been seen, by now quite mad, in a little hospital in the very far West, about four days’ drive northwest of this Station, calls itself the House Dolorous. Ever heard of it?”
“No. So, he’s alive—we go in, kill him.”
“No,” the one-eared man said. “Not so simple. You’ll read the file, Lowry. The hospital is protected. Hillfolk stuff. Listen, Lowry. The General must at all costs be extracted alive.”
“Why?”
“The proper question,” the man said, “is, Why now? And the answer is this: One month ago, the forces of the Dryden Engine occupied a town called Brazenwood, away back east.”
“There was oil beneath it,” the woman interjected. “Its development had been planned for decades. So what we are telling you, Lowry, is not a matter of chance and contingency, but the inevitable unfolding of Progress. Do you understand?”
Lowry nodded, but said nothing. That seemed safest.
“One of the locals,” the one-eared man continued, “a pawnshop owner, currying favor, tried to sell the commanding officer on-site a letter. It appears to be the General’s last letter, to his daughter and granddaughter. Not clear yet how it ended up in the pawnshop. The family are dead. It contains intelligence of great importance. We’d thought the General irrelevant. Not so. He must be questioned.”
“Yes, sir. What?”
The woman said, “You don’t need to know.”
“Apparently,” the one-eared man added, “the damn fool pawnshop owner had been holding on to that letter for years, and he would have been better off holding on to it forever, because of course he had to be shot. Yet despite these precautions, I’m sorry to say, we have reason to believe that Agents of the enemy may have acquired the same intelligence we possess. If so, you will face opposition. You’re to advise and assist Conductor Banks in that regard.”
“And the hospital itself,” the other man said, “poses additional strategic complexities. Listen, Lowry. . . .”
CHAPTER 7
THE LONG ROAD WEST
The sun was fierce all day, every day, and unrelenting, and Liv was glad of her broad-brimmed hat, though its whiteness and floral pattern seemed out of place in this dusty country.
The caravan worked its slow way up and down the rocky hills, and she rode alongside.
“Can you ride?” That had been Mr. Bond’s first question to her. She could—up to a point—at least, she’d had a horse as a child. She’d used to go riding in the woods behind the Academy. That changed after her mother’s death—but she saw no need to tell Bond that sad story. She was happier riding than sitting in the wagons. The caravan was slow and the horses placid, but she was all bruises anyway.
“Can you cook? Can you sew?” Less welcome questions. The answer was no. She was a scientist, not a homemaker. She had never lived without servants. Her mother, who had been Emeritus Professor of Psychology, had had many virtues, but domesticity was not one of them.
“Huh.” Bond had shaken his head. “Not looking for a husband, then?”
“I had a husband, Mr. Bond. He was a Doctor of Mathematics in Koenigswald. He died two years ago, of a heart attack. He was, incidentally, a man of roughly your size and age.”
“Huh. Can’t cook, can’t sew, can ride a little. A scientist, is that right? Can you count?”
“Of course I can count, Mr. Bond.”
“I used to have a lawyer, but he got himself shot in a duel. Can you read a contract?”
“I expect so. I can certainly endeavor not to be shot.”
. . . so she rode into Monroe Town alongside Bond, and a week later into Barrett, and helped him haggle over the sale of animal bones and pelts and silver, and the purchase of food, water, credit. They negotiated in smoky rooms with local merchants in mustaches and battered top hats and threadbare waistcoats. Bond blustered and shouted and banged tables with his great ham fists; Liv was patient and polite. It seemed to unnerve the opposition. Bond declared that she was good luck. He offered to pay her; she declined. He squeezed himself into a suit and took her to the best restaurant in Monroe, where he bought her the best steak and the least vulgar wines Monroe could offer. “A business dinner,” he said. “To business,” clutching a wineglass in his huge hand as if to crush it. “To a fruitful partnership.” In Barrett Town a week later, they closed a deal at a very favorable percentage, and in the afternoon he showed her the sights, which were a shooting gallery, a