you like."
* * *
I held my hands clear of my body and turned around slowly—just in case there was a nervous gun aimed at my spine. The Baron was standing near the door, unarmed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt.
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
The Baron waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Jackson," he said, almost gently. "You've had a tough time of it—but you're all right now." He walked past me to the bar, poured out two glasses, turned, and offered me one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I went over and took the drink.
"To the old days." The Baron raised his glass.
I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. "I asked you how you knew my name," I said.
"That's easy. I used to know you."
He smiled faintly. There was something about his face . . .
"You look well in the uniform of the Penn dragoons," he said. "Better than you ever did in Aerospace blue."
"Good God!" I said. "Toby Mallon!"
He ran a hand over his bald head. "A little less hair on top, plus a beard as compensation, a few wrinkles, a slight pot. Oh, I've changed, Jackson."
"I had it figured as close to eighty years," I said. "The trees, the condition of the buildings—"
"Not far off the mark. Seventy-eight years this spring."
"You're a well-preserved hundred and ten, Toby."
He nodded. "I know how you feel. Rip Van Winkle had nothing on us."
"Just one question, Toby. The men you sent out to pick me up seemed more interested in shooting than talking. I'm wondering why."
Mallon threw out his hands. "A little misunderstanding, Jackson. You made it; that's all that counts. Now that you're here, we've got some planning to do together. I've had it tough these last twenty years. I started off with nothing: a few hundred scavengers living in the ruins, hiding out every time Jersey or Dee-Cee raided for supplies. I built an organization, started a systematic salvage operation. I saved everything the rats and the weather hadn't gotten to, spruced up my palace here, and stocked it. It's a rich province, Jackson—"
"And now you own it all. Not bad, Toby."
"They say knowledge is power. I had the knowledge."
I finished my drink and put the glass on the bar.
"What's this planning you say we have to do?"
Mallon leaned back on one elbow.
"Jackson, it's been a long haul—alone. It's good to see an old shipmate. But we'll dine first."
"I might manage to nibble a little something. Say a horse, roasted whole. Don't bother to remove the saddle."
He laughed. "First we eat," he said. "Then we conquer the world."
6
I squeezed the last drop from the Beaujolais bottle and watched the girl, whose name was Renada, hold a light for the cigar Mallon had taken from a silver box. My blue mess jacket and holster hung over the back of the chair. Everything was cosy now.
"Time for business, Jackson," Mallon said. He blew out smoke and looked at me through it. "How did things look—inside?"
"Dusty. But intact, below ground level. Upstairs, there's blast damage and weathering. I don't suppose it's changed much since you came out twenty years ago. As far as I could tell, the Primary Site is okay."
Mallon leaned forward. "Now, you made it out past the Bolo. How did it handle itself? Still fully functional?"
I sipped my wine, thinking over my answer, remembering the Bolo's empty guns . . .
"It damn near gunned me down. It's getting a little old and it can't see as well as it used to, but it's still a tough baby."
Mallon swore suddenly. "It was Mackenzie's idea. A last-minute move when the tech crews had to evacuate. It was a dusting job, you know."
"I hadn't heard. How did you find out all this?"
Mallon shot me a sharp look. "There were still a few people around who'd been in it. But never mind that. What about the Supply Site? That's what we're interested in. Fuel, guns, even some nuclear stuff. Heavy equipment; there's a couple more Bolos,
MR. PINK-WHISTLE INTERFERES