wrist from Sandy. She pulled back then, bored with her immediate prospects, and innocently changed the subject. "Can I see the man?"
Too late, Quantrill realized her drift. He and Sandy, simultaneously: "What man?"
"The man in your cycle," Childe said.
"You've kept someone hiding out there?" Sandy wasn't more than half-horrified. Yet.
"Not hiding," said Childe. "Dead." Quantrill was not surprised that Ba'al's educated nose could detect the scent of a dead man. He was astonished that the boar could have communicated the fact to Childe with only a few passing grunts.
Quantrill: "Oh, shit."
Childe: "Not's'posed to say shit."
Sandy: "Ted Quantrill, is that true? Did you actually bring a—a corpse here?" With a more hopeful suspicion, she continued, "Was it some poor wetback dead of exposure? Snakebite?" But her mood darkened as she saw he was not going to offer some good Samaritan excuse.
He pushed back from the table; took a final sip of coffee before replying, staring at Sandy. "It was a man named Mike Rawson, a hired gun protecting a shipment of heroin—for a man he called Sorrel. You remember Espinel? Friend of your old hotsy, Lufo; my friend, too. Well, Espinel and some others were deputized up near Junction to stop Sorrel's people for a contraband search. Now Espinel is cold in the Junction morgue, thanks to that brush-poppin' sonofabitch Rawson. He tried to tomhorn me, bushwhack me, south of here. No, I wasn't going to tell you about it. I knew you'd get all spooked."
"I am not spooked. I am repelled, I am disgusted, I am—
"Mad as hell," Childe supplied with cheer.
"And I"—Quantrill sighed—"am on my way. Thanks a lot for everything, sis," he said to the girl, and remembered to flourish his hat to Sandy at the door. "Mighty good chili." he said, and then, on his way out, "and by-God first-rate entertainment."
The coffee cup missed him because he was already in darkness, navigating by memory to the hovercycle. Much of Sandy's vitriol also missed him because he was busy muttering to himself. He caught her phrases, "no better'n a goddamn saddle tramp, a hired gunsel" and "might've brought me flowers, but no, he brings me a dead cimarron instead."
The dial at his wrist told him it was half-past nine, and the pounding anger in his head told him he wouldn't be able, to sleep anyway. A cold moon showed him the way to the potholed county road and, without lights, he found his way to the Junction highway. He was still vulnerable to anyone with a nightscope, and this was still the raw edge of Wild Country, so he hunkered down and flipped the bullet-resistant polyglass side panels up. He knew he could cadge a free night's lodging at the Junction jail, if he could avoid a drygulching en route.
Chapter Six
First, Sandy Grange located the plastic cup she had hurled into the night. Then she shooed Childe into bed, arranging the woven comforter with its plaited strips of rabbit fur so that it would be close at hand. Next she tidied up, imagined that Childe's snores were genuine, and sat down at the table with her lockbox.
The contents of that box would not have gladdened the heart of a petty thief, unless he knew what he was looking at. A ruled composition tablet of polypaper and ballpoint pens; a curled Polaroid photo, a candid shot of Ted Quantrill in the early days of the war while he still carried a certain innocence in those green eyes; the tarnished engagement ring with its tawdry rutile gem which Lufo Albeniz had once given her (she had never worn it); and finally a stainless-steel amulet of peculiar workmanship. Its central bezel was empty because Sandy had pried the great jewel from it.
Sandy did not know that this unique off-planet jewel, dubbed the Ember of Venus, now adorned the throat of the mistress of a top official of Pemex Oil. She only knew that she had entrusted the thing to her ex-lover, Lufo, hoping that he might sell it for a reasonable fraction of its true value. This, Lufo had done.
Sandy
Too late, Quantrill realized her drift. He and Sandy, simultaneously: "What man?"
"The man in your cycle," Childe said.
"You've kept someone hiding out there?" Sandy wasn't more than half-horrified. Yet.
"Not hiding," said Childe. "Dead." Quantrill was not surprised that Ba'al's educated nose could detect the scent of a dead man. He was astonished that the boar could have communicated the fact to Childe with only a few passing grunts.
Quantrill: "Oh, shit."
Childe: "Not's'posed to say shit."
Sandy: "Ted Quantrill, is that true? Did you actually bring a—a corpse here?" With a more hopeful suspicion, she continued, "Was it some poor wetback dead of exposure? Snakebite?" But her mood darkened as she saw he was not going to offer some good Samaritan excuse.
He pushed back from the table; took a final sip of coffee before replying, staring at Sandy. "It was a man named Mike Rawson, a hired gun protecting a shipment of heroin—for a man he called Sorrel. You remember Espinel? Friend of your old hotsy, Lufo; my friend, too. Well, Espinel and some others were deputized up near Junction to stop Sorrel's people for a contraband search. Now Espinel is cold in the Junction morgue, thanks to that brush-poppin' sonofabitch Rawson. He tried to tomhorn me, bushwhack me, south of here. No, I wasn't going to tell you about it. I knew you'd get all spooked."
"I am not spooked. I am repelled, I am disgusted, I am—
"Mad as hell," Childe supplied with cheer.
"And I"—Quantrill sighed—"am on my way. Thanks a lot for everything, sis," he said to the girl, and remembered to flourish his hat to Sandy at the door. "Mighty good chili." he said, and then, on his way out, "and by-God first-rate entertainment."
The coffee cup missed him because he was already in darkness, navigating by memory to the hovercycle. Much of Sandy's vitriol also missed him because he was busy muttering to himself. He caught her phrases, "no better'n a goddamn saddle tramp, a hired gunsel" and "might've brought me flowers, but no, he brings me a dead cimarron instead."
The dial at his wrist told him it was half-past nine, and the pounding anger in his head told him he wouldn't be able, to sleep anyway. A cold moon showed him the way to the potholed county road and, without lights, he found his way to the Junction highway. He was still vulnerable to anyone with a nightscope, and this was still the raw edge of Wild Country, so he hunkered down and flipped the bullet-resistant polyglass side panels up. He knew he could cadge a free night's lodging at the Junction jail, if he could avoid a drygulching en route.
Chapter Six
First, Sandy Grange located the plastic cup she had hurled into the night. Then she shooed Childe into bed, arranging the woven comforter with its plaited strips of rabbit fur so that it would be close at hand. Next she tidied up, imagined that Childe's snores were genuine, and sat down at the table with her lockbox.
The contents of that box would not have gladdened the heart of a petty thief, unless he knew what he was looking at. A ruled composition tablet of polypaper and ballpoint pens; a curled Polaroid photo, a candid shot of Ted Quantrill in the early days of the war while he still carried a certain innocence in those green eyes; the tarnished engagement ring with its tawdry rutile gem which Lufo Albeniz had once given her (she had never worn it); and finally a stainless-steel amulet of peculiar workmanship. Its central bezel was empty because Sandy had pried the great jewel from it.
Sandy did not know that this unique off-planet jewel, dubbed the Ember of Venus, now adorned the throat of the mistress of a top official of Pemex Oil. She only knew that she had entrusted the thing to her ex-lover, Lufo, hoping that he might sell it for a reasonable fraction of its true value. This, Lufo had done.
Sandy
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