Carla Petersen ran rapidly through the introductions. As with Zombie, Ryan was impressed with the way she remembered all of their names. The only one that she seemed to falter over was J.B. Dix.

They sat down, finding places among the chairs. Miss Petersen perched on the edge of a small table near the window, next to J.B.

"I would sit down as well, but I think I would vanish," Brennan said. "I'm a little deficient in the department of leg length."

Ryan had thought that the baron was already sitting down.

"Lost their wag three days, Edgar. Looking for food and lodging for two or three days before they move on."

"Lost their wag!" Brennan toddled around the desk and leaned against it. "To find a wag is lucky. To lose one smacks of carelessness. How come you lost your wag? Your wag?"

Ryan was so fascinated by the strange appearance of the Snakefish baron that his mind wandered off the question. "Lost?.. Oh, a fire. Lectric short. Fire in the night. Burned out. In the hills."

"Didn't hurt any snakes, did you?"

"No. No, we didn't."

"Good, good, good."

Edgar Brennan was around four feet ten inches tall, a rotund and yet oddly dignified figure. He wore a shirt of dazzling white and a paisley cravat knotted around the throat. He looked to be somewhere in his late sixties. His pants were neatly pressed, his shoes polished to a mirroring gleam. As far as Ryan could see, Brennan wasn't carrying any kind of blaster, which made him kind of unique among barons of Ryan's acquaintanceship.

"We have a few rules hereabouts. Nothing too strict, I hope. Do you have a supply of jack? If you are outlanders here, I expect not. Expect not."

"Trade ammo," J.B. said. "Or mebbe we could work off a trade."

Miss Petersen leaped in. "That would be fine, Mr. Dix, just fine. This ville runs mainly on its supplies of gas. We are not a poor ville. Somewhat the reverse."

"Generous, I would hope. Yes, generous." Brennan's round little face creased into a smile. He gave a throaty chuckle. "We will lend a hand to any weary traveler, will we not, Carla?"

"We will, Edgar, though..."

A small cloud sailed into view and settled itself in a tiny furrow between the baron's eyes. "Yes, there is... Mustn't upset the... But a token of food and lodging for Mr. Cawdor and his comrades? Surely no objection to that." A sudden thought struck him. "Not mercies, are you? Mercies?"

"No," Ryan said simply.

"Where is Layton?" He turned to his visitors. "Layton is my nephew. My heir. I have never married, and he is now my only living relative. A series of accidents have... Accidents. Yes."

"Layton's out having lunch at the Qiksnak, Edgar."

"Course. Thanks, Carla. I didn't realize how time was passing. Passing. Lunch. Three eggs over easy with a double ham and hashies. Double slice of Mom's apple pie to follow. My nephew is a well-grown lad, folks. But kindly and brave. Only person in Snakefish who'd take up the air wag when it was found. Uses too much precious gas, but..." He smiled the smile of an indulgent uncle.

"Perhaps our visitors would care for something to eat?" the woman suggested, standing and moving toward the door of the office.

"Course, course, course. That's a three coursemeal, you see." He waited for the ripple of polite laughter at his small joke. "Give them each enough jack for a couple of days, Carla, my dear. They can stay at the Rentaroom. Have it charged to the civic friendliness fund."

His assistant hesitated. "There'll be a service, tomorrow, won't there? Might be best if they all turn up. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise the Motes could name them undesirable and then it would be a short walk into the sagebrush and a short encounter with Azrael and his brothers and sisters. Yes, they must attend. Tell them about it, Carla, there's a dear."

Outside the building everyone heard the angry whining of the two-wheel wags racing past. As the sound began to fade, a cloud of dust rose toward the window, pressing against the glass as though it sought admission.

"Come this way, folks," Carla directed brusquely.

"Thanks for the meeting, Baron," Ryan said. "And thanks for the kindness."

"Welcome, welcome, welcome." He beamed broadly.

Outside the coolness of the shadowy building, the sun struck like the slap of a glove. Doc coughed, doubling over, eyes popping like the stops on a mission harmonium. They waited for him to recover his breath a little.

"Sorry, my dear friends. A small piece of California dust found its way down into my aged windpipe, I fear. I'm better now."

"Breaking down, Doc," Lori said, but it was said affectionately, and she took his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

Carla attached herself to Ryan, glancing around to make sure that J.B. was also close to them.

"Rentaroom's cheap and clean. Not many visitors come to Snakefish. You'll have to check in any blasters, but not handguns. Never seen anything like that rifle, Mr. Cawdor."

"It's a G-12 Heckler & Koch. Fires caseless rounds. Saves a lot of weight and waste."

"Leave it at the desk. And that cannon of yours, Mr. Dix."

"Sure thing, Miss Petersen."

"Carla, please."

This time Ryan was absolutely certain. They were in the shade, but J.B.'s face definitely flushed.

"I'm J.B., short for John Barrymore. You can call me John, if you like, Carla."

"John!" Jak exploded, overhearing the conversation.

"Yeah, John! You want to make something out of this, kid?"

The Armorer stood, braced, his whole body fighting tense as he faced the boy. Ryan knew better than to interfere with J.B. on a matter of blood.

"You don't call me that," Jak said quietly, his right hand slithering toward the back of his belt, where he kept one of his throwing knives.

"Then button up about my name, Jak. Take my meaning? Just..."

The teenager grinned suddenly. "Sure, J.B., I understand. Real good."

"My goodness," Carla said. "That seemed to be rather a nasty moment."

"Just play," Krysty replied. "You get used to their ways."

Carla left them in the lobby of their small hotel, having made sure the rifles were checked in safely. Before going she'd called the seven friends around her for a last, urgent word.

"The baron is a beautiful old man, but his grip is not what it once was. There are those in Snakefish who whisper that he is too generous with the ville's gas. Too easy in trading with other villes in the area. He knows of the talk, but believes that his nephew will take over from him soon."

"What about the bikers?" Doc asked. "Those angels from hell?"

"They're the ville's sec patrol," she admitted, "but their hearts aren't with Edgar. They're allied with those who bring true power."

"The Mote family," Ryan asked.

"Yes." She dropped her voice even quieter, glancing around to ensure nobody could overhear. "Guard yourselves against the Motes, outlanders. And when you attend their service, take the greatest care. The greatest. If they perceive you as any sort of threat they can be quite ruthless."

"I don't suppose there's any chance of something to eat now, is there?" Rick asked plaintively. "I'm famished."

"Of course. Through that door into the eatery. Now I must go. Remember what I said. Take care with the Motes."