One in the bank of hair dryers wasn't working. And when they tried to shower after their lovemaking in the tub, Ryan and Krysty discovered that half of them were only running cold.

After his bath Ryan took the opportunity to shave off the stubble that seemed almost a permanent part of his life, revealing the livid scar that seamed across his right cheek from the corner of his good eye past the angle of his mouth.

Krysty brushed out her hair, making it crackle with vitality. By the time they'd finished, their clothes were ready, clean and dry, slightly warmed. Ryan laced up his boots, stretched and yawned. "That was sogood, lover," he said quietly. "All I want now is a decent meal and then twelve hours of bed."

She didn't reply. Dressed only in her bikini briefs, she walked to stand by him, kissing him on the cheek, as soft as the caress of a hummingbird's wing.

J. B. Dix, trim and spruce, had found what had once been the living quarters for some of the administrative officers in the redoubt: separate cubicles, each with double-size beds, and dining areas with tables that seated six. The kitchen units held a better than average range of tinned food. To everyone's relief the stove worked and there was no need to open any of the ubiquitous and disliked self-heats.

"By the three Kennedys!" Doc exclaimed. "But we are surely the most elegant sextet in all of Deathlands. Not to mention the most fragrant."

Jak had appointed himself in charge of the cooking facilities and he was bustling around, helped by Lori. The boy's hair, under the rare influence of shampoo and clean hot water, danced around his narrow face like the fine spray of the ocean thrown on jagged rocks. Ryan found cutlery and plates while J.B. scavenged around some of the lockers in the individual rooms.

"What're you heating up for us, Jak?" Krysty asked, leaning back in one chair, resting the heels of her boots on another.

The boy peered at the faded labels as he slid them into the electric opener. "Tomato soup, oxtail soup and vegetable soup for the start. Potatoes, chicken nuggets and corn. Cherry and apple pie to finish up."

"Sounds real good," Ryan said, licking his lips in anticipation. "Hope it's not gone sour over the years."

"Tins would have blown," Krysty observed. "Should be fine. Oh, but that smells wonderful, guys! I can't wait."

"And look what I found to go with it," said the Armorer, brandishing a ribbed bottle half-full of a dark amber liquid.

"What's that?" Lori asked.

Doc, who'd been fiddling with some sort of electrical control unit in the corner of the dining area, glanced around. "That's Southern Comfort, child. The peach nectar of the gods. Set 'em up, John Barrymore Dix. Best damned barman from Portland, Maine to... to somewhere else. Make it one for my baby and one for the road."

It was a truly magical evening.

Krysty found some old wax candles in a tiny cupboard marked Emergency Illumination, and they dimmed the overhead neon strips and sat in the soft pools of spilled golden light. The Southern Comfort was as marvellous as Doc had said, brimming over with the taste of peach summers long, long dead and buried in wastelands of glowing ash.

The heated food was some of the best any of them had ever tasted. The soup was a little thick on additives and preservatives, though Lori had succeeded in scooping most of it from the top.

Doc had managed to get the range of concealed speakers around the angles of the room to function, digging out a set of ceedees to accompany the meal. Most of it what he called classical music. Ryan would personally have liked some songs with words, but he had to admit the gentle rhythm went well with the unhurried, peaceful meal.

"This is Vivaldi," Doc informed them, beating time to the music with his fork. "Four Seasons. Lovely, isn't it? There's a Mozart flute concerto next, and then some Gregorian chant. Monastic music." He looked around the table, seeing only a universal blankness. "Well, perhaps you'll like it anyway."

Toward the very end of the meal, as Jak was heating a can of coffee, the sound began to crackle and cut out in one of the speakers.

J.B. caught Ryan's eye. "Got a feeling our arrival here's starting to set some malfunction chains toppling over."

"Could be. Often happens. You find a place untouched since the big fires. I've done it. So've you. Mebbe pick something up and it works. Hasn't been touched in a hundred years. And it works. Ten seconds later it falls apart right between your fingers."

The candles were guttering. Lori had also gone scavenging and come across a box that had once held some chocolate-covered peppermint candy. But it had gone as hard as stone and nobody could eat any. The teenager had been upset by that, leaving the supper table before the others and wandering off to the room she was sharing with Doc.

"My lovely flower sure gets touchy these days," the old man said sadly, more to himself than those remaining. "Must be the generation gap. I daresay there must be something like eight generations between us. I hadn't thought about it like that before."

"Figure I'll go sleep." Jak stood up and stretched like a cat, muscles cracking. "That was one of the best times." He nodded to his four friends and went off to bed, a little way along the passage from the dining area.

Krysty topped up her mug from the pan of coffee that still bubbled on the stove, listening to the melancholy music in the background.

"It's sad, Doc. What is it? Violin or something deeper?"

"Cello, my dear lady. A piece by an Englishman called Edward Elgar. I met him once, as I recall. Slip of a man, yet he burned like a flame. That must have been... Oh, I disremember."

"You're like a living time machine, Doc," Krysty observed, sitting next to Ryan, letting her hand drop with an easy affection onto his wrist.

"There are times... have been times, when I have wished only that this time machine could grind to a halt, my dear."

"You got friends, Doc," Ryan said softly.

"I have a wife and I have two children. No!" The word was almost shouted. "No, Ryan," he continued more calmly. "I no longer have a wife. Emily Louise is dead and buried in the family vault in Deadwood. Mount Moriah, I think it was... up a steep hill, among trees, with a view across the hills. I went there once, with Emily, when we were young and so in love. There was a grave there, a young child's. The stone said 'We really miss our little boy.' Oh, sweet God, how I miss my own little ones! Rachel and Jolyon. Both resting with their Mama. One day, I would wish to be joined with them again, Ryan." Tears began to course down Doc's face, between the newly shaved furrows, dripping off the end of his chin onto the table. "You hear me, Ryan. If it is humanly possible, then I would wish to be buried with my wife and children in Deadwood. If it still exists. They showed me a photo of the grave once. So I know they are there. Do that for me, Ryan?"

"If I can, Doc. But you gotta know that it's not likely."

"No?"

"Not likely," Ryan repeated. "Chances of us being around that part when you finally buy the farm... Chances are, we'll all have gotten chilled before you. You old buzzard, Doc. You got more years left than the rest of us together."

Suddenly conscious that he'd been weeping, the old man dabbed at his eyes. "Good of you to say so, my friend. But ask not for whom the teller bowls? He bowls for me. I believe that my memory has played some scurvy trick with me. That sounds to be a little awry. No matter. I should go and join my sweet bird with her youth. Good night, sweet friends. May choirs of angels sing you to your rests."