanded.
“My hand,” Thomas whispered through clenched teeth. His whole left hand was a blaze of pain, and he feared more than anything to look at it. He could feel hot blood running up his wrist and soaking his sleeve.
“Head for the Bellamy Theatre,” Spencer called to the driver.
“Screw that, son,” St. Coutras replied, not unkindly. “Our best bet is to head for the gate muy pronto, and get out of this maniac city before they hear about this and lock us in.”
“Well, look, my buddy here’s bleeding like a cut wineskin; at least drop us off here.”
“Okay.” St. Coutras reined in in front of a dark shop, and Spencer helped Thomas out of the cart.
“Listen,” the old man said. “When Albers was blown out of the cart your five thousand went with him. But I’m willing to write that off as taxes if you still want the guns.”
“We do,” Spencer said.
“Good. No change in the delivery plans, then. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“You’re a good lad to have at one’s back in a fight. Hope I see you again.”
Thomas was pale and trembling, but managed a smile. “Thanks,” he said. “We were lucky to have you in the driver’s seat.”
“We owe it all to Aeolus. Here.” He tossed a box from under the seat to Spencer. “First aid. See you Saturday, boys!” He flicked the reins and the cart rattled away up the street.
Thomas and Spencer stepped into an alley. “Hold out your hand,” Spencer said. He poured alcohol all over Thomas’ injured hand and began wrapping it in a bandage. “This ain’t easy to do when both of us are handcuffed,” he remarked.
“How’s it look?”
“Oh, you won’t die of it, I guess.”
“Do the bandages have to be that tight?”
“Yes.” When he’d laboriously tied a knot and bitten off the slack, Spencer patted him on the back. “That’ll do for now. We’re close enough to the theatre to be able to walk back. If we pass anyone, just keep to the shadows and sing as if you were drunk, and with any luck at all they won’t notice the cuffs.”