Main Street of who-the-fuck-knew where, scattering women and children, and he was shocked by how old he looked, how red and lined in the face, how gray his hair was and how wild and ragged. It wounded his vanity. He always was a vain man.
—You’ll kill me, old friend. I swear you’ll kill me at this pace.
—Not yet. Faster.
He swung wide north around Kingstown Station, though it added two days to his journey, because he feared their spotlights and their search parties and their tollbooths and checkpoints, especially in his rapidly advancing condition of decay and exhaustion. Therefore he approached the Doll House from the east, just north of Kloan, and so he happened to see the posters nailed to trees every half mile alongside the road north of town, which were already fading and wilting like vivid blue-green flowers in the awful heat, but which still cheerfully promised the arrival in Kloan of DR. SLOOP’S TRAVELING EMPORIUM OF PHYSIC AND PATENT-MEDICINES, that very morning, once and once only, special-featuring “PROFESSOR” HARRY RANSOM AND HIS INGENIOUS ELECTRICAL LIGHT-BRINGING APPARATUS. . . .
—Medicine. Physic. Lights and amusements. A fair. Drink. Showgirls.
—No time, Creedmoor. Pass the town by.
—I shall die if I ride another hour without rest.
—No, Creedmoor. Too dangerous. We believe the enemy is present in this area. You may attract their notice.
—Fuck the enemy. I need medicine, by which I mean drink. Put the Goad to me if you like.
—One hour, Creedmoor.
—No more. On my honor.
—We will remember this.
There were few towns out there on the continent’s still-uncreated edge. None were more than twenty years old. Greenbank, which was a ways southwest of Kloan, was the biggest and the richest of them. Supposedly—if Creedmoor’s masters had not lied to him, which might or might not be the case—Dandy Fanshawe would be waiting there, worming in among the drifters of its bars and whorehouses. Abban the Lion and Drunkard Cuffee and Keane and Hang-’Em-High Washburne would scout the hills south of Greenbank. Together those five Agents—a mighty force—would be ready to meet Creedmoor once he emerged from the House and conduct him and the General away east.
There was Gooseneck to the west, which was poor, but it had a bank; and there was also World’s End to the northwest, which was ugly and sickly, but it had a mine.
And then there was Kloan, which had nothing special, except, apparently, Dr. Sloop and his medicines, and “Professor” Ransom and his apparatus.
Kloan was a few long straight dirt roads lashed together roughly crosswise, with a lodging house and general store and similar in the dust where they joined; a sprawl of small constructions knocked up out of tin and wood surrounded them. There was a market square with a kind of rickety stage, which was no doubt the most exciting thing for miles around. It was peaceful and dull and drowsily drunken.
Creedmoor rode in slowly, smiling and nodding. He left his horse at a hitching post and wandered into the market.
The whole rough mess of Kloan was dressed in sun-faded bunting, strung from the eaves of the big houses, nailed over the doors of lesser structures. All flounced up like a whore’s skirts. Dressed up soft and pretty for market-day—it implied a town where women had considerable say in the running of things, which struck Creedmoor as a promising situation. The idling crowd was composed largely of farmers, but also of pleasant-looking young women. He turned to the young lady next to him and beamed broadly at her and winked. She went pink and hid her pretty face in her fan.
—Most promising!
—No, Creedmoor. One hour.
Kloan bobbed like driftwood in a dull sea of flat brown fields. The fields were still but not empty. Hillfolk worked them, chained in gangs at the ankles, shuffling under the tuberous weight of black hair and beards. Probably their overseers were among the youths in the crowd or sprawled drunkenly on the dirt. The pretty young girl was arm in arm with a crop-headed barn-faced blacksmith-bicepped boy, who had the look of a young man handy with a whip.
—You know, the first man I ever killed was a slaver. Before I came to your service.
—We know.
—I had passionate views on the matter. Back when the blood was younger and hotter. Marching and speechifying for the Liberationists. That was after they kicked me out of the Knights of Labor, of course.
—Leave him be, Creedmoor.
Dr. Sloop was whooping and hollering up on the stage. He wore top hat and tails,