One voice cut through the babble: ' . . . didn't know he had a son.'
'Well,' a second answered, 'bastards sire bastards - a fact you should well know, Simon.'
There was a roar of brutal, empty laughter at this - the sort of laughter Jack heard from some of the bigger boys at school, the ones who busted joints behind the woodshop and called the younger boys mysterious but somehow terrifying names: queerboy and humpa-jumpa and morphadite. Each of these somehow slimy terms was followed by a coarse ribband of laughter exactly like this.
'Cork it! Cork it up!' - a third voice. 'If he hears you, you'll be walking Outpost Line before thirty suns have set!' Mutters.
A muffled burst of laughter.
Another jibe, this one unintelligible. More laughter as they passed on.
Jack looked at the Captain, who was staring at the short canvas wall with his lips drawn back from his teeth all the way to the gumlines. No question who they were talking about. And if they were talking, there might be someone listening . . . the wrong somebody. Somebody who might be wondering just who this suddenly revealed bastard might really be. Even a kid like him knew that.
'You heard enough?' the Captain said. 'We've got to move.' He looked as if he would like to shake Jack . . . but did not quite dare.
Your directions, your orders, whatever, are to . . . ah, go west, is that correct?
He changed, Jack thought. He changed twice.
Once when Jack showed him the shark's tooth that had been a filigreed guitar-pick in the world where delivery trucks instead of horse-drawn carts ran the roads. And he had changed again when Jack confirmed that he was going west. He had gone from threat to a willingness to help to . . . what?
I can't say . . . I can't tell you what to do.
To something like religious awe . . . or religious terror.
He wants to get out of here because he's afraid we'll be caught, Jack thought. But there's more, isn't there? He's afraid of me. Afraid of -
'Come on,' the Captain said. 'Come on, for Jason's sake.'
'Whose sake?' Jack asked stupidly, but the Captain was already propelling him out. He pulled Jack hard left and half-led, half-dragged him down a corridor that was wood on one side and stiff, mouldy-smelling canvas on the other.
'This isn't the way we came,' Jack whispered.
'Don't want to go past those fellows we saw coming in,' the Captain whispered back. 'Morgan's men. Did you see the tall one? Almost skinny enough to look through?'
'Yes.' Jack remembered the thin smile, and the eyes which did not smile. The others had looked soft. The thin man had looked hard. He had looked crazy. And one thing more: he had looked dimly familiar.
'Osmond,' the Captain said, now pulling Jack to the right.
The smell of roasting meat had been growing gradually stronger, and now the air was redolent of it. Jack had never smelled meat he wanted so badly to taste in his whole life. He was scared, he was mentally and emotionally on the ropes, perhaps rocking on the edge of madness . . . but his mouth was watering crazily.
'Osmond is Morgan's right-hand man,' the Captain grunted. 'He sees too much, and I'd just as soon he didn't see you twice, boy.'
'What do you mean?'
'Hsssst!' He clamped Jack's aching arm even tighter. They were approaching a wide cloth drape that hung in a doorway. To Jack it looked like a shower-curtain - except the cloth was burlap of a weave so coarse and wide that it was almost net-like, and the rings it hung from were bone rather than chrome. 'Now cry,' the Captain breathed warmly in Jack's ear.
He swept the curtain back and pulled Jack into a huge kitchen which fumed with rich aromas (the meat still predominating) and billows of steamy heat. Jack caught a confused glimpse of braziers, of a great stonework chimney, of women's faces under billowy white kerchiefs that reminded him of nuns' wimples. Some of them were lined up at a long iron trough which stood on trestles, their faces red and beaded with sweat as they washed pots and cooking utensils. Others stood at a counter which ran the width of the room, slicing and dicing and coring and paring. Another was carrying a wire rack filled with uncooked pies. They all stared at Jack and the Captain as they pushed through into the kitchen.
'Never again!' the Captain bellowed at Jack, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat . . . and all the while he continued to move them both swiftly across the room, toward the double-hung doors at the far side. 'Never again, do you hear me? The next time you shirk your duty, I'll split your skin down the back and peel you like a baked potato!'