The Amtrak Wars - Ironmaster Part 51

Cadillac saw Steve's reaction and smiled. 'Amazing, isn't it? All three of us together again. So close - and yet so far." He topped up his bowl of sake, but this time he spilt some on the table. 'One might almost think it was meant to be."

'Yeah,' said Steve. 'Amazing..." He got up and wandered over to the drafting board and took a closer look at what Cadillac was working on.

Everything had been painstakingly drawn out by hand with the aid of straight-sided wooden shapes.

In the Federation, drawings like this were stored in COLUMBUS. The central computer that served the Federation had a vast library of drawings for every part of every machine that had ever been built.

People with access to the right level could call up stored images and incorporate them in new designs right there on the screen, then transfer the information into fully automated machine tools that would make all the bits and pieces.

The sheets of paper Steve was looking at contained several rough sketches showing proposed modifications to a design for a small,.lightweight steam engine. This had been drawn life-size on a larger sheet beneath, in three elevations, plus a cutaway showing internal detail. It was an ingenious design, but required a great deal of precision engineering, and it would take forever to get into even limited production.

That was the real problem. Time was the critical factor.

They couldn't afford to wait around while the Iron Masters upped the level of their machine-tool technology.

There were too many hands stirring the conspiratorial pot. The longer they were here, the more chance there was of something going wrong.

With Jodi's help, and maybe Kelso's, he had to get Cadillac and Clearwater on that boat to Bu-faro. And to reach the Hudson in one swift bound, the propulsion problem had to be solved quickly and simply using existing techniques. Steve, basking in the glow of the sake, felt he knew the answer.

'This is a nice idea, but it's going to take too long to put together."

'I know. I've got to come up with something soon, otherwise the j.a.ps may start to lose interest."

'Mind if I make a suggestion?"

'I doubt if I'm going to be able to stop you."

'Y'know what you needT'

'Yes, another bottle of sake." Cadillac hurled the empty one through the open screens into the garden.

Steve took another bottle from the wall cupboard and brought it over to the table. He refilled Cadillac's bowl, then sat down and topped up his own. 'What you need is an a.s.sistant. Someone to toss ideas around with.

Someone reliable who can also take care of the nitty-gritty while you work on the big concepts."

'Just who do you have in mind?"

Steve responded with a modest shrug. 'Why look any further? I know as much as you do. We managed to build Bluebird using little more than hope and fresh air. With a set-up like this, if we put our heads together we could really go places." He raised his bowl. 'You'd get all the credit, of course. What d'you say?"

'I'll think about it,' said Cadillac. He managed to pour half of his fifth helping of sake into his gullet, then spilled the rest down his s.h.i.+rt front as his coordination went. An instant later, his forehead hit the edge of the table with a dull thud.

It was evidently a sound that his female staff knew well - and had been waiting for. A wall screen slid open and four small d.i.n.ks, dressed in colourful ankle-length wraps, padded in on white-stockinged feet. They bowed respectfully to Steve, then took hold of Cadillac's arms and legs and hauled his senseless body out of the room.

Some warrior...

Steve poured the contents of his bowl back into the bottle, shouldered his sack of mail, and hit the road. It had been a strange encounter, like talking to a slightly warped mirror-image of himself. But provided Cadillac hadn't forgotten everything when he woke up,

Brickman, S.R. might be in with a chance. With plenty of soft-soap and hard work he would soon make himself a key member of the team.

As he pa.s.sed the gates of the compound he wondered what was going through Jodi Kazan's mind. She had promised to say nothing to Kelso about the real reason why he was here, and Steve was 99 per cent sure he could rely on her. He felt he'd touched a responsive chord when he'd told her that deep down she was still a True Blue. Kelso remained to be won over, but that was not impossible. He just had to be fed the right story. All Steve needed now was the blessing of the Man in Black and the precious bundle of pink leaves.

And Clearwater. He needed to see her too. His first run from his new base had taken him along the sh.o.r.e of the lake with the island on which she was held. At the ronin's camp he had made a rash promise to pay her a visit and, despite her pleas to him not to risk his life on such a foolhardy venture, it was a promise he intended to keep. On becoming a roadrunner he'd discovered that it was possible to 'go over the wall'

during off-duty hours, but so far he'd been denied the opportunity.

Since he had arrived on the scene, the pattern of deliveries had obliged him to spend his nights in other, more distant post-houses putting her beyond reach.

The act of running swept away the stupefying effects of the sake.

Steve felt a sense of elation as he kicked into top gear. Yeah... All in all, not a bad day's work.

A few days later, Steve found himself heading south again, along the western sh.o.r.e of Two Island Lake. In pre-Holocaust times, it had been known as Sudbury Reservoir. The lake, some three and a half miles long and a mile and half across at its widest point, lay on a north-south axis. Its meandering coastline was shaped like a floppy, high-heeled boot, like the toe of Italy, but nipped in tight at the ankle'.

Clearwater was housed on the larger island which lay in the crumpled leg of the boot, close to the eastern side where a small jetty had been built. The second island lay just above the slim ankle, where the opposing sh.o.r.es swung inwards to within some three hundred yards of each other.

Steve cursed his luck at being so close and yet so far.

He had no qualms about swimming across from the west bank, but it was crazy to attempt it in broad daylight.

There was also his present job to consider. If he lost that through being late with his deliveries and wound up shovelling s.h.i.+t he might ruin his chances of getting into the Heron Pool. He let off a string of breathy obscenities and ran on down the trail that led to Wunasaka, the first of several mail-drops he would make on the way to Nyoporo.

Near the ankle of the lake, the trail swung away from the sh.o.r.e and climbed through a stand of tall pines. The morning sun cast slanting shafts of light and shadow across his path, turning the red gra.s.s into pools of fire.

Motes of dust and pollen, caught in the golden beams, drifted aimlessly through the air like newborn fireflies mesmerised by the beauty of the world around them.

This was one of the riches of the overground; the play of light and shadow, varying in colour and intensity through the day, the month, the year. In the Federation, there was an artificial twilight but there were no shadows, no cool dark corners, nowhere to hide. The illumination, which shone down from all sides, was cunningly balanced to match the essential components of sunlight but it could never replace the real thing, just as despite the genius of the First Family - the manmade rock-roofed underground world with its gleaming marbled piazzas and cool landscaped deeps could never compete with the vastness and splendour of the overground, its beckoning blue-hazed horizons and ever-changing cloud-filled skies.

Steve's thoughts were jolted back to the present by the sight of an approaching rider decked out in red and black armour and with two tall narrow banners fixed to his back. A samurai - and from the look of him, no ordinary one at that.

Stepping off the trail, Steve went down on his knees, then bent forward, forearms on the ground, palms together, nose pressed between his thumbs. As someone ranked below the bottom strata of Iron Master society, he was required to stay there, eyes averted, until the samurai went past, then count very slowly to ten before getting up.

To his surprise, the hoofbeats stopped before the rider reached him.

Oh-oh... what's all this about?

Glancing sideways, he caught a brief glimpse of the samurai as he dismounted and looped the reins of his horse round the trunk of a sapling about fifteen yards away. The animal, which was between Steve and the rider, blocked off a view of the j.a.p's face. Not that it mattered all that much. They all looked alike to Steve, and the rules about when and when not to make eye-contact made it even harder to tell one d.i.n.k from another.

Steve turned his attention back to the ground and waited, all six senses finely tuned for the samurai's next move. His eye caught the moving pattern of light, and shade as the j.a.p strode slowly towards him and, cutting across the sound of a moving suit of armour, he heard the faint, chilling swish of a long-sword being drawn from its scabbard.

Ohh, s.h.i.+t...

The shadow cast by the samurai stopped directly in front of him, darkening the gra.s.s on either side of his fingers to a deep blood-red.

Steve mentally invoked the name of Talisman but didn't move a muscle as the ice-cold blade brushed against his right cheek, then slid under his ear. He didn't need to see it to know that it was sharp side up.

After pausing there for a brief, agonising moment, the tip of the blade traced a chilling line across the back of his neck and came to rest under his left ear. He didn't feel the cut as the blade was withdrawn, just the trickle of blood warning his skin as it flowed down the line of his jaw.

'So... how's it going, sport?"

It was the Man in Black. Only this time, he was wearing fancy dress.