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Listen to me. Yoville just wanted to try it on. Try and trick us. He'd have
found a way of ambushing us once we were outside the walls. And then Tomwun
and
Miranda and every living soul here would've got to be very dead, very quickly.
Now he'll be that bit less confident. Lost two more. Played them as cards and
they got taken out."
"Suppose you're wrong, Ryan? You thought about that possibility?" Mildred
sighed. "I guess you have. Sorry. Stupe sort of question."
"If I'm right, we got a small chance more than we did before. If I'm wrong,
then we're no worse off. Least we're still all alive."
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON three mortar shells came howling in from the north.
Their dark shapes, silhouetted against a golden sky, fell in a parabolic curve
from the south of the institute. One missed badly, overshooting by at least
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two hundred yards, exploding in the dunes with a muffled crump and an
insignificant pillar of dust. The second one landed at the rear of the complex
of the buildings, knocking a hole through the roof of some abandoned kitchens,
and failing to detonate.
When J.B. examined it later he found that it was an old implode-gren that had
wings crudely welded on to try to turn it into a shell.
The third of the missiles hit near the quayside.
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Chuck Cybulski was the only person anywhere near it, walking to check on the
guards who were on watch at the seaward side of the institute.
Splinters of shrapnel tore into his knees and lower legs, ripping them apart.
By the time anyone got to him, he'd bled to death.
SUPPER WAS a subdued meal.
Though Ryan didn't believe that the gang of killers would attack during the
hours of darkness, he wasn't prepared to risk his life on it. So sentries were
posted and
Miranda sent out her dolphin scouts on a nocturnal mission.
The two Bobs brought in tureens of an excellent chowder, filled with bite-size
chunks of fresh and smoked fish. But the bread was stale, baked two days
earlier, following on Ryan's order that all fires were to be extinguished,
except those in brief and immediate use for providing a hot breakfast and a
hot supper.
"Dessert's a little on the thin side tonight, as well. Oatmeal cooked in milk,
then soaked in honey and quick-fried. Served with some strawberry jelly."
"Running out of eggs, as well," the other Bob added. "Wish those pirates would
attack and get it over with, then we can get some decent food again."
"Could boil some fatback and a few beans, if anyone's still in need of some
nourishment. Perhaps after all that killing, Mr. Cawdor? All that energy and
all of that reckless bravery. Must take it out of a person."
Krysty laid her hand on Ryan's arm, feeling the muscles jumping with
suppressed anger. She looked at the two young men. "I'd go now. Unless you
want to find your teeth growing out of your asses. Thanks for the food."
Muttering between themselves, they left the room, closing the outer door
behind them with rather more noise than was necessary. Everyone sat in
silence, listening to the sound of their feet crunching away through the dry
sand.
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Doc broke the moment of tension, standing and picking up the metal ladle in
the larger of the tureens. He took off the lid with his other hand. "Ah, that
brings back so many good, good memories," He inhaled deeply, with his eyes
closed. "Emily was always rather proud of the exquisite nature of her own
chowder. Learned it from a spinster cousin, Harriet, who hailed from Nantucket
or some such place."
"Can you help me to a serving, Doc?" Dean asked, holding out his plate.
"But of course." The chowder steamed in the cool of the evening as he ladled
out a generous helping for the boy. "Dear Emily made it with fresh butter and
homegrown herbs and spices." He kissed his gnarled fingers. "For that extra
touch of piquancy. Oh, my dearest darling."
He sat down and began to eat, seemingly oblivious to the tears that trickled
down his cheeks.
Mildred had only a small portion before pushing away her plate. She refused
the oatcakes. "Just don't feel hungry, sorry." She caught Ryan's eye and
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smiled wryly.
"Nothing personal. Truly. Just don't feel hungry. Nerves. Used to be a bit
like this the night before a big shooting match. Once I reached the butts I
was fine. I
think& I think you did what was right, Ryan."
"Thanks, Mildred."
"Didn't like it. I remember, so long ago now, seeing a famous bit of news vid.
Some policeman in Saigon who pulled out his pistol and blew away some poor
bastard they'd captured. I guess the dead guy must have been what they called
the
Vietcong. That was different to what you did. Still& "
"Taking a life's never easy, Mildred," J.B. said quietly, laying his spoon in
his empty bowl.
"I know that, John. Last few months I've seen things I'd never have& Well,
enough. Time for bed." She got up from the table, walked around and stopped by
Ryan's chair, bending to kiss him on the cheek. "Way to go, Ryan," she said.
"Guess you did it pretty up and walking good, didn't you?"
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"Tried. Good night, Mildred. Night, J.B., sleep well. Could be a bright start
in the morning."
The Armorer rubbed a dribble of chowder from his chin. "If I had jack to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]