Part 56 (2/2)

HILLTOP HOUSE R.R.S.-6 KM The afternoon when Tony hiked that stretch had been a hot and dusty one, and he viewed the sign with elation. But then a caravan of h.e.l.lads pulling carts of chaliko fodder to Roniah overtook him, and one of the teamsters gave Tony a lift. His name was Wiggy and he was quick to explain the true nature of the establishment they were approaching.

”Friggerty crimps' nest, that's wot it is! You watch your a.r.s.e there, pilgrim, or they'll have you grey-chokered and off to Goriah as a raw ree-cruit in the King's s.h.i.+tkicker Brigade.”

The drivers, well known to the recruiting team and off limits because of their gainful employment, nonetheless were accustomed to pig out on the free refreshments every time they pa.s.sed. There was nothing Tony could do but face up to jeopardy with a stout heart. He tramped inside with the rest and soon they were sitting at long tables drinking cold beer or sangria and munching on snack foods. It was obvious that the teamsters were old acquaintances of the presiding captal and the squad of soldiers who ran the place. Tony felt his innards churn as the officer jokingly referred to him as a ”live one” and promised that Wiggy would receive a nice bounty should Tony sign up.

”Thanks awfully, but I've been sick,” the metallurgist said.

”I'm not the type you're looking for at all. You want brave people for the King's army.” (The late Karbree's elephant rifle, concealed in a rancid rawhide sheath, had been left outside in the wagon with Tony's other duffle.) The recruiting captal's eyes twinkled. ”Plenty of other good bunks available in the royal service! I can tell you're an educated man-not spook fodder like the rest of this gang of h.e.l.lypatoots.” The drivers, drinking and eating fast while the game lasted, guffawed and elbowed one another. ”If you've got a technical skill, we could sign you up for the new Scientific Corps that the Creator Guild is inst.i.tuting. It's headed up by good old Lord Celadeyr, a real Tanu gent if there ever was one. Loves human beings just like a genuine mensch and pa.s.ses out silver torcs like carnival kickshaws to scientific mavens who cooperate nicely.”

”Well-uh-I'm more of a humanities student,” Tony mumbled.

”Brains is brains,” said the genial captal. ”You'd like it in Goriah. All the women you want, good food and liquor, night life-shoot, I'd go myself if I could.”

He whipped out a parchment scroll crowded with fine print, a ballpoint pen, and a handsome blue velvet bag that contained something circular, lumpy, and about sixteen cents in diameter.

”Just sign here, guy, and you'll never regret it. We can have you off to Goriah by express caravan tomorrow ... after an evening of fun and games in Roniah down the pike that you'll never forget! What say?”

The teamsters sitting around the table with Tony and the captal giggled like lunatics and all of them except Wiggy urged him to sign. As a final inducement, the captal opened the bag and dramatically took out a gleaming grey torc. The laughter and joking were instantly quelled. The necks of all the drivers were bare.

The captal pushed the torc across the table toward Tony. Its k.n.o.bbed catch was open. The twisted metal was hollow, incised with small openings to ventilate the psychoelectronic components inside.

”Take off your scarf,” the captal suggested to Tony. ”Just try it on.” He touched his own grey necklet. ”These things are wonderful. They do things for you, y'know? No more headaches or sore feet or feeling blah or tired or scared. And that's not the half of it. If your boss is a gold or a silver, he can program pleasure for you through the torc. Give you a rush like you never had from s.e.x or dope or even buzz-heading. Make you forget all your troubles in the wink of an eye, this magic collar will. Sign.”

Four large troopers materialized behind Tony's seat. He half rose, then dropped back, with sweat streaming from his head and soaking his neckerchief. ”I-I'd rather not just now.”

The teamsters downed the dregs in their tankards, s.n.a.t.c.hed up a last cookie or handful of nuts, and drifted toward the door.

Wiggy had a shamefaced look.

”Sign,” urged the captal, his eyes locked onto those of the panic-stricken metallurgist.

”Sign!” chorused the quartet of bruisers, grinning like wolves.

Tony tried to push his chair back. It wouldn't budge. The captal had risen and taken up the torc. He came around to Tony's side of the table, twisting the thing farther open on its rotating hinge, poising it above Tony's head.

”G.o.ddammit, no!”

Tony's mind triggered the pleasure-induction circuitry of the recruiting team through his own golden torc, hitting their brains with the maximum o.r.g.a.s.mic load. All five of the soldiers dropped to the floor as though they'd been poleaxed.

”Holy s.h.i.+t,” breathed Tony's teamster friend. Several other drivers peered over his shoulder and gaped.

Pus.h.i.+ng the table back, Tony negotiated the bodies, faced the teamsters, and ripped the scarf from his neck. There was a gasp.

”Enough is enough! Now I've got to get out of here. These fellows won't remember a thing when they wake up ... I don't think. But in case they do, I want to be far away.” Tony summoned his most imperious glare. ”Will you drive me to Roniah or won't you?”

Wiggy touched his forehead, smirking. ”Your carriage awaits, Exalted Lord.”

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