Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [47]
No use carrying the rationalization too far, O'Leary reminded himself. Firmly, he pictured sound walls under the moldering slabs, a snug, waterproof roof concealed by the defunct thatch, a weatherproof door, an adequate heating system—a gas fire with artificial logs, perhaps, fed by bottled propane. Add a rug—cold floors were rough on bare feet, a shower stall with plenty of hot water—there'd been a shortage of that, even in the palace, a tiny refrigerator, well-stocked, a bunk—a wide one, with a good quality mattress . . .
O'Leary completed his mental picture, filling in the details with loving attention. Of course, it was there, he told himself; he needed a hideout.
Time seemed to hesitate for an instant; then O'Leary smiled grimly and reached for the door . . .
Half an hour later, with the door locked firmly against intruders, clean and warm after a hot shower, O'Leary finished off his second Bavarian ham on Swiss rye, quaffed the last of the sixteen-ounce bottle of lager, pulled the feather comforter up snug about his ears and settled down to catch up on some much needed rest.
The alarm clock he had thoughtfully provided woke him with chimes at dawn. He stretched, yawned, blinked at the glass door to the shower stall, the pale green walls, the olive-carpeted floor, the dark green wall-mounted refrigerator, and cheery fire on the hearth. Now, just where was he? There was Mrs. MacGlint's—or had that been an evil dream? And his room at the palace, and the bunk in the cell at the police station, and a room with a flowerpot . . . and oh, yes, the converted hut here. Quite cozy. He nodded approvingly. He was always waking up in different places these days, it seemed.
O'Leary threw back the coverlet, checked the refrigerator, nibbled a cold chicken leg, then showered while sorting out kaleidoscopic impressions of the day before. It was getting harder and harder to recall just what had been a dream and what hadn't—or whether there was any distinction. The visit to the palace, now. Had that been real? He looked at his hands. They were badly scraped. Uh-huh, that had been real all right. Nicodaeus had nearly gotten him killed, the skunk—unless it was S.O.P. to run swords through curtains first thing when searching a room.
And Adoranne was gone, kidnapped. That was the important fact. He'd have to do something about that, right away. Funny how different everything seemed in the morning, with a meal and a night's sleep behind him. He wasn't worried. Somehow he'd recover Adoranne, explain the business of the midnight visit and the bag of loot, and then . . . Well, then he could play it by ear. And now to business.
He tried the door to the clothespress, discovered a handsome outfit consisting of modern-style whipcord riding breeches, a heavy gray flannel shirt, cordovan boots, a short lined windbreaker, a pair of pigskin driving gloves, and—incongruously—a rapier in a businesslike sheath attached to a Western-style leather belt. He dressed, quickly fried three eggs and half a dozen strips of bacon and washed up after breakfast.
The rain had stopped when O'Leary closed the door carefully behind him. The shack, he noted with approval, looked as derelict as ever. Now to action. The first step . . .
He paused, standing in the garbage-strewn, dawn-lit alley. What was the first step? Where did Lod stay when he wasn't off on a raid? What was it they had said? In the desert to the west? Not much in the way of travel directions. He had to have more information—and he couldn't just collar a passer-by. The first question put to a local citizen would have the pack howling on his heels again before he could say "post-hypnotic suggestion."
Heavy boots clumped along the alley, coming closer. O'Leary made a move to duck into concealment . . .
Too late; a heavily built man in a greasy sheepskin jacket hove into view and halted at sight of him. Under the damp brim of a wide, shapeless hat, a battered face stared