Chaka joined him. Quait asked them to wait and went back to the campsite for a lantern, which he left dark.
“All right,” Shannon said, checking his weapon and shoving it into his holster. “Let’s go. But I hope nobody gets his idiot head blown off.”
“No, Jon,” said Silas. “If we walk into something, I’d rather some of us be outside. And I’d like you to be in a position to lead the rescue. Okay? Stay here. If we don’t come back, use your judgment.”
Shannon looked unhappy.
It was dark on the hill. Quait stepped into a hole and Silas tripped over a vine. Nevertheless, they made it safely to the bottom of the ridge and crossed the fifty yards or so that separated them from the buildings.
A dozen stone steps, bordered by a low wall, led up to the terrace. “Horses in the barn,” said Quait, detouring to take a look. There were three. With a wagon.
They crept up to the lighted windows and looked in.
The lamp was bright, and it burned steadily. It stood atop a side table, illuminating an armchair. But they saw no sign of a flame. There were several other pieces of furniture in the room, including a sofa. A cabinet held a set of unbound books.
“What do you think?” said Silas. His fingers lingered near his gun. He wasn’t used to the weapon, and Quait had noticed he walked with a mild swagger when he wore it. Tonight, though, the swagger wasn’t there.
Quait tried the windows. They were locked.
“I’d like to know how that lamp works,” said Chaka.
They watched for a while, but the room stayed empty. They returned at last to the front, climbed the steps, and crossed the terrace. There’d been four doors. Three were still in place; the fourth was missing, its space protected by a piece of thick gray canvas. Beyond, Quait could see a shadowy lobby, and the silhouettes of chairs and tables.
An inscription was engraved across the face of the building: THE RICHARD FEYNMAN SUPERCOLLIDER.
“Who was Richard Feynman?” Chaka asked.
Silas shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Quait glanced back up at the ridge. Shannon and the others were invisible, but he knew they were there watching. “Stay put,” he said, and padded over to the sheet of canvas.
Chaka and Silas were already following him. He tried unsuccessfully to wave them back, and slipped through the opening.
Had Chaka not been present, Quait would have looked a bit more, hoping to find a less direct way in. But the horses in the barn suggested the occupant was human rather than demonic. He wasn’t going to pass up a chance to play a heroic role by fumbling around looking for back doors.
A long counter stretched half the length of the rear wall. He moved a few steps away from the entrance, away from the glass so that he was not silhouetted against the stars. The floor was thick with dirt and leaves. There were two other doorways leading into the area and a staircase immediately to the left.
“Hello,” he called softly. “Anybody here?”
The wind sucked at the canvas.
He satisfied himself that the lobby was empty, and moved into a corridor. The walls were dirty white, pocked, and streaked with water stains. Doorways opened on either side, most into bare rooms. Other spaces, like the one they’d seen from outside, were loaded with Roadmaker furniture.
At the end of the corridor he turned left, toward the light that he could see leaking under a door.
He checked each room as he went by, saw no one, and pushed finally into the illuminated room. He was surprised by a surge of warm, dry air, although no fire was visible. The heat seemed to be coming from a series of pipes protruding from the wall. He was so absorbed by the device that he was not aware someone had come in behind him.
“It’ll burn you,” said a voice. Idiot. Quait spun around and looked into the muzzle of a Makar bear rifle.
His gaze moved slowly from the weapon to a pair of narrow, irritated eyes. Little man, bald rounded skull, thick forearms, gray-black beard. Sharp white teeth. “I mean no harm, friend,” Quait said.
“And you’ll do none.” Gravelly voice. “Take the gun out very slowly and put it down or I’ll kill you where you stand.” To Quait’s discomfort, the man sounded jittery.
“Take it easy,” Quait said. “I’m no threat.” He eased the weapon out and dropped it onto a sofa.
“I can see that.” The man took a long minute to consider him. “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you here?”
“My name’s Quait Esterhok. I’m just passing through. It’s cold outside. I came in looking for shelter. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“Over there.” He wanted Quait in the middle of the room.
Quait complied. “Who are you?” he asked.
The bald-headed man kept the weapon aimed at a point between Quait’s eyes.
“Look,” said Quait. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.” He took a tentative step to get out, but something in the man’s expression warned him to go no farther.
“I don’t see many visitors,” the bald man said. “Who’s with you?”
“Nobody.”
He glanced at one of the chairs. “Sit.”
Quait sat.
“Nobody travels this country alone, Esterhok. Now, I think your chances of getting out of here without a couple of holes in your carcass are going to improve considerably if you tell me the truth.”
“I wouldn’t lie to a man holding a gun,” Quait said. While they stared at each other, Chaka called his name. “You okay, Quait?” she cried. And, lower but still discernible, “Where’d he go, Silas?”
Quait grinned at his captor. “I’m okay,” he called. “But stay where you are. There’s a man here with a gun.”
“Tell them to come in here where I can see them.”
“No,” said Quait. “I won’t do that.”
The man wiped his face with his sleeve. He wore a crumpled gray shirt and baggy black trousers. “You in the hall,” he rumbled. “Come in here now, all of you, guns down, hands up, or I’ll kill this one.”
That brought a long silence. The bald man backed into a corner of the room so he could cover both Quait and the doorway.
“Don’t shoot anybody,” said Chaka. She came in, hands raised. Silas followed directly behind.
“What are you,” sputtered Silas, “a lunatic?”
“That’s an open question, I suppose.” The bald man glanced into the corridor. “Is there anyone else?”
“No,” said Quait. “You’ve got everybody.”
“I hope so. If there are any surprises, I’m going to start shooting. And you three will be first. Now, what are you doing in my house?”
Quait tried to explain. Silas, true to his nature, had focused on the handful of unbound volumes in the cabinet. Suddenly he sighed. “Ilion Talley,” he said. “Where did you get these?”
The bald man eyed him suspiciously. “How did you know my name?”
“You?” said Silas. “I was talking about the author of these books.”
“I am he.”
Silas frowned and pursed his lips. “Ilion Talley’s dead.”
“Oh, not as dead as some would like.”
“Are you really Talley? Of Masandik?”
“Of course, you nitwit. Who else would I be?” The rifle wavered and his voice softened. “You know of me, then?”
“Everyone knows the Mechanic,” said Silas. He was staring hard at the bald man. “I do believe …” he said. “I believe it really is you.” He clapped his hands. “Wonderful. This makes the entire trip worthwhile. Whatever else happens.” He plunged forward, completely forgetful of the weapon.
Talley hesitated and then, if he’d had a mind to shoot, it was too late. Silas was by him, pumping his hand. “Marvelous,” Silas said. “We met years ago, but I was very young and you’d have no way of remembering. My name’s Silas Glote.”
