Seven
Luke was a ginger-bearded trader up from Speedro. Liz didn't know whether the Valley soldiers knew he'd come up to deal with her folks. She would have bet against it. Luke had the air of a man who dodged authority whenever he could. And Speedro and the Valley weren't the best of friends anyhow.
“Got me some of the things you said you were looking for,” he said now, puffing on a nasty pipe and sipping from a glass of raw corn whiskey Dad had given him.
Dad had a drink of his own, though he didn't smoke. There was such a thing as taking authenticity too far. Wrecking your lungs crossed the line. “Well, let's have a look,”' he said.
“Sure enough.” Luke had a knapsack on his back and two stout flintlock pistols and a Bowie knife on his belt. Ignoring the guns, he slid off the knapsack. “Don't quite know why you want these, but I found 'em.”
“Oh, come on,” Liz 's father said. “You never ask that question. Maybe I'll make a profit selling them to somebody with more money than sense. Maybe I want 'em for myself, just because of how' far out they are. Long as you make money selling them to me, what's your worry?”
The other trader gave him a crooked grin. “Well, I know how that works, all right. One fellow's trash is another guy's treasure.' The grin grew more crooked yet. “And we're all living in the middle of the trash from the Old Time, and I expect we will be from now till doomsday, or maybe twenty minutes longer.”
“Wouldn't be surprised,” Dad said, and then, “Well, well. How about that?”'
Luke displayed a dozen popular-science and science-fiction magazines from 1965, 1966, and 1967. The UCLA library's files on those were less complete than they might have been. Sometimes the library's holdings were less complete than the card catalogue said they should be. Sometime between the fall of the Fire and now. people had made things disappear.
To Liz. stealing from a library wasn't just a crime. It was a sin. And this library's card catalogue fascinated her. All the equivalents in the home timeline were electronic, of course. The idea of a room full of actual, physical files you could shuffle through struck her as extremely slick. And. surprisingly, once you got the hang of it, it was almost as fast as accessing a database.
Thai wasn't lair. Using the card catalogue was accessing a database. You couldn't do il with just a computer and a keyboard or a mike, but you could do it. Some of the things you could do without electricity startled her. They still had working wind up phonographs here. In the home timeline, vinyl was a teeny-tiny niche market. Liz didn't think she'd ever heard a real record there. It was nearly all downloads. Here, records were all they'd known about when things went boom. Hearing a classic like the Doors first album coming out of a tinny speaker that looked like a giant ear trumpet, and hearing it all full of scratches and hisses because it was so ancient, was almost enough to make her cry.
Dad sorted through the magazines. He handled them with great care because the pulp paper was ancient, too. Comparing these issues to the almost-matching ones from the home timeline would-or at least might-give researchers a few more clues about what had gone wrong here.
“Well, I can use 'em,” he said at last. “How hard are you going to rip me off?”
“Two dollars apiece.” Even Luke sounded amazed at how much he was asking. Two dollars, here, could buy as much as a couple of hundred Benjamin ’s-$20,000-back in the home timeline.
Liz 's father had the money. It meant no more to him than Microsoft Monopoly money did. But you couldn't make a deal- especially not a big one-without haggling. And haggling was a full-contact sport here. Luke called Dad some things… Well, il he'd said anything like that to Liz, she would have done her best to murder him. But her father only grinned and gave back as good-or as bad-as he got.
They finally settled on a dollar and a quarter per magazine. Luke was one of the people who preferred silver quarters to the copper-and-nickel sandwich ones that had replaced them. “Yeah, I know we can't make anything like those nowadays.” he said when Dad asked him which he wanted. “'But silver's silver, confound it. I'd like it even better if you gave me cartwheels.”
A cartwheel was a silver dollar, and it weighed more than four quarters or two half-dollars. To Liz, it was a just a symbol. It was worth what it said it was worth, and that was that. To Luke, and to a lot of people here, it was worth what it said it was worth because it had so much precious metal in it. They came from different worlds not only literally but also in their minds.
“You know what?” Dad said. “I can do that, and I will, because you've gone to some trouble for me.” The difference in weight wasn't enormous. It was as if he were giving Luke an extra-nice tip at a restaurant.
But the trader's eyes lit up when he got his hands on those fat, sweet-ringing silver coins. “Much obliged to you, sir,” he said, and tipped his broad-brimmed hat. “You didn't have to do that, and I know it. You're jake with me, and that's the truth. I take back all the stuff I called you-till I need it again next time we dicker, anyways.”
Dad laughed. Even Liz thought that was pretty funny. Dad said, “Don't get yourself in an uproar, man. If you don't help your friends, you don't have friends for long, right?”
“Right on!” Luke said. “And I'm mighty glad you put it that way. on account of those funky magazines weren't the only reason I came all the way up here.”
Speedro was a couple of days away from Westwood in this alternate: no small journey. In the home timeline, you could hop in your car and get there in a little more than an hour… if the freeways weren't jammed. If they were-and they often were-it took two or three times that long, and felt like a couple of days.
“Well, what's on your mind?” Did Dad sound cautious? Liz thought so. She would have, too-she was sure of that.
Luke, by contrast, was cagey, almost coy: “You've got a friend with a big old dog, isn't that right?”
“Not anymore.” Liz blurted. Not even the enormous and ferocious Pots could stand up to machine-gun bullets. The Westsiders-and Pots himself-had learned that the hard way. Losing the terrible dog went a long way toward breaking the Westside's morale. It must have gone just as far toward pumping up the Valley's soldiers.
The trader nodded to her. “You're right, Miss. That's the straight skinny, all right. But you sure know somebody who did have a big old dog, don't you?”
''What's Cal got in mind?” Here, unlike in a haggle over money. Dad didn't have to waste time beating around the bush.
''Well, he aims to throw these Valley squares back where they belong, and then another mile further,” Luke replied.
“'People can aim at all kinds of things. “A man's reach should exceed his grasp,/ Or what's a heaven for'?” Dad quoted old poetry- Liz remembered the lines from Brit Lit. He went on, “But just 'cause he aims to do it doesn't mean he can. And where do I fit into all this?”
“Well, he was hoping you could let him know where the Valley soldiers are at and how many they're keeping down here.” Luke said.
“Through you?” Dad asked.
“No, man. Through the Easter Bunny.” Luke snorted like a horse. “Of course, through me. You gonna write him a letter, like, and stick a stamp on it?” People remembered stamps, the way they remembered cars and TVs. Unlike cars and TVs, stamps still did get made by some of the larger, more stable kingdoms in this shattered alternate. None of the ones in Southern California qualified, though.
And the idea of putting stuff that dangerous in writing wasn't anything to jump up and down about, either. Nor was the idea of taking sides in the petty struggles here. That was the last thing people from Crosstime Traffic were supposed to do.
On the other hand, people from Crosstime Traffic were supposed to act as much like locals as they could. And a local trader might well want to help Cal against the Valley soldiers. If your instructions started quarreling with themselves… Liz waited to see what her father would do.
“I don't usually go looking around for soldiers, you know,” Dad said.
&nbs
p; “ Cal says he'd make it worth your while if you did,” Luke answered.
Cal didn't have anything that could make it worthwhile for someone from the home timeline… and Dad was holding a lot of his assets. Without a doubt, Cal could make a trader here- or a couple of traders here-rich. From what Liz had seen of him, though, there was a big difference between could and would. Maybe he'd just say Dad could keep what he was already holding.
Dad also took a jaundiced view of the Westside City Councilman. “I'm sure Cal 's word is worth its weight in gold,” he said dryly.
Luke needed to think about that for a couple of seconds before he got it. When he did, he gave a snaggle-toothed grin-no orthodontists here-and snorted again, this time on a higher note. “You're a funny fella-you sure are. Worth its weight in gold! I got to remember me that one.”
''You see what I mean, then.” Dad spread his hands.
“Well, Cal 's slipperier'n smoked eels packed in olive oil, no two ways about that,” Luke allowed, and Dad smiled in return. The trader from Speedro went on, “Chances are he'd pay off for this, though. He purely hates those Valley dudes, and he wants to get rid of 'em.”
“Now that you're up here, you could look around as well as we can,” Liz said.
''I could.” By the way Luke stretched the word, he didn't want to. He explained why: “I'm a stranger in these parts, and they'd get hinky about me in a hurry. I bet they don't even look at you people twice.” He paused. “Well, they'd look at you twice, honey, but not on account of they figured you were spying.”
Liz 's cheeks got hot. She'd thought Dan 's attention was the last thing she wanted. Now she found it was next to last. Having this hairy, smelly, old trader notice her, that was way worse. And she could tell him, “Some of them already do think I'm spying.”
Luke grunted. “That's not so hot.”
“If I find anything out, I'll let you know, Luke.” Dad said. “I'm sorry, but I just haven't paid that much attention till now.”
“Too bad. Cal was hoping you would have.” Luke heaved himself to his feet. “Well, I'll be on my way. Much obliged for the silver dollars, my friend. Like I say, you didn't have to do that, and I know it.” He touched a callused forefinger to the brim of his hat.
Liz sat in the courtyard, wishing she were ugly. Life would be so much simpler if she were.
Dan was coming up Glendon when a trader left the house where Liz and her folks lived. The fellow looked tough, and wore not one but two pistols. That meant, in case of a miss, he could fire again while Dan was still reloading. Muskets were nice, but they were slow.
The trader didn't want any trouble, which was a relief. He nodded politely to Dan and said, “Hello, kid. How ya doin”?”
Don't call me kid! Anger automatically flared in Dan. Then it faded, and not just because the man was heavily armed. Gray streaked the trader's hair and whiskers. To him, Dan, with his own thin, scraggly, scratchy beard, was a kid, no two ways about it. So Dan nodded back and said, “Not bad. You?”
''Tolerable.” The trader considered, then nodded. “Yeah, I'm just about tolerable.”
“Cool,” Dan said. “Ask you something?”
“Well, you can always ask.” The older man's eyes narrowed. “I don't promise to answer, mind you. Your business is yours, and my business is mine.”
That wasn't necessarily so. The trader represented nobody but himself. Dan served the Valley and King Zev. Somehow, he didn't think the trader would be much impressed if he told him so. Instead, he said, “Did you do any of your business with the people there?” and pointed to Liz 's house.
“What if I did?” No, the trader wouldn't give anything away.
“Look, I'm not trying to get money out of you. I don't care about money,” Dan said. That wasn't exactly true. He cared plenty about his own money, but he was willing not to worry about the trader's. “There aren't any new taxes for trading here”-if there were, chances were they would have sparked an uprising- “and I'm not trying to shake you down.”
“Says you,” the trader answered. “If you knew how many lines I've heard… But I haven't heard one just like this, anyways. So if you aren't trying to shake me down, what the devil are you doing?” His leathery face was watchful, wary. He kept his hands well away from the pistols, but Dan would have bet he could have one in his grip in a hurry. And the matchlock wasn't even loaded.
“What I want to know is, what did you bring up here to trade with those people?” Dan said.
“You won't believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. Remember, you asked for it. I unloaded some magazines from Old Time, from the days just before the Fire came down.”
Dan did believe him. He sounded too pleased with himself to be lying. Dan was sorry he'd said he wouldn't ask about money-he wondered how much this guy had got. But what the man said fit in pretty well with what Liz had told him before, which also made him think the trader was telling the truth. So all he asked was, “What kind of magazines? Did they have to do with Old Time guns and stuff?”
“Nah. f could see people wanting those.” The trader shook his head. His greasy hair flipped back and forth under his hat. “These were just weird, man. I think they were mostly pretend stories. Why would you rare about those?” He sounded honestly puzzled.
Dan was puzzled, too. “That's all?” he asked.
“That's it. Cross my heart and hope to die.” The trader made the required gesture. For the first time, though, his eyes slipped away from Dan 's. Was he hiding something? If he was, Dan saw no way to make him turn loose of it. And the older man was impatient to be gone. “You gonna hassle me anymore?”
“I wasn't hassling you,” Dan said. “You want to get hassled? I'll take you to my sergeant. He'll show you more about hassling than you ever saw.'“
“That's okay, kid, if it's all the same to you.” The trader's tone warned it had better be okay with Dan. Even so, he sounded amused as he went on, “I have met up with a sergeant or three in my time, and it's a fact that they can hassle better'n just about anybody.”
“You can say that again!” As soon as the words were out of Dan 's mouth, he wished he had them back. Now he'd given the trader something to use against him. That wasn't smart. But he didn't think Chuck would do much more than laugh. He hoped Chuck wouldn't, anyhow. Sounding as gruff as he could, he said. ““You can go.”
The trader touched the brim of his hat in what wasn't quite a salute. “Much obliged, buddy. You know, that trader's got a daughter about your age.” He jerked a thumb toward the house from which he'd come.
“I've met her.”“ Dan bit off the words.
“She's smart, too.” The older man didn't know how much trouble he was causing-or maybe he did know and didn't care. “If I were as young as you are, I'd try and spend some time with her. I would.”
“Right.” Dan said. If looks could have killed, the trader's fancy pistols wouldn't have done him a nickel's worth of good. Didn't he know that Dan wanted nothing more than to spend as much time with Liz as he could? And didn't he know that Liz didn't seem the least bit interested in doing the same thing?
Of course he doesn't know any of that, Dan realized. The trader had just set eyes on Liz for the first time. (Unless he'd come up here before the Valley took Westwood. But Dan thought that unlikely. The man would have talked about her differently if he had.) How could he know that Dan went over there whenever he found the chance? How could he know Dan was on his way over there now? Simple-he couldn't.
Or could he? His leathery, weathered face was much too cunning as he said, “Well, have a nice day, pal,” and ambled off.
He didn't look back over his shoulder to see whether Dan knocked on Liz 's door. Maybe that meant he didn't care. Then again, maybe it meant he already had a pretty good notion of what Dan would do.
Steaming, Dan tramped right past that door. He was, after all, supposed to be on patrol. But he looked back over his shoulder after he'd gone half an extra block
. No sign of the trader. If the miserable fellow had hung around to see what Dan would do. he was gone now. And if he was gone now?…
Dan hurried back to Liz 's house and knocked on the door. The barred little telltale at eye level opened up. Dan didn't think those were Liz 's eyes on the other side of it. He turned out to be right, because a man's voice said, “Oh, it's you. Wait a second.”
A thud meant the man was taking down the bar that held the door closed. When it swung wide, Dan found himself looking at Liz 's father. “Hello,” he said politely-he couldn't bring himself to call anybody in occupied Westwood sir. “Is Liz at home?”
Her father nodded. “Yes, she is, but you can't see her right now. She's busy in the kitchen. We've got to eat-nothing we can do about that-and getting food ready takes a lot of time.”
Dan nodded, too. He remembered his mother working a lot in her kitchen. He also remembered her grumbling about it. Chopping and cutting and plucking and gutting and tending the fires and cleaning up afterwards… Sometimes she'd dragooned him into helping, but women did most of the work in there.
“Ask you something?” Dan said.
“I make a point of never saying no to a musketeer who's carrying his gun,” Liz 's father answered. Dan wondered if he was telling the truth. Like the other trader, he was bound to have weapons of his own. But he wasn't showing any right now. And so…
“Why did you buy freaky magazines from that whiskery-scoundrel?”
Liz 's father looked startled for a moment. Then he smiled. “You must have run into Luke.”
“If that's his name,” Dan said. “But you didn't answer my question. Why did you? It could matter to the Valley.” He wanted the trader to understand he wasn't just being snoopy on his own.
“I don't see how,” Liz 's father said. “I'm interested in those kinds of magazines myself, the same way Liz is. They remind me how much we lost when the Fire fell. And. after I look at them, I can sell them. I'll make good money when I do, too.”
The Valley-Westside War ct-6 Page 12
