"Wait a minute while I put the tray down, corporal," I said. "We don't
want to waste any of the good stuff." I turned to put the tray on a
soiled linen bin, caught a glimpse of motion in the mirror.
I ducked, and the nasty-looking little leather quirt whistled past my
ear, slammed against the edge of a marble-topped lavatory with a crack
like a pistol shot. I dropped the tray, stepped in fast and threw a
left to Blue-boy's jaw that bounced his head against the tiled wall.
I followed up with a right to the belt buckle, then held him up as he
bent over, gagging, and hit him hard under the ear.
I hauled him into a booth, propped him up and started shedding the
waiter's blacks.
V
I left him on the floor wearing my old suit, and stepped out into the
hall.
I liked the feel of his pistol at my hip. It was an old fashioned .38,
the same model I favored. The blue uniform was a good fit, what with
the weight I'd lost. Blue-boy and I had something in common after all.
The latrine attendant goggled at me. I grimaced like a quadruple
amputee trying to scratch his nose and jerked my head toward the door I
had come out of. I hoped the gesture would look familiar.
"Truss that mad dog and throw him outside the gates," I snarled. I
stamped off down the corridor, trying to look mad enough to discourage
curiosity.
Apparently it worked. Nobody yelled for the cops.
I reentered the ballroom by another door, snagged a drink off a passing
tray, checked over the crowd. I saw two more powder-blue get-ups, so I
wasn't unique enough to draw special attention. I made a mental note to
stay well away from my comrades in blue. I blended with the landscape,
chatting and nodding and not neglecting my drinking, working my way
toward a big arched doorway on the other side of the room that looked
like the kind of entrance the head man might use. I didn't want to
meet him. Not yet. I just wanted to get him located before I went any
further.
A passing wine slave poured a full inch of the genuine ancient stock
into my glass, ducked his head and moved on. I gulped it like sour bar
whiskey. My attention was elsewhere.
A flurry of activity near the big door indicated that maybe my guess
had been accurate. Potbellied officials were forming up in a sort
of reception line near the big double door. I started to drift back
into the rear rank, bumped against a fat man in medals and a sash who
glared, fingered a monocle with a plump ring-studded hand and said,
"Suggest you take your place, Colonel," in a suety voice.
I must have looked doubtful, because he bumped me with his paunch, and
growled, "Foot of the line! Next to the Equerry, you idiot." He elbowed
me aside and waddled past.
I took a step after him, reached out with my left foot and hooked his
shiny black boot. He leaped forward, off balance, medals jangling. I
did a fast fade while he was still groping for his monocle, eased into
a spot at the end of the line.
The conversation died away to a nervous murmur. The doors swung
back and a pair of guards with more trimmings than a phoney stock
certificate stamped into view, wheeled to face each other and presented
arms--chrome-plated automatic rifles, in this case. A dark-faced man
with thinning gray hair, a pug nose and a trimmed gray van Dyke came
into view, limping slightly from a stiffish knee.
His unornamented gray outfit made him as conspicuous in this gathering
as a crane among peacocks. He nodded perfunctorily to left and right,
coming along between the waiting rows of flunkeys, who snapped-to as
he came abreast, wilted and let out sighs behind him. I studied him
closely. He was fifty, give or take the age of a bottle of second-rate
bourbon, with the weather-beaten complexion of a former outdoor man
and the same look of alertness grown bored that a rattlesnake farmer
develops--just before the fatal bite.
He looked up and caught my eye on him, and for a moment I thought he
was about to speak. Then he went on past.
At the end of the line, he turned abruptly and spoke to a man who
hurried away. Then he engaged in conversation with a cluster of
head-bobbing guests.
I spent the next fifteen minutes casually getting closer to the door
nearest the one the Baron had entered by. I looked around; nobody was
paying any attention to me. I stepped past a guard who presented arms.
The door closed softly, cutting off the buzz of talk and the worst of
the music.
I went along to the end of the corridor. From the transverse hall,
a grand staircase rose in a sweep of bright chrome and pale wood. I
didn't know where it led, but it looked right. I headed for it, moving
along briskly like a man with important business in mind and no time
for light chit-chat.
* * * * *
Two flights up, in a wide corridor of muted lights, deep carpets,
brocaded wall hangings, mirrors, urns, and an odor of expensive tobacco
and _coeur de Russe_ a small man in black bustled from a side corridor.
He saw me. He opened his mouth, closed it, half turned away, then swung
back to face me. I recognized him; he was the head-waiter who had
pointed out the flaws in my waiting style half an hour earlier.
"Here," he started--
I chopped him short with a roar of what I hoped was authentic
upper-crust rage.
"Direct me to his Excellency's apartments, scum! And thank your
guardian imp I'm in too great haste to cane you for the insolent look
about you!"
He went pale, gulped hard and pointed. I snorted and stamped past him
down the turning he had indicated.
This was Baronial country, all right. A pair of guards stood at the far
end of the corridor.
I'd passed half a dozen with no more than a click of heels to indicate
they saw me. These two shouldn't be any different--and it wouldn't look
good if I turned and started back at sight of them. The first rule of
the gate-crasher is to look as if you belong where you are.