The Compleat Bolo Read Free Page B

spells," I said. "And I'm not too sure I believe in this Baron. Who is he?"
    "The Baron Trollmaster of Filly. He holds all this country—" the old man made a sweeping gesture with his arm—"all the way to Jersey."
    "Why was he looking for me? What makes me important?"
    "You came from the Forbidden Place. Everyone heard the cries of the Lesser Troll that stands guard over the treasure there. If the Baron can learn your secrets of power—"
    "Troll, hell! That's nothing but a Bolo on automatic!"
    "By any name every man dreads the monster. A man who walks in its shadow has much mana . But the others—the ones that run in a pack like dogs—would tear you to pieces for a demon if they could lay hands on you."
    "You saw me back there. Why didn't you give me away? And why are you taking care of me now?"
    He shook his head—the all-purpose answer to any question.
    I tried another tack: "Who was the rag man you tackled just outside? Why was he laying for me?"
    The old man snorted. "Tonight the dogs will eat him. But forget that. Now we have to talk about your plan—"
    "I've got about as many plans as the senior boarder in death row. I don't know if you know it, old timer, but somebody slid the world out from under me while I wasn't looking."
    The old man frowned. I had the thought that I wouldn't like to have him mad at me, for all his white hair . . .
    He shook his head. "You must understand what I tell you. The soldiers of the Baron will find you someday. If you are to break the spell—"
    "Break the spell, eh?" I snorted. "I think I get the idea, pop. You've got it in your head that I'm valuable property of some kind. You figure I can use my supernatural powers to take over this menagerie—and you'll be in on the ground floor. Well, listen, you old idiot! I spent sixty years—maybe more—in a stasis tank two hundred feet underground. My world died while I was down there. This Baron of yours seems to own everything now. If you think I'm going to get myself shot bucking him, forget it!"
    The old man didn't say anything. "Things don't seem to be broken up much," I went on. "It must have been gas, or germ warfare—or fallout. Damn few people around. You're still able to live on what you can loot from stores; automobiles are still sitting where they were the day the world ended. How old were you when it happened, pop? The war, I mean. Do you remember it?"
    He shook his head. "The world has always been as it is now."
    "What year were you born?"
    He scratched at his white hair. "I knew the number once. But I've forgotten."
    "I guess the only way I'll find out how long I was gone is to saw that damned elm in two and count the rings—but even that wouldn't help much; I don't know when it blew over. Never mind. The important thing now is to talk to this Baron of yours. Where does he stay?"
    The old man shook his head violently. "If the Baron lays his hands on you, he'll wring the secrets from you on the rack! I know his ways. For five years I was a slave in the palace stables."
    "If you think I'm going to spend the rest of my days in this rat nest, you get another guess on the house! This Baron has tanks, an army. He's kept a little technology alive. That's the outfit for me—not this garbage detail! Now, where's this place of his located?"
    "The guards will shoot you on sight like a pack-dog!"
    "There has to be a way to get to him, old man! Think!"
    The old head was shaking again. "He fears assassination. You can never approach him . . ." He brightened. "Unless you know a spell of power?"
    I chewed my lip. "Maybe I do at that. You wanted me to have a plan. I think I feel one coming on. Have you got a map?"
    He pointed to the desk beside me. I tried the drawers, found mice, roaches, moldy money—and a stack of folded maps. I opened one carefully; faded ink on yellowed paper falling apart at the creases. The legend in the corner read: "PENNSYLVANIA 40M:1. Copyright 1970 by ESSO Corporation."
    "This will do, pop," I said.