by David Drake
He gripped the padlock with one huge hand and twisted. A piece of the hasp flew off with a snap and pinged nervously on the floor.
Bannock tossed the remainder of the lock after it. Mark gaped. A force of nature, all right.
Bannock pulled the door open, reached down, and threw Griggs inside. He tossed the other big man after the first, then sauntered over to where Mark's victim lay. The door stood wide behind him.
"I used to be real good at this," Bannock said regretfully. He lifted the flaccid Zenith by the belt, his center of balance. "I've slowed down, though, and I don't know when the last time I cleaned out a tavern was."
Bannock lofted the unconscious man ten feet through the air. He vanished into Room 37, landing with a crash among his fellows and the Mayor's baggage.
The remaining Zenith stopped struggling. He hung rigid from the light sconce, obviously terrified of drawing further attention to himself.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Bannock," Mark said. He didn't have his voice quite under control. There were too many hormones surging through his bloodstream. "Your help was a, a godsend."
"Tsk," said Bannock, slamming the door of Room 37. "I appreciate the chance to bring dirt from Zenith to a better understanding of their place in the universe."
He looked around and murmured, "Now, what'll we—yeah, that'll do nicely."
The corner of a heavy cart had cracked the doorpost of a nearby room. Over the years, further impacts and water seeping into the weak places had flaked off most of the concrete covering a reinforcing rod. Bannock scuffed the rod with his boot heel to twist it out from the wall. He bent, gripped the end of the three-eighths-inch steel, and jerked it fiercely back and forth until a foot of it snapped off in his hand.
"Whooee!" Bannock said, juggling the rod one palm to the other. "Tell me that don't heat metal up, working that way!"
He thrust the rod over Room 37's strap and through the staple, then bent the rod into a loop. The room was sealed until somebody cut the rod. Or somebody as strong as Yerby Bannock straightened the steel out again, which seemed about as likely as a sunny day on Dittersdorf Major.
Bannock dusted his hands together. He grinned up at the man on the light sconce. The Zenith pretended to be catatonic, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut.
"Sir, you're amazingly strong!" Mark blurted.
"Ah, but you're the one who opened the dishes so I didn't have to tear the box apart, lad," Bannock said, though he was obviously pleased at the compliment. "Amy couldn't have been happier to see the plates, neither. Said she'd heard of such but never thought she'd see it for herself."
Mark saw the pistol glittering on the concrete. He picked it up and looked at it curiously. The short barrel ended in a needle spike.
Bannock shook his head. "Nerve scrambler," he said. "Not supposed to kill you, but this one likely would anyhow seeing's it's such a piss-poor piece of junk. Don't you mess with it, lad."
He took the scrambler from Mark, held it momentarily in both hands, and twisted. Bits of the weapon showered to the floor.
"How did you do that?" Mark said.
Bannock shrugged. "Well," he said, "you want to make sure you don't have your hand over the barrel because sometimes they go off. Time or two I was too drunk to remember that."
He opened his left palm toward Mark. The flesh was scarred like wax heated until bubbles rose and burst.
Dr. Jesilind emerged from his room. "Ah, Yerby, you're back," he said with a false brightness. He looked around the common area, obviously surprised not to see Mayor Biber's servants. When he noticed the man hanging from the light sconce, he said, "Yerby, you've been fighting again!"
"Well, not like you'd really call fighting, Doctor," Bannock said in some embarrassment. "Nothing undignified, like."
Mark stared at Jesilind. He'd have thrown me to the wolves to save his own skin! The doctor flushed as if he'd heard the unspoken words.
"I found a place we can eat all together," Bannock said. "Not Kilbourn quality, maybe, but I guess it'll do better than cold rations in this box."
He looked up at the caravansary's domed ceiling and grimaced. "Like a tomb, this place is. A big concrete tomb."
Mark suddenly relaxed. OK, Jesilind wasn't a hero, but neither was Mark Maxwell. If the doctor had come out shouting and swinging when he saw what was happening, two innocent men instead of one would have the tar whaled out of them by thugs from Zenith. It hadn't been Jesilind's fault.
"Say, you'll come along with us, won't you, Mark?" Bannock said. "It is Mark, right?"
Mark opened his mouth. He was used to being "Mr. Maxwell," to people he'd known for years. That was normal politeness on Quelhagen.
A frown as momentary as riffles on a pond crossed Dr. Jesilind's face. He didn't say anything.
Mark wasn't on Quelhagen anymore. "I'd be honored, Yerby," he said. "But you'll have to let me pay for the meal as a small recompense for you saving me a moment ago."
Bannock clapped Mark on the shoulders. The big frontiersman really did know his own strength—Mark had seen how great that strength was when it wasn't being tightly controlled—but he had an inflated notion of how strong normal people were, too. The friendly gesture almost knocked Mark down.
"You pay?" Yerby snorted. "When, besides them plates for Amy, you got me the best exercise I've had since I left Greenwood? Your money's no good when I'm around, boy! Now, let's go introduce you to my sister."
3. Dinner for Four
Mark wore a waterproof cape with a metallized layer that reflected body heat back to the wearer. Jesilind had an umbrella with clear sides hanging down nearly to the ground like diaphanous draperies. The struts kept jabbing things, including his companions if they weren't careful. Yerby whistled cheerfully, though Mark didn't think the poncho could be really waterproof even if it was woven of raw wool with the lanolin still on the strands.
The women's side of the caravansary was an identical building joined back-to-back with the men's, like two soap bubbles touching. The concrete sidewalk between the entrances was slightly raised; the constant rain washed off any mud tracked onto it.
The watchman in the barred kiosk was old, thin, female, and hard as nails. Mark didn't doubt that she had some weapon beyond her force of personality with which to control drunken men who tried to enter the women's side, but the glare she gave the three of them as they approached was icy enough to freeze him. He waited a step behind Yerby and the doctor.
Yerby swept off his leather hat, sluicing droplets from the brim. "Ma'am," he said to the watchman. "I'd appreciate you telling Miss Amy Bannock that her brother's ready to take her to dinner."
"She's expecting you," the watchman said with perhaps minutely less of a chill. She pressed a button. A lock clicked and a young woman pushed the small personnel door open to join them.
Amy Bannock was solid and red-haired, more cute than beautiful. When she noticed Jesilind, her face hardened from the smile with which she greeted her brother.
"I see you're joining us, Doctor," she said.
"And here's Mark Maxwell, the fellow I was telling you about," Bannock said enthusiastically. "I figured you'd want to thank him yourself. Anyway I like to have smart people around to talk to when I eat. You can learn a lot by listening at dinner!"
Amy's gaze fell on Mark for the first time. Her expression was speculative but only a little less cool than that she'd given Jesilind. She must think it was Jesilind's idea, that Mark join them.
"Miss Bannock," Mark said, bowing stiffly. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance—"
They hadn't been properly introduced by Quelhagen standards.
"—but I fear business prevents me from dining with you after all. Perhaps another—"
"Please!" Amy said warmly. "I'd be more than grateful for your presence at dinner, Mr. Maxwell."
She dropped Mark a curtsy that surprised him. That level of formality had gone out of style even on Quelhagen.
"His name's Mark, Amy," Yerby said with a
laugh. "He's not the sort who stands on ceremony, is he, Doc?"
"But Amy, dear," Jesilind said. "You've forgotten your rain cover. You must go—"
"No, I can't use that thing, Doctor," Amy said sharply. "Don't you bump into everything when you walk around in yours? Anyway"—this to her brother—"I won't melt. You said we'd be taking a car?"
"Right here, darling," Yerby said, waving expansively to the van with big low-pressure tires which had been parked in front of the building all the time. "I told the driver to stick right here till I fetched you. Otherwise I'd find him before I left the planet and he wouldn't much like the rest of our dealings."
Amy shook her head. "Yerby, hitting people isn't the answer to everything in the universe," she said as she skipped ahead of the men.
Mark let Yerby and the doctor precede him. Amy was right, both morally and as a practical matter. Yerby's casual threat was just the sort of thing that made human history such a bloody, wasteful swamp.
But it was hard to see how the business with Biber's servants could have been ended without somebody being hit. The only question was who was going to be hit. Mark didn't feel he was being unreasonable in being glad matters had worked out the way they did.
The only seat in the van was the driver's. The remainder of the vehicle's interior was bare except for dirt and a box of tools. Amy gripped the back of the seat and a stiffener on one side panel.
Yerby wedged himself into the front corner of the compartment, looking rearward toward his companions. "On to the Rainbow Tavern, buddy," he ordered the wizened driver. "Get us there in ten minutes and I'll buy you a bottle to keep you warm while you wait to run us back."
Somehow Mark had decided that if they got any distance from the caravansary, Dittersdorf would be more cheerful. Nothing much changed as they drove away from the spaceport. The van's tires spun through the mud, throwing up individual rooster tails. A wiper and water jet kept a patch of windshield clean enough for the driver to see where they were going, but Mark had to squat and squint to see out.
For the most part, "out" was more mud and rain. They passed a few dwellings, plastic domes gleaming with water. Houses on Dittersdorf didn't have windows, but the bright light over each front door looked surprisingly warm.
The van spun ninety degrees, then straightened. The road was unpaved but so broad that even if there'd been more than occasional traffic, it wouldn't have been dangerous. "Surely it would be preferable to fly?" Dr. Jesilind said.
The driver turned his head like an owl. "Sure, you fly," he said in a chirpy voice. "I'll watch. If this thing breaks down, we're stuck in the mud. If your aircar breaks down, you're buried in the mud—and believe me, keeping things running on Dittersdorf is no picnic."
"Nor on Greenwood," Yerby agreed, "but we fly most places anyhow. We use blimps—gas bags—for loads, and one or two people alone use flyers. Solar-powered, which ain't the ticket for here."
"There's folk have aircars," the driver admitted grudgingly. "They're no use for driving a herd, though, and that's most of what travel there is hereabouts. People bringing meat to the port and going back to their home."
"Herds of what?" asked Amy. She looked a little queasy. The combination of slithering progress and the vehicle's constant rattling vibration wasn't doing much for Mark's insides either.
"Cows, ma'am," said the driver. "Earth cows. There's plenty of plants out there—ground cover, not trees, and it's all the same color as the mud so it don't look like much. The cows like it fine, though."
Mark wondered if the cows really did like Dittersdorf or if they just endured. Though . . . the driver didn't seem morose. The constant gray skies would drive Mark screaming up the walls if he had to live here for any length of time, but there were men (and maybe cows) who didn't mind it that much. Opening the universe to settlement made it possible for every human being to find the right place.
In theory, at least. Mark wondered if he'd ever find the right place for himself.
The driver hauled hard on the steering wheel, then stopped. "Here you go," he said. "Guess you owe me a drink, mister."
They opened their doors and for the first time Mark got a good look at his surroundings. The Rainbow Tavern was a yellow plastic dome encircled by a brightly lit walkway raised on pilings. Twenty or thirty vehicles, most of them similar to the van Mark rode in, nosed up to the walkway like boats at a dock.
For the moment there was dense fog rather than rain, so even Dr. Jesilind dispensed with his complicated umbrella for the walk into the tavern. Yerby stepped into the lead to open the door, pushing aside the driver without, probably, even thinking about it.
The interior of the Rainbow was brightly lit, garishly colored, and filled with people whose happiness was a sharp contrast to the caravansary's gray gloom. Somebody'd painted the walls and ceiling with enthusiasm and considerable skill, though it took a moment to see talent through the artist's saturated reds and blues and pinks.
The color choice was dictated by the need to contrast with the world outside. It warmed Mark and raised his spirits the instant he entered the room. The caravansary was a part of Dittersdorf and perfectly functional; the Rainbow was apart from Dittersdorf and absolutely necessary for a refuge, at least occasionally.
Most of the folk wore garments of leather or synthetic fabric. The man playing "Bless Them All" on the electronic organ in a corner wasn't very good, but the three friends singing to his accompaniment seemed happy enough. So were the dozen others listening.
"We've got a table," Bannock announced to the bearded man behind the bar, "but there's four rather than the three I said when I came by earlier."
The barman waved at tables extruded from some dense plastic, each of them a bright primary color. "Pick where you want," he said. "And I guess we've got food for all of you. Nobody's gone away hungry from the Rainbow yet."
He turned and called toward the open doorway to the side, "Madge? Folks from the port are here."
In a quieter tone, with a broad smile to Amy, he added, "And one of them about as pretty as you're going to see. Pleasure to have you in the house, miss."
"Might I record the room, sir?" Amy asked. She took a camera from what Mark thought was a small purse and extended the three lenses. "Would people be offended?"
"Offended?" the barman said. "Why, not at all, miss. I know I'd take it as an honor. But why would you want to picture a place like this?"
Amy was already at work, slowly sweeping the room. The separated lenses laid their information onto a recording chip from which a projection unit could create three-dimensional holograms of the scene. Amy kept the camera level and her movements steady so that the images wouldn't jump when she played them back.
"Miss Altsheller says that women have to be the historians of human expansion," Amy said, speaking to keep her companions from getting impatient. The camera panned the room as smoothly as if it was on gimbals. "Men won't take the time, so women must if tomorrow's history isn't to be fantasy like all history before our time."
"Well," began Mark. "I don't think you can say . . ."
But you could. History was a series of decisions about what to tell and a series of accidents about what survived after telling. Not truth, but a historian could search for truth, and the search was as worthy as any other human activity.
What Mark realized and Miss Altsheller probably didn't is that holographic recordings were no more true and absolute than earlier attempts to record facts. But Amy's holograms were as valid as the work of the scholars of future generations who would try to piece them into the mosaic of human expansion across the galaxy.
Besides, she pleased the folk inside the Rainbow. Folk nodded, waved, and even blushed in pleasure that somebody was taking the time to record them.
"That should do," Amy said, closing her camera.
"About time," said her brother. "I'm starved, girl." He was obviously proud of his sister.
None of the tables was empty, but when a man seated alone saw them lo
ok around he tipped his hat to Amy and moved to the adjacent table where two men were playing chess. Yerby sat down. Mark moved to pull out Amy's chair and bumped shoulders with Jesilind.
"Thank you, Mr. Maxwell," Amy said politely as she seated herself.
"Fellow at the end of the bar," Yerby said, nodding in the direction of a man in a blue-and-orange-striped rain jacket, "he's got an aircar that I'm renting tomorrow to fly to Minor to see if I can't get some help from the army."
"You're very wise to call in the duly constituted authorities, Yerby," Jesilind said. "Alliance troops will overawe the Zenith landgrabbers and send them scurrying away."
Mark frowned, though he didn't comment. The Protector of Quelhagen was threatening to close the Landingplace spaceport with Alliance troops—Terran troops—because of a quarrel over allowable exports. Mark hadn't followed all the ins and outs of the debate: he'd been on Earth through most of it, and his father had always said an attorney had to be above causes if he was to be effective. It was hard to think of Alliance troops as friendly, though.
"Mark here had a bit of a dustup with some Zeniths today, Amy," Yerby said. "He was kind enough to let me have a piece of it."
The food arrived, heaping platters of meat, bread, and vegetables; unordered and unexpected, at least by Mark. Apparently the Rainbow had one specialty, and the staff didn't bother asking customers if that's what they wanted. If they didn't, why had they come?
"Since when has there been a brawl within shouting distance that you didn't get involved in, Yerby?" Amy said sharply.
"I would have been badly beaten had your brother not rescued me, Ms. Bannock," Mark said. "There were four of them, and . . ."
He didn't know what to say next. He'd never seen a man beaten unconscious, but he was quite sure the Zeniths would have gone at least that far.
"Amy, please, Mark," Amy said. "I wouldn't want you to think that Miss Altsheller's Academy had made me stuck-up."