"What about a blaster, Doc? Nice sword, though."

"Grudging praise from you, Mr. Dix, is better than the most fulsome flattery from the lips of lesser mortals. Yes, as I said, I believe..." He paused, looking confused. "Did I mention the handgun that an uncle?.."

"Yeah," said Ryan. "Go on."

"I saw it. Here it is." He pulled a massive blaster from the front of his frock coat.

"It's a double-barrel cannon, Doc!" exclaimed J.B. "Le Mat, ain't it? Heard of 'em. Never thought I'd see one."

Ryan extended a hand for the pistol, nearly dropping it, surprised by the weight. Doc Tanner also handed him the card that had been in the showcase.

It read, "A nine-chambered percussion revolver designed by Dr. Jean Alexandre Francois Le Mat of New Orleans in 1856, being granted U.S. Patent 15925. Manufactured in Louisiana by Pierre Beau-regard, later to fight as General for the Confederate States Army at Manassas and Shiloh. This model of a .36 caliber. The unusual element of a Le Mat pistol is that it also has a second, central, smooth-bore barrel, to take a .63-caliber scattergun round. The nose of the hammer is manually adjustable."

"Big muzzle, looks about eighteen bore," said J.B. Dix, holding the heavy blaster. "Could be good. Got ammo for it, Doc?"

"Ample, Mr. Dix, thank you. I shall take it down to our quarters. Are we to try the gateway or do we go for the great outdoors?"

"You haven't found nothin' to help operate that fireblasted gateway, Doc?" asked Ryan.

"Only what I knew already."

There it was again, the peculiar suggestion that Doc Tanner had somehow been around these redoubts before the Chill. Which was clearly impossible. That was a hundred years ago. Doc might be a muddled old fool most of the time, but he wasn't thatold. You could lay an ace on the line about that.

"So how do you know that, Doc?" asked Ryan, seeing the same question on J.B.'s lips.

"I'm not too..." He stopped speaking, looking up beyond Ryan's head into the dark shadows that clung to the corners of the high room beyond one of the narrow ob slits. "There is a vid camera up there, moving to watch us. I fear that the Keeper will know we have intruded into his sanctum sanctorum."

"His what?" asked J.B., his face creasing with irritation.

"Guess Doc means we've pissed in Quint's best pot," said Ryan. "We should go."

"Doc, you go. Take as much ammo as you can carry. Tell the others to keep to the dorm. Ryan, come with me. Somethin' you've got to see."

Doc bolstered his Le Mat and shuffled off, the tip of his sword stick rapping on the floor. Ryan followed J.B. through a smaller arch into yet another gallery of weapons.

There it was, complete with ammo of all sorts, including rounds of tracer. And a thin booklet giving a full account of the gun and how to strip and service it.

"In the big fire," said Ryan, whistling his surprise. "That's for me! What about the others?"

"No time," replied J.B. "They got what they got. You take this. I'll carry as much ammo as I can. Let's go."

It was a rectangle of metal with a night scope on the top and a pistol-grip butt and trigger on the bottom and was unlike any other weapon that Ryan had ever seen. The name was on the side, just below the sight. Heckler & Koch, Model G-12 recoilless rifle.

The outside of the book gave the main facts, and they were amazing. It fired single shot like any ordinary rifle. On continuous fire it worked at six hundred rounds per minute. But in three-shot bursts it fired at over two thousand rounds a minute: a staggering rate. The other innovation was that the 4.7 mm cartridges were caseless, which meant that he could carry a much greater supply of ammo than with a conventional weapon.

Flicking through the manual, Ryan's eye was caught by several facts he wanted to study at greater leisure. But right now, with the vids recording his every move, it would be smart to leave. He snatched the gun — nearly dropping it because of the film of oil that still covered it — filled his coat pockets with mixed ammo and quickly followed the disappearing figure of J.B. Dix.

"The big hunk called Joe just gotten himself iced," said Okie through a mouthful of doughnut. She was watching yet another old police serial, Hill Street Blues.

Ryan was lying on his narrow bed, perusing the arms manual for his new gun, occasionally helping himself from a bag of mutlicolored sugary sweets called Jelly beansthat Krysty had found.

Finn and Hennings were playing a noisy vid game called "Klingon Blasters." Hun was stretched out on her bed, running her fingers through her green hair, listening to some music called soulon her cans.

Doc was lying on his own bed, eyes closed, chest moving regularly in sleep. J.B. was muttering to himself as he tried to persuade one of the microwaves to disgorge several cheese-filled portions of chicken breast.

"I'm the Klingon expert, you stupe," yelped Finn, excitedly.

Henn walked away disgustedly. "Fuckin' Klingons. Next time we'll play for creds."

"What'll you spend it on?" asked Krysty, sitting by Ryan, brushing her long, flaming hair, allowing it to spread in fiery waves across her shoulders.

"A fifty-shot mag on this beauty, J.B.," called Ryan, cradling his new toy.

"Doesn't tumble like the five-fifty-six does. Won't mebbe do the damage, but I figure it's better for — well, look who we got here."

Everyone turned, except Hun, who was deafened by her own music. Standing at the door was the Keeper, paying them a visit.

Quint was flanked by his two wives, Rachel grinning toothlessly on his left, Lori a couple of paces behind on the right. All three of them were holding their MP-5 SD-2 silenced submachine guns under their arms, in a casual, unthreatening way.

Ryan immediately began to feel concern. Not one of them actually had easy access to a loaded blaster. Indeed, Hun, eyes closed, humming away to herself, still hadn't seen them.

His deep-set eyes were rheumy, red-rimmed and his straggly beard was stained with some sort of sticky oil, but Quint was nodding and smiling. He stopped about twenty paces from them.

"Keeper says greetings to our guests. First guests in a long day. Savin' those as sleeps down below. Sleeps the long sleep as ordered by the Keeper, don't they, my dear?" he asked Rachel, who nodded like a child's doll.

"Glad you've come, Keeper Quint," said Ryan, standing by his bed, signaling behind his back with his fingers, warning the others that he didn't like the course things were taking — warning them to be as ready as they could without actually taking any provocative action.

"The Keeper comes and goes when he wishes. When are you goin'?" he snapped, the colored ribbons fluttering in his beard.

"Day after tomorrow," replied Ryan.

"Eh?"

"He said they're goin' day after next, Quint," said Rachel.

"Keeper says mebbe. Mebbe they will and mebbe they won't."

Ryan Cawdor's eye was caught by the young girl, Lori. Standing just behind the old man, her husband, her mouth kept opening and closing, as though she was about to faint. In the quiet, Ryan heard her spurs tinkling.

"We go when we please, old man," J.B. said.

"Don't you speak to my brother like that, you glass-eyed shitter!" spat Rachel.

"Brother!" exclaimed Finnegan. "Thought he was your husband."

"Ah, you clever fat prick, he is. Brother. Husband. I'm his wife."

"Then?.." said Ryan, pointing to Lori.

"Oh, the dummy. She's his daughter's daughter. Don't have the brains of a frozen piss hole."

For a few moments everyone was silent, trying to assess the situation. Hun broke the stillness by getting up from her bed, starting to dance to the music. But she suddenly saw Quint and the others in their frozen tableau.