The Archivist Read Online Free PDF Page A

backpacks, which are now routine gear everywhere. I always keep mine ready to grab, literally. More than once I have barely had enough time snatch it and run. I will not say I cannot live without my backpack, but there is no question that my retrieval work would be far more difficult without all the goodies stashed away in one or another of its secret compartments.
    When we are ready to leave, I take my staff and follow Doc out the door, then pause, barring Danae from coming out while I quickly scan the street. No sign of the Disciple, and if his goons have recovered, they are keeping out of sight.
    Across the street, a small pack of several mongrel dogs is intent on digging up a small animal burrow in an abandoned lot. Dogs are still companions for humans everywhere I go, but only the working varieties. Aside from a minor baron that I found maintaining a small pack of King Charles Cavaliers, I have not seen a show breed in decades.
    For several years I kept a German Shepherd companion, but for her own safety I had to leave her with a trusted contact on a mission in Peru. She probably still has not forgiven me, I reflect, with a pang of guilt.
    A few pedestrians trudge by on the street, going to whatever chores await them, and they chat nonchalantly while ignoring us, so the coast seems to be clear. After I move out onto the porch, Danae glares at me before she locks the door. I respect that she likes to be her own boss, but not on my retrieval. I have probably been doing this longer than she has been alive.
    Other than a few puffy clouds, the sky is clear, and the morning light gives me a better view of the residential section of Port Sadelow. The simple houses are small and relatively featureless, fashioned out of rough-hewn wood and mostly unpainted. Now when I examine them, I see that the rustic, austere structures are built stronger than I first gave them credit for. Most yards have vegetable gardens and a few have compact flowerbeds. The large house on the corner even has a second story.
    We turn at the corner and follow several long, dirt street blocks until we reach the edge of the modest town. There are no city walls, just a plain wooden fence marking the transition from town to farmland. As we move into the fields, a light, gusty breeze beats steady on our backs, and the brackish smell of inter-coastal water follows us on the worn path that leads up a gradual slope into the trees.
    Near the top of the hill, I pause to glance around while I take out my pistol crossbow and sling it on my pack. Plots of green fields and brown dirt surround this settlement, spreading to the right and left alongside the river. Left unmolested, this might one day be a significant community.
    Our route takes us inland into small rolling foothills. Just after it enters the forest, the ten-foot-wide path connects to a well-travelled thoroughfare which has the consistent width and level surface of a pre-Crash road. The years have reclaimed much of what was probably a paved two-lane road at one time; the forest encroaches from both sides. Broken asphalt occasionally shows through the decades of dirt and debris that have collected; only regular traffic keeps the route relatively open.
    The moment we entered the forest we lost the warmth of the sunlight, so the air gets colder, but the breeze is also gone. After six weeks of breezes while I was at sea, escaping the wind chill makes it a fair trade. We leave the town behind as we trek down a worn pathway through a tunnel of trees.
    Our small group is not talkative; the old man conserves all of his breath for hiking, and Danae falls back occasionally to take a stone out of her shoe or adjust her pack. At least she does not complain when she catches up, so I give her points for that.
    The morning passes. A couple of times, we step off to the side when we encounter small caravans of traders coming our way. These groups of three or four wagons have banded together for protection; the wealthier ones