Brad and Hodak pushed into the Charnel Pit,
Coldfield's popular tavern.
The bar-room was noisy, grimy and crowded.
Incense streamers slid and coiled along the
soil-fused floor, their dissipating pungency
unable to disguise the acrid stench of sweaty
bodies and unwashed garments.
The long bar was hidden by leaners. Narrow aisles
snaked among benches and clustered tables around
which boisterous, elbowing humanity teemed.
A coarsely seamed face along the bar turned,
observed Brad and Hodak as they glanced around
from inside the doorway. Whispers went down the
line, jumped to the tables and around the room.
The tumult ground down as necks craned. A hum
rose and fell as Brad and Hodak were inspected,
commented upon, and judged. It didn't take long
for the noise to return to its former level: the
amenities of bar-rooms everywhere.
From where he stood, Hodak failed to see a
table with a couple of empty chairs. They waited.
Shortly, nudging Brad's arm, he nodded toward
a table newly vacated against a wall.
They shoved and twisted through the narrow spaces
to the table in time for Hodak to slam his hand,
palm down, flat on the tabletop, glaring off a trio
of competitors.
They sat, and Hodak pressed the glow-disk in the
center of the table to summon the robo-dispenser.
Meanwhile, they surveyed the throng.
Some types were recognizable; others would
need to be guessed at. Mostly, they were familiar:
spacefarers and space tug cowboys in tight-fitting
foundation suits, construction stiffs in fitted
helmets and spacer harnesses, clerks and tradesmen
in business tunics, and street people in coarsely
woven, grimy open-necked shirts and shorts.
Slingshot technicians' jumpsuits were marked
by distinctive shoulder patches.
Scattered in knots, or leaning against walls and
supports, men and women, bare to the waist
and sporting sheer breechcloths or none at all,
flaunted their wares.
Brad recognized spoilsmen plying their trades.
They were the dandies attired in colorful, skin-tight
sports suits: thieves, pickpockets, high-tech gear
rustlers, black marketeers, professional gamblers,
and experts in all the scams that are or ever were.
Hand and shoulder weapons were everywhere: lashed
to thighs or slung across backs, flat on tables or
stacked along the bar. Churning and jostling, the
swarm shifted constantly: singly, in couples and
groups; from fledglings newly on the wing to old
timers diminished by adversity. Most were in their
prime: hard of face and body, wary, unbridled and
self-seeking. They mixed freely.
At a table further along the wall near to where
Brad and Hodak sat, Drummer gently swirled the
contents of his drinking goblet. He was gaunt, well
past middle years, with a high-boned countenance.
His head was capped by snow-white hair trimmed
straight across at his shoulders. Dressed simply,
Drummer wore a dark cloak over a white, open-necked
blouse tucked into loose breeches that ended a bit
below his knees. He did not bear a weapon.
Drummer stared about and searched for strangers
that might serve his purpose. When he heard that
the Raven was at planet-fall, he had called for
and reread all available newscasts and reports to
refresh his recollections of their crimes, personal
backgrounds, and escape.
Were they really escaped prisoners? Or were
they agents of the UIPS? If they were fugitives
they might be suckered into President Narval's
mercenaries where their spacer skills would help
fill the gaps. If they were revealed to be UIPS
agents, they would be quickly disposed of, or
manipulated and exploited through false leads
to Narval's benefit. When no longer useful they
would be terminated.
The newscasts and intelligence summaries on the
escape were insufficient. Drummer's position as
one of Narval's closest advisors, and his own private
and secret ambitions, compelled him to learn more
about the newcomers. How could they fit into his
schemes?
Drummer ordered a fresh drink from a passing
robo-dispenser. It arrived in a large snifter.
Cradling the rounded bottom in his palm, he swished
the gold-hued liquid with a gentle motion, eyes
moving from the drink to the crowd to Brad and
Hodak, and randomly round again.
A hard-muscled sledgehammer of a man barged
into the Charnel Pit, sullen anger knotting his beefy
face. His military uniform was skin-tight: a black
tunic belted over blood-red breeches. The military
helmet he wore was also halved black and red as
were his holster and the handgrip of the protruding
weapon. His black cavalier boots were made for
swaggering. Formidable.
Deep, red-rimmed eyes glared from under the
helmet's visor, searching for an open space along
the bar. The line was solid.
"Open ranks," he snarled, and leaned heavily into
the instant gap.
The barman rushed forward and raised his hand
in respectful greeting.
"Honored to see you, Major Scarf," he said,
"what'll it be?"
"Firehouse Red, and I don't mean the runny slops
you peddle to the bar flies."
The barman dashed off and returned with a
long-necked flagon and a large tumbler. He poured
a slow-flowing, crimson liquor that bubbled as it
settled. The barman set the brimming tumbler
close to the Major's massive, thick-fingered hand.
The Firehouse Red disappeared in a single,
spasmodic swallow, for all its slow-flowing nature.
The barman stood by. The instant the tumbler slammed
down, he refilled it, the ritual repeated in silence.
##
Finally, the sledgehammer hesitated, belched, and,
with a satisfied sneer, scratched his crotch. The
barman filled the tumbler a third time and turned
away. Instantly, the flagon was yanked from his
hand. The barman glanced back at the flagon, Major
Scarf's face, grinned sheepishly, and kept going.
Placing the flagon alongside on the bar, Scarf
raised the half-filled tumbler, fondled it, and
tossed a scornful glance up and down the line. Few
met his eyes, and those who did looked elsewhere as
soon as he fixed on them. With a snort of contempt
he wheeled to face the room. Removing his heavy
helmet and lowering it to the ground alongside his
leg, he leaned back to rest his elbows on the bar's
edge.
His eyes scanned the room, sectoring the crowd
and scrutinizing each person. Taking in the tables
along the wall, he paused at Brad and Hodak, and
scowled at them steadily through half-closed eyes.
Brad and Hodak returned Scarf's gaze with
expressions cold and closed. The Major's eyes
moved on and fixed on Drummer. His face twisted
into a malevolent grin.