“Really? Not up on my classical lore.”
The waiter brought Thaxton’s hamburger. It was large and rested inside a sliced pita loaf. Thaxton lifted the top slice and sniffed. The waiter set down a bottle in front of him.
“Ah. Steak sauce.” Thaxton applied a liberal dose.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Thaxton lifted the huge thing and examined it.
“No onions or tomatoes?” Dalton asked.
“I’m a purist.” He took a bite and chewed. “Tastes a bit gamey.”
“Probably ground salamander or something.”
“It’s good enough.” Thaxton set the hamburger down. “Still thinking about getting back to the castle.
“Well, I get that feeling, too, but I can’t think of what to do except retrace our steps.”
“We can’t very well do that. Those holes are as good as under Vesuvius now.”
“I suppose we could just come out and ask.”
“Capital idea.”
Thaxton lifted an arm and called the waiter over.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell me … how do I phrase this? Know of any — well,
“Castles, sir?”
“Um, yes. Castles.”
Gamalkon scrunched up his face in thought. “Sir, I don’t recall ever seeing any castles around here.”
“Any … sort of floating doorways into castles? I suppose not.”
Gamalkon shook his horned head. “Sorry, sir.”
“Quite all right. Thank you. Uh, I think we need another bottle of wine. I do, anyway.”
“Right away, sir.”
Thaxton gave Dalton a forlorn look. “I suppose it’s hopeless.”
“Looks like. Don’t worry about it. We’ll find our way back eventually. After the eighteenth hole. I think fate has decreed that we play this course through.”
“Fate, eh? Bloody bad luck, I call it.”
“Thaxton, old boy, you just won’t admit that you’re having the time of your life.”
Thaxton poured himself more wine. “A spot more of this and I
Dalton laughed.
Two strange-looking creatures were shown to the next table. They looked like gargoyles come to life. One of them looked over and squawked something that sounded friendly.
“Good afternoon! Nice to see you,” Dalton answered brightly.
Thaxton managed a thin smile. “NOSD, those two,” he murmured.
“Eh?”
“‘Not Our Species, Dear.’”
“I wonder if they’d be up for a foursome.”
“With my luck, they’re probably both scratch players.”
“My handicap is nothing to write home about, either, but it might be interesting.”
Dalton’s entree was served.
“Very good indeed,” he pronounced. “These wild mushrooms provide just the right accent.”
The meal progressed. The wine flowed; the second bottle emptied. More Chateau Avernus was ordered.
A while later the room began to shake. Wine bottles fell over and the windows rattled. A piece of ceiling fell to the floor very near.
Glassy-eyed and smiling, Thaxton looked around. “If I weren’t so drunk I’d be frightened out of my wits.”
Dalton said thickly, “D’you think we should … make a run for it?”
“Yes, let’s.”
They both had a hard time getting up. Thaxton picked up the full bottle.
“Get your clubs, old boy,” Dalton said.
“Right.” Teetering, Thaxton picked up his golf bag.
With a resounding crash, part of the ceiling collapsed, and a portion of the far wall gave way. Debris cascaded down. After the dust cleared, half the room lay buried in rubble.
“Dalton, old boy. You all right?”
Dalton sat up and brushed himself off. “I think. We had better get outdoors fast, wouldn’t you say?”
“Having a spot of trouble. Leg’s stuck under this bit of concrete, here.”
“Let’s see if we can move it.”
Dalton squatted and put his weight against the mass but stopped when he saw Thaxton wince. He searched around, found nothing suitable, and so used his two-iron as a lever, attacking the job from the other side. The club bent, but the chunk of ceiling lifted enough so that Thaxton could get his leg out from under it.
Dalton helped him up. “Can you walk?”
“I can hobble.”
“Need help?”
“I’ll manage. Give me that iron.”
“Here. Are you sure?”
“I’ve got the wine. Don’t forget the clubs, old boy.”
They picked their way toward a ragged opening in the wall.
“Bit of luck, this,” Thaxton said.
“How so?”
“I was wondering how we were going to get out of paying the bill. Don’t have a farthing on me.”
Fourteen
City
There was little to orientation. He was not subjected to political indoctrination or any long harangues; there was no orientation per se. He was simply issued clothing — an all-weather coat with baggy trousers — and a sheet of paper with some instructions on it. The instructions said to report to a certain address, his new residence. He was to remain there until he was issued new instructions, which he would receive via his apartment communication screen. That, along with more slogans, was all there was.
TO LOVE IS TO OBEY
GOOD CITIZENS ARE HAPPY CITIZENS
DUTY LIES WITHIN
Banners with slogans draped every building facade, hung from every cornice. He walked the streets reading posters in storefront windows and on kiosks. He could not get a sense of who was running things. There were no giant blowups of some dictatorial face, no direct references to a political party or revolutionary cabal.
The people he passed were all smiling, hurrying to some duty or another. It was a strange smile, somehow detached from or irrelevant to any real sense of well-being. It was not forced, yet not quite real.
He stopped to ask directions of a traffic director — not a policeman; the man wore only a white brassard and was unarmed. The man told him to take an omnibus with a certain number and to get off at Complex 502 on the Boulevard of Social Concern.
“Put a smile on your face,” the man told him.
