The blood from his nose did not improve his temper. Nor did my flying kick that numbed one of his legs, a stab with my knee that crumpled the other. Legless, he dropped to his knees, then crawled towards me on all fours. By this time even the dullest of the audience knew who had won this fight. So I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, hit his throat with the edge of my hand and let him keep going backwards, splatting down unconscious in the mud. I picked up his discarded sword, tested the edge with my thumb-jumped about so suddenly and menacingly that the armed men stepped away without thinking. I kept the momentum going.

“I got sword now. You want it, you die for it. Or maybe lie smart bloke one of you what takes me to your boss, Svinjar. Guy what does dat gets this sword for free. Any takers?”

The novelty of the offer and their inherent greed warded off any attack for the moment.

“Get out of there and get behind me,” I called over my shoulder. “And do your best to radiate obnoxious intolerance.” Growling and gnashing their teeth my merry band emerged and lined up at my back.

“You give me sword I take you Svinjar,” an exceedingly hairy and musclebound specimen said. He was armed only with a wooden club so his greed was understandable.

“You take me Svinjar then you get sword. Move it.”

There was hesitation, dark looks, muttering. I swished the sword under their noses so they had to step back again. “I got something real nice in my pack for Svinjar. You betcha he kill any bloke stop him grabbing it soonest.”

Threats penetrated where blandishments hadn’t and we all moved off into the rainstorm. Along muddy tracks between collapsing hovels, to a small hill with a largish building made of logs, their bark still on, gracing the summit. I swung the sword so no one came too close, followed my guide up a stony path to the entrance with my weary musicians stumbling after. I was feeling a bit guilty about taking the Blastoff capsule. But things had developed too quickly to get some to the others. I stopped at the entrance and waved them through.

“In we go, safe haven at last. Take one of these as you pass and chomp it instantly. It is a super-upper that will restore you to the world of the living.”

My club-bearing guide pushed inside and hurried past the groups of men who lolled about the large room, to the man in the great stone chair next to the fireplace. “You my boss, boss Svinjar. We bring them like you say.” He swung about and stamped over to me. “Now you give sword.”

“Sure. Fetch.”

I threw it out the door into the rain, heard a yipe of pain as it bounced off one of his gang. He ran after it as I walked over and stood before the stone throne.

“You my boss, boss Svinjar. These guys my band. Make good music you betcha.”

He looked me up and down coldly, a big man with big muscles-as well as a big belly that hung over his belt. Tiny piggy eyes peered out through the thicket of bristly gray hair and beard. The pommel of a sword projected from a niche in the stone chair and he touched it with his fingers, slipping it out then letting it fall back.

“Why are you talking in that obnoxiously obscene patois?”

“I do beg your pardon.” I bowed deprecatingly. “I was addressed in that manner and assumed it was the local dialect.”

“It is-but only among the uneducated imbeciles who were born here. Since you weren’t, don’t offend my sensibility again. Are you the musicians that got into deep cagal?”

“Word sure spreads fast.”

He waved his hand at the 3D set against the wall and I felt my eyes bulge. It was a solid metal block with an armored glass face-with the aerial under the glass. A handle stuck out one side.

“Our jailers are most generous in their desire that we be entertained at all times. They distribute these in great numbers. Unbreakable, eternal-and four hundred and twelve channels.”

“What powers it?”

“Slaves,” he said and reached out a toe to prod the nearest one. The slave groaned and climbed to his feet, stumbled over, clanking his chains as he went, and began to turn the handle on the internal generator. The thing burst to life with a commercial for industrial strength cat food.

“Enough!” Svinjar ordered and the meows faded and died.

“You and your companions kept the news channels alive. When they said crime and hospital treatment I was rather convinced they meant here. Ready to play?”

“The Stainless Steel Rats are always at the service of those in control. Which, in this case, I assume is you.”

“You assume right. A concert it is-and now. We haven’t had any live entertainment here since the cannibalistic magician died of infection after being bitten by accident in the heat of passion. Begin.”

By necessity all our gear had to be compact. The fist-sized loudspeakers contained holoprojectors that blew their image up to room size.

“All right guys,” I called out. “Let’s set up by the back wall. No costumes for this first gig and we’ll start with ‘The Swedish Monster from Outer Space.’”

This was one of our more impressive numbers. It had been found in one of the most ancient data bases, the lyric written in a long-lost language called Svensk or Swedish or something like that. After much electronic scratching about, one of the computers in the language department at the university had been able to translate it. But this lyric was so dreadful that we threw it away and sang it in the original which was far more interesting.

Ett fasanfullt monster med rumpan bar

kryper in till en juugfru sa rar.

There was more like this and Madonette belted it out at full volume to the accompaniment of my syncopated soundtrack, with Floyd knocking himself out on his blower-powered bagpipe. Steengo plucked at a tiny harp – whose holographic image stretched up to the ceiling. Sound filled and reverberated through the great chamber and dust was jarred loose from the log walls.

I don’t think that this tune would make the galactic top ten but it sure went down well here in endsville. Particularly when it ended with an atomic mushroom cloud that grew to room size – along with the best the amplifiers could do to simulate the atomic explosion itself. The part of the audience that wasn’t collapsed on the floor had fled shrieking into the rain. I took out my earplugs and heard the light clapping of approval. I bowed in Svinjar’s direction.

“A pleasant divertimento-but the next time you play it I would appreciate a little less forza in the finale and a little more riposo.”

“Your slightest wish is our command.”

“For a young and simple-looking lad you learn fast. How come you were caught pushing drugs?”

“It’s a long story – ”

“Shorten it. To one word if possible.”

“Money.”

“Understandable. Then the music business isn’t that good?”

“It smells like one of your bully-boys. If you can stay up there with the big ones, fine. But we slipped from the top notch some time ago. What with recording fees, agents’ commissions, kickbacks and bribes we were quickly going bust. Steengo and Floyd have been snorting back baksheesh for years. They started selling it to support the habit. It’s nice stuff. End of story.”

“Or beginning of a new one. Your singer, what’s her name?” He smiled a very unwholesome smile as he looked over at Madonette. I groped for inspiration. Came up with the best I could do at such short notice.

“You mean my wife, Madonette…”

“Wife? How inconvenient. I am sure that something can be done about that, though not exactly at this moment. Your arrival is, to say the least, most timely. Fits in with what you might call a general plan of action I was considering. For the general good of the populace.”

“Indeed,” I said, controlling my enthusiasm for any plan of his that might be forthcoming.