"What the hell do you mean--" Kesley began hotly, but van Alen cut him
off and said in a calm voice, "Twin beds will be fine, if you've got
them."
"Of course," the proprietor said. "Beg pardon." He reached behind him
and fumbled on a board laden with keys, mumbling cheerfully to himself.
Finally he decided on an appropriate room and unhooked the keys.
"Three-fifty," he said.
Van Alen placed four one-dollar pieces face upward on the desk. The
hotelman looked at the coins, grinned, and scooped them up, putting
a fifty-cent piece in their place. Van Alen ignored it, and after a
moment the hotelman scooped that up as well.
"Come this way, please."
He showed them to a room on the third floor, which was the topmost. It
was a boxy, green-walled room with a single naked fluorescent running
along its ceiling. Kesley had vaguely hoped that the room would have
floor-to-ceiling luminescence, as some of the oldest city hotels were
reputed to have, but no such luck. This one had been built since the
Blast; no fancy trimmings here.
There were two beds, both without spreads. The part of the sheet that
was visible at the top was gray and frayed, though apparently clean. A
slatted screen stood folded between the beds.
"Cozy, isn't it?" the proprietor asked. He seemed to be oozing filth.
"It's one of our best doubles."
"Glad to hear it," van Alen said. "We've traveled far. We're tired."
"You'll rest well here," the hotelman said, and backed out the door.
"A greasy customer," Kesley commented when he was gone.
"No more so than usual," said van Alen. "They seem to be a breed. He
means well, though." The Antarctican shrugged out of his cloak and
draped it over a chair. Casually he unfolded the screen, dividing the
room in half.
"Economy calls for a single room," he explained. "But privacy is still
a fine thing."
Kesley shrugged. He had no intention of violating any of van Alen's
personal crotchets. Approaching his own bed, he turned down the sheet,
slipped off his clothing, and climbed in.
He discovered he had no desire to sleep. After tossing restlessly for a
while, he rolled over on his back and sat up. "Van Alen?"
"What is it, Kesley?"
"How big is Galveston?"
"About a hundred thousand people," van Alen said. "It's a very big
city."
"Oh." After a pause: "Bet New York was much bigger, wasn't it?"
"Cities were bigger in the old days. Too big. It drove people mad to
live in them. That's why the cities were destroyed. Your Dukes make
sure the same thing doesn't happen again by building walls around the
cities. Galveston won't ever get any bigger than it is."
"Is that the way things are in Antarctica, too?"
"You'll find out about Antarctica when you get there. Go to sleep--or
at least let me sleep."
Van Alen sounded irritated. The Antarctican was a queer duck, Kesley
thought, as he lay awake in the silence. Van Alen was a slick operator,
calm and self-assured, but there were strange chinks in his armor. He
blew up, occasionally, lost his temper--not often, but sometimes. And
there were many questions he would not answer, and others that seemed
to disturb him more than they should.
He conducted himself strangely, too--doing things almost without
motivation, it seemed, though Kesley felt that deep calculations lay
behind the seemingly gratuitous acts. Such things as picking the first
hotel they saw, or tipping the proprietor a needless half dollar. They
stood out sharply against the fabric of reality. They were unnecessary
actions--or were they?
Kesley didn't know. And Kesley resolved, in that moment, not to try to
find out. He would abrogate all responsibility, let happen what might.
It was the only way to ward off the terrors of unanswerable questions.
Away from his home, away from the farm, he simply was not equipped to
act independently--_yet_. He decided to sit tight, ask no questions,
and look for no answers.
* * * * *
They left Galveston early the next morning, via the _Snowden_, a creaky
old second-class freight-steamer, carrying eight other passengers and
a small herd of cattle on their way to Cuba. Van Alen had made all the
traveling arrangements; Kesley, having no idea how such things were
managed, had done nothing.
The ship docked at Havana, discharged its load of kine, and moved
unsteadily southward. From Havana to Merida, in Yucatan; from Merida to
Panama. The charred wreckage of the old canal was gauntly visible as
they steamed past the Isthmus.
Skirting the east coast of South America, the _Snowden_ pulled into
port at Bahia Blanca, in Argentina Province--and here, van Alen and
Kesley disembarked.
"This is as far south as any ship goes," van Alen said, as the tug drew
them toward the dreary harbor. "The rest of the trip is overland."
"To Antarctica? How?"
Van Alen smiled. "Overland through Argentina, at any rate, and down
into Patagonia. There'll be transportation waiting for us there."
Fifteen minutes later, they were waiting at the customs shed for their
horses. A bored-looking little customs official in blue shorts and gold
brocaded jacket approached them, clutching a clipboard and a stubby
pencil.
"Where are you from?" His voice was thickly accented but understandable.
"North America," van Alen said. "We're vassals of His Liege Duke
Winslow."
The customs man scribbled something on his clipboard. "You are now in
the lands of His Highness Don Miguel, Sovereign Ruler and Duke of South
and Central America. Entrance fee to His Highness' lands is for you ten
dollar American. You have?"
Kesley scowled but produced the fee without question. Van Alen handed
money over as well. The customs officer smiled coldly and nodded.
"Very well. You may enter. There will be no inspection of your
belongings."
"Trusting fellow, isn't he?" Kesley asked, as they saddled their
animals. "No customs inspection."
"They're very trusting down here, especially when you give them ten
dollars too many. Don Miguel's Dukedom isn't particularly noted for its
high ethical standards, Kesley. Everyone's fantastically loyal to the
Duke, but they stay loyal to themselves as well. See?"
"You know, you've spent more cash in bribes on this trip than I've ever
seen in my life," Kesley said.
"A well-greased road makes for a smooth journey," van Alen intoned.
"Another important lesson for you."
Kesley smiled and goaded his horse on. The road out of Bahia Blanca was
a long and winding one; from this vantage-point, Argentina Province
looked limitless. The air was cold and clear, down in this continent
where winter came in July. Kesley let the constant rhythm of his
galloping horse lull him into a veiled patience; he rode impassively,
listening to the repeated _clickety-clack_ of well-shod hooves coming
from van Alen's Old-Kind horse, and the less distinct, thumping sound
of his own mutant steed's three-toed paws pounding the roadway. The
sounds tended to hypnotize him. At any rate, they kept him from
thinking too seriously about the unknown destination that lay ahead.
The journey continued. By evening of the next day they had left the
city far behind and had ridden into the heart of a broad, apparently
endless, green plain covered thickly with coarse, matted grass and
dotted with short, heavy-boled trees. Conversation between the two men
had long since dwindled to a mere interchange of grunts.
But the monotony of the journey was short-lived. Near midnight, from
over a slight rise in the plain, eight men appeared, riding lowslung
mutant ponies. They were heading straight for van Alen and Kesley.
Kesley saw them first. He nudged van Alen.
"Bandits," the Antarctican said immediately. "Let's split up. You go to
the east; I'll head the other way."
"And how do we get together again?"
"I'll find you afterward. Get going!"
Kesley dug in his spurs and the horse leaped forward. The bandits
bore down on them as the two men rode in opposite directions. And, to
Kesley's horror, he saw the bandit group splitting in two.
Instantly, van Alen doubled back and beckoned to Kesley to do the
same. If the bandits had detected the maneuver and were sweeping off
to intercept them, there was nothing gained by dividing. They stood a
better chance back-to-back.
Together, then, they struck out along a side-path toward a thick copse.
Kesley's hand slipped down from the bridle to feel the comforting hilt
of his knife at his waist. He glanced at van Alen, and saw that the
Antarctican's blaster gleamed dully, ready for use, in the man's hand.
The eight bandits drew up in a tight phalanx facing the copse. They
were swarthy, dark-skinned men with heavy mustaches.
"Off your horse," van Alen whispered.
Kesley slipped to the ground and began to tether the mutant to a
low-hanging branch.
"No," the Antarctican said harshly. "Let the animals roam free. Their
noise will confuse the bandits."
"Right."
He released his grip on the reins and slapped the beast affectionately.
The swaybacked mutant began to amble off into the depths of the copse,
crashing down on fallen branches as it went. Van Alen's horse struck
out in another direction. Kesley grinned suddenly; the sight of his
clumsy old horse thrashing away into the darkness was utterly ludicrous.
Then Kesley glanced back at van Alen. The Antarctican was kneeling in a
soft mossbank, aiming his blaster.
He squeezed the firing stud. A bright beam of light licked out. The
horse of the leading bandit whinnied and looked down in amazement at
the pastern that was no longer there, and then toppled, dropping its
rider.
Van Alen fired again and a second horse went down. At that the bandits
scattered. The two men on foot hit the ground; the other six rode off
around the copse.
A loud report sounded from the left, followed by an agonized neigh of
pain. Kesley stiffened. _They shot my horse_, he thought. For some
reason, hot tears of rage came to his eyes. The awkward-looking mutant
horse had been a good friend for four years. Kesley felt as if his last
bond with Iowa Province had just been severed.
He yanked out his knife. Pale moonlight flickered on the polished
blade. Van Alen tapped Kesley's arm, shook his head cautioningly.
Kesley saw the Antarctican aim the blaster.
Another spurt of light. The smell of singed leaves, sharp and
acrid--and then, the smell of singed human flesh. A dull groan.
"That's one," van Alen muttered. "Seven to go."
Branches rustled behind them. Kesley whirled and raised his knife, but
it was only van Alen's horse returning to its master. At a gesture from
van Alen, Kesley slapped the steed's rump and sent it roaming again.
Overhead, hoarse-voiced birds chattered their angry commentary on the
conflict below.
The blaster spurted again, and in its sudden light Kesley saw a
shadowed figure outside the copse char and fall.
Kesley began to perspire. There were still six bandits at large out
there, and eventually van Alen's blaster would run out of charges.
Another bullet came whistling through the woods and thunked into a tree
overhead.
"They've spotted the source of the beam," van Alen said. "Let's get
moving."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere. We've got to misdirect them. I've only got two charges left."
Again came the rustling of branches behind them. _Van Alen's horse
again_, Kesley thought, but this time he was wrong. The bandits were
upon them.
All six at once--making a suicide charge on the man with the blaster.
They came piling into the copse on foot, swarming around Kesley and van
Alen, leaping and clawing and punching.
Van Alen's blaster spurted once, and a sharp-featured bandit took the
charge in his stomach. He pitched forward on the Antarctican, who tried
desperately to wriggle out from under the corpse. He did--but not
before another bandit had seized the hand that held the blaster. There
was a bright flare overhead suddenly, and the birds shrieked wildly.
With an angry curse at having wasted the last charge, van Alen broke
free of the man and hurled the useless blaster away.
Meanwhile Kesley found himself busy. His knife dripped red; he had
slashed it into one man's arm, then ripped downward. Another had seized
his wrist as he drew back for a second thrust.
Kesley grimaced and groped for the other man's eyes. In the darkness of
the copse not even the moon aided vision; it was impossible to see more
than a foot or so, and Kesley contended with half-seen shapes rather
than men.
The bandit twisted upward sharply. A bolt of pain shot through Kesley's
arm. Numbed, he let the knife slip from his grasp. It vanished
underfoot.
"Dale?" The half-grunt came from van Alen, somewhere to the left. "The
blaster's dead."
"And I've lost my knife!"
"Try to get free. If we can slip through them and outside the copse, we
can grab their horses and--"
"We also speak English, _norteamericano_," a wry voice said suddenly.
"Your strategy is no secret."
Kesley turned and jammed a fist into someone's stomach. He felt arms
groping for his arms, and shrugged himself free. He stepped back,
kicking out with his heavy boot.
His foot struck--but as it did, someone else hit him from behind and
knocked him off balance. He slipped, rolled over and tried to pull
himself up. Three men were on him in an instant, pinioning him.
He heard the click of a gun's safety going off, and a quiet voice said,
"Hold fast or we will explode your head."
Instantly Kesley stiffened. "I'm holding fast," he said. He saw no
point in resisting, not with three men squatting on him and a gun
pointed at his head.
A short distance away the sound of struggle could still be heard. _Good
for van Alen_, Kesley thought.
A knife flashed suddenly. A man howled: "Ricardo, you have cut _me_!"
Angrily, in Spanish.
_Spanish? Where did I learn Spanish?_ Kesley wondered.