Broben took a long pull and breathed smoke. “Heck, we don’t want to affect anybody’s ecosystem,” he said. “We’ll go smoke outside.”
Farley shook his head. “Just put ’em out,” he said. “We can live an hour without a smoke.”
Broben scowled, but he dropped his cigarette and ground it out. He bent and picked it up and showed it to Wennda and Grobe. Then he put it back in its pack. “I’ll save my own butt,” he said.
Grobe turned away and motioned them forward without another word.
Broben shook his head in disgust, and Farley indicated the dome. “It probably takes a lot of rules to live like this,” he said.
“Shit,” said Broben. “I bet even the Nazis let you light one up before they shoot you.”
Farley trudged along in exhausted silence. He had a thousand questions and concerns, but most of his energy and will were occupied with putting one foot in front of the other.
Wennda was looking more worried as they got closer to the buildings. If what Grobe had said was true, it was a good bet her team would be court-martialed for desertion, or unauthorized activity, or going outside without a hall pass, for all Farley knew.
Farley stared at two men and two women working in a field. Hoes, spades, a square barrow, light jumpsuits. Arshall waved at them and they looked surprised and waved back. They continued to stare at the party making its way across the miniature cropland.
“I got a bet with myself,” said Broben, “that Boatman is gonna shake me awake real soon and tell me I got thirty minutes to suit up, chow down, and get to the briefing.”
“Never thought I’d be homesick for those sardine cans,” Plavitz said behind them.
Behind Plavitz, Garrett said, “I just want to get horizontal for five minutes. I’m all in.”
“You can sleep in the next world,” Broben told him.
Shorty’s laugh was a curt bark. “Well, whadda ya call this?” he said in Jack Benny’s voice.
As they neared the buildings Farley saw that many of them had missing windows covered with fabric, some of the makeshift covers drawn back like curtains. The dark brick walkways had potholes that had been patched and worn concave.
The crew were led to a two-story, U-shaped building, dun-colored like most others here. Farley thought it looked like a budget motor court. Between two unmarked doors a group of men stood watching two others on spindly folding chairs playing a board game, making comments and offering suggestions. All wore lightweight jumpsuits. On the floor above them a man leaned on the metal railing, foot tapping and head nodding in a rhythm only he could hear. They stopped and stared as Farley’s crew approached. Farley glanced at Wennda and their escort. Wennda looked determined and led them on.
The man on the railing touched his ear and stopped moving in rhythm. He looked over Farley’s crew and didn’t seem overly impressed. “So you found her,” he said to Grobe.
“I was never lost,” Wennda called back.
“What about Sten and Arshall? Did they know where they were?”
“Not really the time for this discussion, Lang,” Wennda said wearily. “Are their quarters ready?”
“Thanks to six of us doubling up they are.” Lang nodded down at the crew. “These are the eight new mouths to feed?”
One of the game players looked up. “Nine,” he called up. “There’s one in the clinic.”
“Nine,” Lang echoed. He shook his head. “Reverter fodder.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” muttered Broben.
Farley caught his eye. “You see anyone radio ahead about us?” he asked quietly.
Broben shook his head.
“The commander appreciates your sacrifice,” Wennda called up to Lang. Farley couldn’t tell if she was being ironic.
Lang shrugged. “Nobody minds a temporary inconvenience,” he said.
The room was long and narrow and completely bare. No bunks, no chairs, no storage, no windows. Plain walls with thin lines where panels met. Overhead air vents. A tile floor worn colorless down the center. Light panels glowed overhead. Several were unlit, and one flickered.
“Gee, I wonder what the budget rooms are like,” said Shorty.
“It isn’t moving and there’s no one shooting at me,” said Plavitz. “I like it just fine.” He took off his boots and curled up near a wall and to all appearances instantly fell asleep. The others set down their weapons and their meager belongings and sat against the bare walls and relit their cigarettes. Boney took out his pipe and looked at it and put it back. Broben touched the pack in his shirt pocket and then reluctantly took his hand away. “Don’t you bums come begging to me when you run out,” he told Garrett and Everett.
Wennda stayed near the open door and watched with a kind of amused horror as the men blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Will this be sufficient, captain?” she asked.
“Sure, I guess,” said Farley, looking around the bare room. “For now, anyway.”
“Then I’d like you to come with me, please.”
“I don’t need separate quarters,” Farley said.
Wennda raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind. But at the moment, the commander would like to see you.”
“All right,” said Farley. He went to the door, then looked back at Broben. “Try to keep them from burning the place down, okay?”
“Man can only do so much,” said Broben.
THIRTEEN
Two of Grobe’s team stayed behind to guard the crew’s quarters. Farley thought about protesting but tabled it. Nobody was going anywhere right now, anyway.
Grobe and the short woman in his team flanked Farley and Wennda as they made their way through narrow pedestrian avenues. Everyone Farley saw wore the same oatmeal-colored jumpsuits, though some had been decorated with drawn designs or patterns. People stared at Farley in an unnerving way.
They entered a low, wide, dun-colored building and were ushered through a lobby the size of a living room, then went up a narrow and dimlit stairwell, their footfalls loud on the worn stone steps. On the second floor they emerged into a narrow corridor lit by small high-hats and painted a dingy yellow. Foot traffic had worn a dull path down the middle of the floor. Some of the lights were out. Farley figured it was probably a bit of a trek to get a new lightbulb around here.
Grobe opened a door. “You’ll wait here,” he told Farley. “The commander will see you after Wennda has been debriefed.”
Wennda forced a smile. “Maybe we should give him some more time to calm down.”
“He’s over fifty and it hasn’t happened yet,” said Grobe.
“True.” She nodded, then took a deep breath. “All right. Better to chop it off than saw on it, I guess.”
“You’ll be fine.” Farley thought he heard a note of contempt in the comment.
The expression that flashed across Wennda’s face made Farley think she was about to slap Grobe. It vanished as quickly as it came.
Grobe didn’t seem to have caught it. He nodded at the short woman—whose name Farley never did learn—and she nodded back and took up station by the door. Grobe indicated the room to Farley.
“Good luck,” Farley told Wennda.
A nervous smile. “I’ll try to wear him out before he gets to you,” she said. She squared her shoulders and went down the corridor, Grobe beside her.
Farley found himself in a small conference room, mostly muted grays and black. Half a dozen swivel chairs made of some strong black mesh around black tubing surrounded a rectangular table with a black glass top. The lighting was subtle and indirect, though some of the lights were out in here, too. The far wall was decorated with unobtrusive geometric patterns. All of it was unremarkable and understandable to Farley, yet it was also alien. Sophisticated and dilapidated at the same time.