Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [169]
The walls of the room were sailing past, like a merry-go-round running down. Lafayette blinked dizzily, grabbed for his wine glass, took a hearty gulp, sat trembling and drawing deep, restorative breaths. He swallowed a lump the approximate size of a hard-boiled egg, edging as far as possible away from the innocent-looking apparatus sitting on the table before him.
"Oh, you're a genius, O'Leary," he muttered to himself, patting his pocket for a handkerchief with which to mop the cold sweat from his brow. "You give the Red Bull a lecture on the danger of meddling with experimental temporal lab equipment, and then you poke a button yourself, and nearly . . . nearly . . . do whatever I nearly did!"
There was a sudden sound of scuffling, emanating from the direction of the alley behind the tavern. The tapman came around the bar with a stout cudgel in his hand. He halted abruptly, staring at Lafayette.
"We're closed, you," he said roughly. "How'd ye get in here, anyway?"
"Through the door, Tom, as usual," Lafayette snapped. "What about it?"
"Haul ye'r freight, ye scurvy knave." The barman hooked a thick thumb over his shoulder. "Out!"
"What's got into you, Tom?" O'Leary said testily. "Go polish a glass or something—"
"Look, crum-bum—so I open the joint so me old mate the Red Bull could have a quiet rondy-vooz with a nobleman; that don't mean every varlet on the pavement gets to warm hisself at me fire—"
"Some fire," Lafayette snapped. "The A & D used to be a fairly nice dive, as dives go—but I can see it's deteriorated—" He broke off with an oof! as Tom rammed the club into his short ribs, grasped him by the back of the neck, and assisted him from the bench.
"I says out, rogue, and out is what I mean!"
As the landlord sent him staggering toward the door, Lafayette caught at one of the posts supporting the sagging beams, whirled around it, and drove a straight right punch to the barman's chin, sending him bounding backward to end up on the packed-earth floor with his head under a table.
"I was just leaving, thanks," Lafayette said, noting as he seized the Mark III from the table that his voice had developed a hoarse, croaking sound. But no wonder, after the scare he'd had, followed by the unexpected attack by an old acquaintance.
"I think you'd better lay off sampling the stock, Tom. It does nothing for your personality." He paused at the door to straight his coat, smooth his lapels. The cloth felt unaccountably greasy. He looked down, stared aghast at grimy breeches, torn stockings, and run-over shoes.
"All that from one little scuffle?" he wondered aloud. The landlord was crawling painfully forth from under the table.
"Stick around, mister," he said blurrily. "It's two falls out o' three, remember?" As he came to his feet with a lurch, Lafayette slipped out into the dark street. A chill drizzle of rain had started up, driven by the gusty wind. The Red Bull was nowhere in sight.
"Now, where's he gotten to?" Lafayette wondered aloud as he reached to draw his cloak about him, only to discover that the warm garment was gone.
"Drat!" he said, turning back to the tavern door.
"Tom! I forgot something!" he shouted; but even as he spoke, the light faded inside. He rattled and pounded in vain. The oak panel was locked tight.
"Oh, perfect," he groaned aloud. "Now he's mad at me—and it was my second-best cloak, too, the one Daphne's Aunt Lardie made for me." He turned up his jacket collar—of stiff, coarse wool, he noted absently; funny, he'd grabbed a coat from the closet in the dark, but he didn't remember owning anything this disreputable. Maybe it belonged to the man who had come to clear the swallows' nest out of the chimney . . .
"But never mind that," he reminded himself firmly. "Getting this infernal machine into safe hands is the important thing. I'll lock it in the palace vault, and then try to get in touch with Central, and . . ." His train of thought was interrupted by the clank of