"Ouch," said the marquis. "From Olympus to Tartarus in only a few blocks." Sundoc smiled. "It eats a lot too," he said. "But it's worth it."
One
He entered the graveled lot and headed toward a group of hewn-log buildings before which stood rows of pumps for various fuels.
"How's the gas?" Red inquired.
"Half full, with a full auxiliary."
"Park, over by those trees."
He came to a halt beneath a large oak tree. The sun had already settled far into the west.
"We're around C Sixteen, aren't we?"
"Yes. Were you planning on getting off here?"
"No. I was just thinking: I once knew a guy from this period. Had to take the English cutoff, up a piece..."
"You want to park and go visit him?"
"No. He's—elsewhere. And I'm hungry. Come keep me company."
He withdrew a copy of Flowers of Evil from beneath the dashboard.
"Where did he go?" came the voice from the book.
"Who?"
"Your friend."
"Oh. Far. Yes, he went far." Red chuckled.
He opened the door and stepped outside. There was
a chill in the air. He moved quickly in the direction of the buildings.
The dining room was shadowy, its chandelier as yet unlit. The tables were of wood and uncovered, as was the floor. A log fire crackled in an open hearth at the room's far end. The only windows were in the front wall.
He glanced at the diners. Two couples were seated before the big window. Young-looking. From their garb and their speech, he placed them as late C Twenty-one. The garments of the delicate-looking man at the table to his right indicated late Victorian England as his place of origin. Seated with his back to the nearer wall was a dark-haired man wearing black trousers and boots, and a white shirt. He was eating chicken and drinking beer. A dark leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. Too basic. Red could not place him.
He moved to the farthest table, turned it, and sat with his back to the comer. He placed Flowers of Evil on the boards before him, opening the volume at random.
" 'Pour I'enfant, amoureux de cartes et Sestampes, Vunivers est egal a son vaste appetit,'" came the tiny voice.
He quickly raised the book to cover his face. 'True," he replied in a whisper. 'Yet you want more, don't you?" 'Just my own little corner." 'And where might that be?" 'Damned if I know."
"I've never quite understood why you do the things-"
A tall, white-haired waiter came up beside the table.
"Your order— Red!"
He looked up, stared a moment
"Johnson?..."
"Yes. Good Lord! It's been years!"
"Has it? You used to work farther down the Road, didn't you?"
"Yes. But I like it better up here."
"I'm glad you found a good spot. Say, that guy's chicken looks good." Red nodded toward the darkhaired man. "So does his beer. I'll have the same. Who is he, anyway?"
"Never saw him before."
"All right. Bring the beer now."
"Okay."
He withdrew a fresh cigar from a concealed pocket, examined it.
Johnson paused, regarding him.
"Are you going to do the trick?"
"What trick?"
"I once saw you light your cigar with a coal you plucked from the fire. You weren't burned."
"Go on!"
"Don't you remember? It was some years ago... Unless you are going to learn it later. You did look older then. Anyway, it was about half a C down the Road."
Red shook his head.
"Some childish trick. I'll none of it now. Let's have the brew and the bird."
Johnson nodded and departed.
By the time Red had finished eating, the dining room had filled. Lights had been lit and the background noise had grown louder. He hailed Johnson, paid his tab and rose.
Outside, the night had become colder. He stepped down into the lot and turned left, heading toward his truck.
"Quiet," came the small word from the book he bore.