Wild Country

politeness. They had something far more important to discuss, something that might powerfully affect his fortunes and those of New Israel.

No doubt of it: if Americans could cheaply and legally synthesize drugs, there would be no further point — certainly no money — in Sorel's conduit through Wild Country. Besides which, the Israelis saw clearly that any country that owned synthesizers would have a tremendous advantage over those that did not. It was almost like membership in the nuclear club of the last century, but with an edge that was economic instead of thermonuclear.

New Israel — if Sorel was interpreting the plot correctly — had reason to hope they would soon get their hands on a synthesizer. Meanwhile, having long since abandoned emotional ties to Earthbound countries, they could throw sand in the American gears in two ways.

One, they just might be able to sabotage the American production plant. That would delay the American advantage while others fought to create, or steal, the same technology.

Two, they could certainly provide a sudden and dramatic increase in hard drugs to the American heartland, at dirt-cheap prices. They would need someone to push the stuff through Wild Country for a year; perhaps longer. Very soon, old addicts could wallow in the stuff and give samples away. It would probably mean new addictions, overdoses, and a widespread national revulsion.

At exactly the time when legalization was under debate.

The scenario had loads of appeal for Felix Sorel, especially when he saw that the producer offered him something highly unusual: the right to select alternate endings. In plot one, his character made alliance with the arms suppliers and lived happily ever after. In plot two, Sorel refused that alliance.

Plot two had a tragic ending.

Sorel flopped onto his belly to toast his back a deeper golden brown and thought about living happily ever after. This new alliance could not last forever; a year, two or three at most. But in that time he would gain much, and his enemies to the north would suffer much. Whether New Israel gained or lost, in the long run, was of no importance whatever. Whether the Israelis blew him away in the short run was of the utmost importance, and those chingaderos were very good and uncommonly patient at doing exactly that. Did he want to spend the rest of his life in shadow, running from other shadows? Or did he prefer to make amends for his little breach with Maazel and company and haul more mierda through Wild Country to be spread across Reconstruction America?

Felix Sorel knew when he was co-opted. He could admire a bunch that absorbed their losses with such easy grace. 'Kaiyi,' he called lazily, 'bring Cipriano to the study. We must tell San Antonio Rose to alert our Anglo friends. It seems,' he added, smiling to himself, 'that I have a contract with a producer.'

Chapter Thirty-Three

Quantrill wasted several hours during the next week, wondering how to get himself fired convincingly. His time was wasted because, internally, he had already quit. He had endured the buffeting of Chief Deputy Stearns this long only by applying discipline he had learned during the war. Tuck away that discipline, that cautious reserve, and you had a man who exactly fitted old Jim Street's complaint: one insubordinate son of a bitch.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, ten days after he returned the Garner hovervan to Sandy, when he and a half dozen other deputies arrived in Junction, summoned by calls from Stearns. The men lounged on wicker chairs, sipping soft drinks and talking shop as they waited for the meeting to begin.

The deputies were all young men, the kind who preferred backslaps and hard work in the open to handshakes and soft cushions at a desk. Three or four times a year they were assembled like this, and good-natured rivalry was likely to involve horseplay. Quantrill accepted his share of it but never kept it going.

Randy Matthews, a stump-legged farmer from Menard with a quick wit, was offering his plug of tobacco to Quantrill as Marvin Stearns strode into the room. 'You'll need a chew to keep you awake,' he muttered, selecting the chair behind Quantrill's.

Stearns stepped to a lectern, looked over the men, consulted the display screen of his flat 'corder. 'Settle down, boys, there's good news.'

Quantrill smiled and shook his head at Matthews as he took a seat. 'Thanks anyway, Matthews.' Words could not convey his distaste for plug tobacco, but he tried: 'I'd rather chew a horse muffin,' he whispered over his shoulder.

Matthews whispered back: 'So would I, but this is the next best thing.'

So Quantrill was laughing as Steams began his spiel: '…a seminar in DalWorth next week, and that means you, too, Quantrill.' The younger man nodded, trying to wipe the mirth from his face. Trouble was, anything that is the least bit funny becomes twice as funny when you're not supposed to laugh.

'You'll all go by air from SanTone, all expenses paid, with a little per diem you can spend at Six Flags if you don't find the cathouses first,' Stearns said smugly, then in an aside: 'Goddammit, Quantrill, if you're gonna choke, do it quietly.'

Quantrill struggled with his expression, honestly trying to look alert, expectant. A week at government expense in the Dallas — Forth Worth area was a rare treat, and he was as pleased as his fellows for the opportunity.

But Stearns misread amusement as insolence in the green eyes. Midway up Stearns's list of punishable offenses was insolence from a deputy. At the top of that list was insolence in the presence of other deputies. No matter that he had his own reasons for wanting his part-timers far from Wild Country during a particular week soon. If one of those peons asked for disciplinary action, he was going to get it. Especially that deadly little bastard who seemed to be laughing at him now, in public.

'I've had enough, Quantrill.' Steams tried to stare the other man down. It wasn't a wild success. 'How funny would it be if I canceled your freebie to DalWorth?'

Even the most trivial threat can be a trigger. Quantrill leaned back in his chair. 'A side-splitter,' he said.

In a cold fury: 'Consider it done.' Stearns saw a new sobriety on the faces of the other men. This was as good a time as any to demonstrate his power over them. To the group he said, 'I was processing a commendation for Mister smartass Quantrill. I can still hold it up.'

Quantrill stuck one hand behind his back. 'Hey, Stearns,' he said lazily, 'guess what I'm holding up.'

Behind him, Randy Matthews saw the upraised finger and covered his mouth to hide his smile.

Raising his arm, jabbing a forefinger to pace each word: 'You're on a month's suspension, Quantrill. No pay, no commendation.'

'Commend this,' was the reply, with a suitable gesture. Quantrill got up and walked toward the door.

For one instant, the other men thought Steams would hurl the 'corder at his deputy's back. 'Six months. The maximum,' Steams said instead, choking on his rage.

'The maximum is forever. I like it better that way,' said Quantrill. The room was very quiet, so quiet they heard the soft click of the doorlatch as Quantrill eased the door shut behind him.

Chapter Thirty-Four

He could not say why at first, but Quantrill put off telling Jess Marrow that he had drawn his last wages as a pan-time deputy marshal. It was not that he could still leave WCS land for days at a time without any explanation, though that was true enough. The fact was, Quantrill felt ashamed of the way he had taunted Marv Steams. The big man might be crooked as a dog's hind leg, or he might not; but he'd had the look of a man blindsided from ambush when Quantrill had walked out on him. As if, by refusing to play by the rules as Stearns understood them, Quantrill had taken unfair advantage.

There had been a time when Quantrill had taken unfairness for granted. When the government implants a radio monitor in your head and can detonate it for your slightest mistake, you tend to simplify your ethics. When