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  She stopped, her mind turning inward with the memory. Jak threw a couple of pieces of fresh wood onto the fire, bringing a new burst of flame that highlighted Krysty's flaming hair.

  The young woman continued.

  "The day trickled past me, filled with the distillation of peace. I have never felt so calm and so sure of myself. Not ever before—" she looked at Ryan, "—and not ever since. There've been some good times… course there have. But nothing like that. When I walked back, barefoot, to Harmony ville, Mother Sonja met me and hugged me to her. She said that I had gone out that day as her little girl, and I'd come back to her as a woman, grown."

  Doc nodded and clapped his hands quietly. "A good tale, my dear. Oh, yes. So sweet a time, so gently recalled. It does you the greatest of credit."

  "Thanks, Doc."

  "I got a question, Krysty."

  "Yeah, J.B.?"

  "We known each other now for a good while, haven't we?"

  "Sure."

  "You talk some about your mother."

  "I don't…" she began, trying to interrupt him. But he continued.

  "What about your father, Krysty? How come we never get to hear anything about him? You never speak about him. Never."

  "And I never will. That's the end of it, J.B., under­stand? Right. Doc, how about you? Best moment of your life."

  "The best. The happiest. Though I confess that my memory is sometimes a little errant, that is one of the eas­iest questions that I have ever been posed. The happiest moment of my entire long and seemingly endless life was when my beloved Emily said 'I do.' The seventeenth day of the month of June in the year of Our Lord 1891. Oh, much the happiest."

  He turned away from the brightness of the fire, but the sudden choking to his voice and the glistening of tears in his pale eyes told their own unmistakable tale.

  Krysty picked up the moment. "How about you, J.B.? Best moment of your life. And don't tell us it was when you got given your first blaster at the age of eighteen months! Or whenever it was."

  He shifted his feet, the toes of his combat boots scrap­ing on the splintered floor. The red flames danced off his glasses, hiding his eyes. His beloved fedora was at his side, and he ran his fingers through the cropped stubble of his pale blond hair as he stared thoughtfully into the fire.

  "A ball game. A chilling. A kind of growing. And a marrying. Four big moments. I don't think I got anything to match any of those."

  "Quit dodging the question," Ryan teased, relishing the warmth and the feeling of a full stomach. And Krysty close by him.

  "Best?" J.B. mused, biting his lip. "Guess it was the time—you recall this, Ryan—out near the rad lakes on the lower Miss. Got myself in a hole in a corner. Rock on one side and a damned hard place the other. For reasons that don't concern here, I hadn't got any of my usual weapons, but I had a beautiful Colt Navy. A .36, redrilled so's it'd take a .44. Still cap and ball. Up against five redneck drunks. All got Saturday night specials. Little .32s and the like. Killed four with six shots. Never got a scratch my­self."

  "Knew it'd have something to do with blasters," Krysty whispered loudly.

  "I'll ignore that. Problem was, there was still one of the shit-eaters left. Figured I was out of ammo. Colt Navy holds six. I fired six. He still had three or four in his pocket Beretta. One door in the place and he was in front of it. Didn't even have a nail file on me. No blade at all. Fat son of a bitch, he was. Stood up, grinning. I can still see him. Patches of sweat rotting under his arms. Fat hand like a side of mutton, and this stupid toy popgun. He was going to chill me."

  "Did he?" Jak asked.

  "Course he…" J.B. began until he saw the joke. He grinned coldly at the teenager. "Nice one, kid. I chilled him."

  "How?" the boy asked.

  "With the Colt Navy."

  "You said out ammo. Can't reload quick cap and ball."

  "Right, Jak. But I killed him with it. Stood up slow. He was coming across the room, oozing delight that he got the ace on the line for me. No place to run. I was holding the pistol, down, by the barrel."

  Ryan remembered the occasion. He'd gotten to the drinker too late, but he could still feel the stickiness of all the blood on the soles of his boots.

  "Threw it at him underarm, real hard. Lovely gun. Best balance of any. One and a half turns in the air. Butt clubbed him across the top of the nose. Noise like a ripe apple un­der the heel. Down he went, pistol flying any which way. I walked over, picked up my blaster and hit him twice, just behind the right ear. Skull went soft after the first blow. Softer after the second."

  He stopped speaking as abruptly as he'd begun. The room was silent until Rick Ginsberg spoke. "And that's it?"

  J.B. nodded.

  Ryan was conscious of everyone waiting for him to speak. He knew that the cup would eventually pass its way around the circle and reach him, and he'd been thinking of what to say.

  "Lover?" Krysty prompted.

  "Been thinking about the best time. I can think of a lot of good times. Think of plenty of bad times, as well. Plenty."

  "I do not believe that you can wriggle away, my dear fellow," Doc said. "Not good enough."

  Ryan looked around the circle of waiting faces—old friends, new and newer friends.

  "Good fire. We're secure with the storm out there. My gut's filled with meat, and I'm with people I know and trust." Ryan squeezed Krysty's hand. "And I have love. This moment's about as good as any I ever knew."

  Chapter Eleven

  THEY ALL SLEPT in the same room. Anyone who woke up at any time would toss another piece of dry timber onto the slumbering ashes of the fire. Outside the storm continued to shriek its wrath, plucking at the weathered walls, shak­ing the roof, trying to find more loose shingles to rip free and hurl into the whirling air.

  Ryan and Krysty lay together, using the newly won fur coats as an extra covering. The hardness of the floor was no deterrent to a good night's sleep. Over the months that they'd been together, Ryan and Krysty could almost count their nights in a proper bed on the fingers of both hands.

  As the fire sank lower and the wind began to ease, Ryan was awakened by a hand crabbing across his stomach. It inched its way lower, unbuckled his belt and eased his pants down over his hips. For some time Ryan tried to pretend that he was still sleeping, but Krysty's fingers on his body made him betray himself.

  "Waking up, lover?" she whispered, stroking him, rousing him with the insistent rhythm.

  "Looks that way," he replied, rolling over onto his back so that she could fondle him more easily—so that he could reach her more easily.

  "Gently," she murmured, lips brushing his ear. Both of them were aware of the sleeping sounds of the other four: Jak moaning and scratching his nails across the floor; Doc muttering a name that might have been his long-dead wife's; Rick, restless, his breathing fast and shallow; and J.B., on his back, hands down at his sides, like an em­balmed corpse, his weapons within easy reach.

  Tired by the effort of dragging the sled through the bliz­zard, Ryan found it difficult to begin the lovemaking. But Krysty's insistence and skill quickly overcame his reluc­tance and he managed to match her questing rhythm.

  They climaxed close together, scant seconds apart. Ryan felt his whole body stiffen, eye closing, teeth clenched with the overwhelming power of the orgasm. He clutched her so tightly that he was vaguely aware of her muscles creaking.

  In her turn Krysty gripped him, fingers leaving weals across his shoulders. She pressed herself so hard against him that it almost seemed as if she were trying to make them into a single, fused entity. She gave a little cry, bury­ing her face against his shoulder to muffle the sound.

  Afterward they slept again, close like a pair of spoons, his flaccid manhood nestling into the cleft of her firm but­tocks. She wriggled back with a murmur of pleasure, the slight movement sufficient to set him off again along the same road.

  "Thought you were tired, lover," she whispered over her shoulder as he slid into her from
behind.

  "Never done it in Russia before. Thought I'd check and make sure I enjoyed it as much as I did the first time."

  "And?"

  "Even better."

  THE DAWN CAME UP with a sullen, gray reluctance that barely lightened the large room, showing them a scene outside of utter bleakness. Snow now lay two feet thick over the land.

  Jak was up first, poking at the ashes of the fire, crouch­ing over and blowing through cupped fingers to try to revive the heat. He carefully put on a few dry splinters to coax the specks of glowing crimson embers into flaming life.

  "Could use pyrotab," he muttered, flicking his hair away from his face. "Get fucker burning."

  "Freshly squeezed orange juice followed by eggs Bene­dict on an English muffin. Side order of whole wheat toast and boysenberry jelly. And a jug of coffee, hot and strong enough to float a horseshoe," Rick suggested, leaning on one elbow to watch Jak's successful efforts to revive the fire.

  "I believe the mixed grill, or perhaps a lightly poached haddock might suffice. A pot of Earl Grey tea and some Oxford marmalade would slip down a treat," Doc added, carrying on the freezie's joke. "When you have a moment, of course."

  "Eat mutie shit, lazy mother!" Jak snarled, brushing smuts from his long white hair. "Got fire. Get own fuck­ing food!"

  "Watch your mouth, Jak," Ryan warned. "Don't for­get there's a lady here."

  "Sorry, Krysty. But done bit. Someone else get food."

  "Fair enough," Ryan agreed. "There's smoked fish or meat. That's about all."

  They held their council after everyone had eaten their fill. During the previous afternoon, before the storm blew in, Krysty had done a little exploring around the grounds of the old mansion and found a large lake, frozen over with ice thick enough to support a convoy of fully laden trade wags. More importantly, in a small courtyard at the rear of the house she'd come across a well. With a little effort she'd succeeded in reconnecting the drawing chain, enabling her to throw down the leaking copper bucket and haul up a supply of sweet, clean water.

  "Least we won't go thirsty," she said.

  "And there's food enough for a while," Ryan added.

  "Can't be far to the ville that those horsemen came from." J.B. rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "Night raid could top up the food. When we need to do it."

  "But what about repairing the damaged gateway?" Rick asked. He'd been moving awkwardly around the building since dawn, trying to keep his ailing muscles in some sort of condition.

  "We'll have to find the tools you need," Ryan agreed. "No choice. You can't trigger the system any other way?"

  The freezie shook his head. "No way. We stay here or we mend the door. Mending doors makes good neighbors, someone said."

  "No, he did not, my dear Rick," Doc argued. "It was walls. Walls, not doors."

  "Let it pass, Doc," Ryan said. "Just try and focus on the problem."

  Doc brightened. "Surely. And what would that problem be, my dear Ryan?"

  "Door's fucked, Doc. Can't jump. Mend door, jump. Don't, stay. Get it?" Jak told him.

  "Succinct, but perfectly comprehensible, my snow-haired compatriot. Of course."

  Rick coughed. "I just figure I should say that even if I get the tools, you all have to realize I can't guarantee I can patch it up. I can try. I think it'll work. But it's no more than that. It's a long shot."

  J.B. spoke for all of them. "Rick, it's the only shot we got."

  THEY TALKED TOGETHER for a little over an hour. There was general agreement that their best hope was to head in the general direction of where Moscow itself had once been.

  Most of the big urban centers in the Deathlands had been razed, but suburbs were often new centers of population.

  The only area of disagreement lay in who should go and who should stay.

  Rick had to stay, and with his illness and the possibility of further hostile attacks, he needed two to stay with him. The problem was who it would be.

  Grudgingly Jak agreed that his hair made him look too distinctive for safety in a foreign land.

  "And I am too decrepit, I suppose," Doc said. "But I would dearly have loved to see the Kremlin. The galleries and fine buildings."

  J.B. laughed. "C'mon, Doc. Our boys did their jobs, and all you'd get to see in Moscow is a big, big pile of rub­ble."

  Rick described carefully what he wanted, but his inabil­ity to communicate some of the finer technical details frustrated him. "Hell's bloody bells!" he exploded. "A bypass multiple cell adaptor! You must know what it is."

  Ryan shook his head. "Drop the rads, Rick! You gotta remember that all the technical science and everything folded up one long, dark day a hundred years ago. We'll do what we can. If worse comes to worst you'll have to come hunting with us."

  "Sure. Let's all play 'catch the gimp,' huh?" Rick's eyes behind the thick-lensed glasses blinked rapidly. "It's all I can do to… Oh, let it go, Ryan. Get what you can and I'll give it my best shot. When d'you go?"

  "Later, around noon. Give us some good traveling time. Trouble is, anyone looking for those guys on horses'll see us easy."

  "Like a hog on ice," the freezie said. "Like a tarantula in a peach melba. Like a pile of buffalo chips on a bridal gown. Like—"

  Ryan interrupted him. "I get the picture, Rick."

  "Yes, we see. Sorry. Me, the kid and the old-timer'll hold Fort Apache for you. To the last round, mon colonel. We die, but we do not surrender. We'll never give up the ship." Ryan walked slowly away, leaving Rick to babble to himself and laugh at his own private jokes. And wonder­ing about the stability of the freezie's mind.

  MAJOR-COMMISSAR Gregori Zimyanin was taking his midday break. A sour-faced woman in a stained pink overall pushed around a dented iron food cart, and people were able to buy items from her wide selection of culinary goodies.

  "What is it today, Nadia? Any of those spiced her­rings?"

  "Red cabbage and green cabbage. With vinegar and pickle." She delved into one of the containers on her trol­ley. "No, no pickles. That young cretin with the harelip in Child Registration took the last one."

  "Not an egg?" He knew it was a long shot. The last egg seen around the office of Internal Security had been back before the first snows of winter. But now the thaw was be­ginning—should be beginning, despite last night's heavy snowfall.

  "You want an egg, Comrade Major-Commissar?"

  He experienced a moment of unexpected, bright hope. "Yes. Yes, I do."

  "Then drop your breeches, squat and see if you can lay one. Because I sure as gold angels have none."

  "Then I'll have red cabbage, Nadia."

  She softened a little at the expression of disappointment on his face. She rather fancied the new major from out in the ultimate east where they had no gas and everyone rode a horse. Despite his pocked face and totally bald head, he was still a fine, muscular figure of a man.

  "I have kept two slices of sugared bread for you, Major-Commissar Zimyanin." The woman offered it to him with what she thought was a pleasant simper.

  For one blinding second he looked up and thought the miserable bitch was about to tear out his throat with her remaining teeth. Then, fortunately, he recognized it for an attempt at a smile and relaxed.

  "Thank you, Nadia. Most kind."

  "Always a delight to please you, Major-Commissar. I would do anything you wanted, as you know."

  A phrase from his book came to the mind of the officer. "I am most grateful, but I do not think that I shall be tak­ing you up on your kind offer." He smiled at the woman. He'd been warned about her as soon as he came into the office: "Lifts her skirt and drops her drawers for any man."

  After she'd left him with a bowl of cooling cabbage and the promised slices of sugary bread, Zimyanin began his exercises. Out on the Kamchatka it hadn't been necessary. The bleak life kept you fit. Here he resented the softness he saw everywhere, and he was determined not to fall into the same trap.

  Three times a day he did one hundred sit-ups, feet h
ooked beneath the rail of his desk. He lowered himself slowly back until the muscles of his stomach began to cry out for relief, then fifty press-ups on fingertips, bouncing and clapping his hands off the floor between each of the last ten.

  Every other day he worked out with weights in the base­ment of the Internal Security building, knowing that it gained him some odd, sideways looks from some of the other desk pilots. Why did you need to get so superfit, Major-Commissar?

  Because he wanted to, was the answer. A man must al­ways be ready, be at his best. Though he had to admit that life in and around the capital of The Party seemed quiet enough.

  "Too quiet," he panted, leaning on the wall after fin­ishing his press-ups, looking with distaste at the congeal­ing dish of vegetables. The knock on the door made him start.

  "Come in, Alicia Andreyinichna."

  "A note from southwestern region sec patrols, Major-Commissar. You did ask—"

  "For anything out of the ordinary," he finished. "In­deed I did. Go on."

  "Probably a tribal matter, or some illicit liquor still at the center of… Three men from a ville out near Peredelkino."

  His eyes went instinctively to the crudely inked map of the city and its sprawling maze of trails to dotted villes. He located Peredelkino and nodded for her to proceed.

  "They disappeared. Can't be found. They were on horseback." His eyes brightened momentarily at that. "And there's talk of an old crone and her giant son also having vanished. Or killed. The line from the southwest wasn't that clear this morning."

  "There was all the snow. Drunks caught in it. Witches and ogres! Really, Alicia Andreyinichna, that wasn't what I meant by interesting." When he saw the look of disap­pointment on her face, he relented. "But it may prove of some interest if they don't return at all. Keep me in­formed. I can send out Aliev to try and help them."

  "Yes." The syllable held a wealth of meaning. When Zimyanin had come to the city he'd brought a reputation for extreme toughness. He also brought his Dragunov rifle and a 9 mm Makarov pistol. And Aliev, who was under five feet tall and had the slanted eyes that betrayed his Mon­golian ancestry. He also showed some of the typical facial mutie malformations that Zimyanin had seen often out in the country. Gross and hideous. And the office workers of Internal Security had never seen anything like Aliev's face. Most stepped aside when they heard his hoglike snuffling breath approaching them. Girls who saw him burying his nuzzling face, which had no lower jaw, in a platter of minced meat and gravy-sodden bread, had sometimes been sick. Sometimes fainted.