"I got me the feeling that those long-haired sec bastards don't much take to their baron," J.B. observed. "Place where we all have to walk soft and careful." He looked at Lori. "All of us."

Zombie and his gang were waiting for them when they finally reached the end of the main street of Snakefish, California.

"Baron wants to see you. We told him you came from the outlands. He asked if any of you was muties. Told him you didn't look like it, apart from that Jak Lauren. The kid with the snow hair and fire eyes. Never seen any norm like him."

"Don't call me 'kid,' you..."

"No, Jak," Ryan said with a biting voice of authority. "He's not a mutie. Comes from a family out east where they all had white hair. Nothing unusual about it."

Zombie shrugged. "Couldn't care a flying fuck, myself. Seven of you aren't going t'take over Snakefish, so where's the harm?"

They walked a little way into the ville, down a wide street. J.B. nudged Ryan and whispered, "Neutron."

"Gotta be."

The buildings looked like pix in old magazines, books and films. Since half of the old state now lay somewhere beneath the lapping waters of the Pacific Ocean, the nuking must have been both spectacular and total. The shops and houses looked to be in remarkably good condition. That meant the region had received neutron bombs, which effectively took out all human and animal life but left most structures standing.

There weren't many people around, and quite a few of the buildings were empty and boarded up. But Zombie hurried them along, the rest of the chapter flanking them, making it difficult to see too much of the ville.

In some villes the sight of a group of outlanders would have produced far more curiosity. And, often, hostility. But here there was a feeling of relaxation. Despite the bizarre escort on the polished and gleaming old two-wheel wags, Ryan felt reasonably secure. There were smiles and nods. Curtains twitched in some windows. It was weirdly like entering a time slip, back before sky-dark.

Rick had begun to mutter to himself again, looking around, stumbling in the ruts in the road. He shook his head in disbelief and confusion.

"Snakefish, California. John Doe, Main Street, Anytown, United States. Ice-cream parlor over there. Sixty-four flavors. Drug store. Book shop. Flagpole down the way, outside the town hall. Whoops, I nearly... I've gotta complain to the highways department. Too many potholes... too many to fill the Albert Hall. This is then, but that was now. Or now is then. Todays are the tomorrows that I worried about a hundred years ago." He turned to Ryan with a look of desperate, strained intensity. "I'm not crazy, am I, old friend? New friend? All this is like it was. Not like it is. Is it? Is it like this now?"

"Some places. Not many. This is one of the neatest, cleanest villes I've ever seen. Doesn't mean it's safe, though."

The freezie wiped sweat from his forehead, calming himself. "I know. A man may sit at meat and feel the cold in his groin."

"Sure."

"Beware the smiler with the knife beneath his cloak, Ryan."

"Oh, I always do, Rick. I always do."

Zombie slowed his hog in front of the building with the white-painted flagpole, from which a faded Stars and Stripes fluttered proudly in the pallid sunshine. The rest of the bikers ranged themselves alongside him in what looked like a carefully rehearsed maneuver.

"Baron's hall. He knows you're coming in with us. Just go on in."

A carved wooden sign told them that the building was Snakefish Town Hall, built in 1967 and reconstituted in about the Seventieth Year after the Great Madness.

"I like that," Doc said. "Great Madness. I couldn't have put it any better myself."

They stepped across the sidewalk, up a path that ran between two beds of flowers. Pale yellow rosebushes. The grass had the regular green that came from steady watering. The smell of the roses did valiant battle with the sickly odor of the gas-processing plant they had glimpsed beyond the far end of the main street of the ville.

"This is crazy," Rick mumbled. "I feel like I'm a kid and I'm going to register at the town hall. This is crazy."

Double doors, painted white, swung open at the head of the flight of eight steps and a woman appeared. She was a little over average height, around thirty years old. Black hair bobbed at her shoulders, held in place with a dark purple comb. She wore a black jacket over a cream blouse, and pale fawn riding breeches were tucked into a pair of highly polished, knee-length black leather boots. She smiled at the ragged band.

"Welcome to Snakefish," she pronounced. "Baron Brennan's expecting you. Do come in."

"Who are you, lady?" J.B. asked.

"I'm Carla Petersen. You must be Mr. Dix, from Zombie's description."

Ryan glanced across at the Armorer. It must have been the reflected glow of the soaring sun, but he had the momentary illusion that his old friend was blushing!

They walked through the doors into the coolness of a wide hall with a sweeping staircase that curled up to the second floor. An elderly man in a dark blue uniform with gilt buttons was dozing at a desk near the door.

The woman led the way, heels clacking on the mosaic picture that showed, as far as Ryan could make it out, a girl carrying a sheaf of wheat, rising from the sea with a smile of simpering idiocy on her rosy, dimpled cheeks.

"You lost your wag, I believe, Mr. Cawdor?" Carla Petersen said, pausing on the wide landing for them to catch up. Rick trailed at the rear, panting with the effort of climbing.

"That's right. Three days, up in the hills."

"Where were you coming from?"

"South."

"And you were going?.."

"North."

She smiled with a touch of frost. "Not a man to give too much away, are you, Mr. Cawdor?"

"Man who gives everything away finds he has nothing left for himself."

"True. Very true. Now, just along here. The third door."

Every now and again, throughout the Deathlands, Ryan had stumbled on places where neutron bombs had left buildings virtually untouched. The town hall of Snakefish was like that. Cold stone. Benches padded with worn green leather. Doors that had frosted glass in their top halves. And names painted in almost illegible gold leaf, with their jobs.

"Milius Haldeman, Registrar. Rowena Southwell, School Inspectorate. Crawford Fargo, Highways. Angus Wellson, Divorce Counselor."

She heard him reading the doors. "So many names and civic appointments, Mr. Cawdor. All dead these hundred years. The baron only uses a small part of the hall now. With around two thousand spuls in the ville, the administration is kind of low-key."

She paused in front of a door, much like the others. Except that the gold paint was fresher. Edgar Brennan, Baron.

A voice responded to her brisk knock. "Come in, come in, said the mayor looking bigger and bigger and in did walk..."

Doc caught the wary look of bewilderment on everyone's faces. "Quoting an old poem," he whispered, "not mad."

The office of the baron was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that opened onto a balcony and overlooked the desert. There was a threadbare strip of carpet covering a floor of wooden tiles. A massive bookcase ran the length of the wall on the left. But the glass doors were cracked and the shelves only held a half-dozen tattered and spineless volumes. There was a variety of unmatching chairs and a sagging sofa. The room was totally dominated by an enormous mahogany desk, which was buried with piles of paper, folders and files. It was just possible to make out the shadowy figure of Baron Edgar Brennan of Snakefish, lurking behind them.

"Greetings, gentlemen. And ladies. Come in, come in and sit down. Down."