L. Neil Smith - North American Confederacy 02 by Nagasaki Vector Page A

tossed back rakishly, I strapped my blood-stained pistol rig; made me feel better in unknown territory, an’ last night I’d noticed even Grandma Goldilocks was heeled—a semitrusive four-barreled derringer of about .60 caliber, which, with a locket on a golden chain, had constituted her entire wardrobe.
    “When in Rome,” I shuddered, recalling the dream, “say hello to the table.”
    It was lightly overcast an’ drizzlin’ outside, the sun an anemic brassy disc. The window opened out on a meadow edged with evergreen almost black in the fine mist. At the limit of vision grazed several dozen quadrupedal blobs, supervised by a hazy figure on horseback.
    Checking my pistol chamber, I took a final gander in the portion of the wall adjusted to nonreversing mirrorhood, turned one way, then the other, an’ waggled my eyebrows. “Reet!”
    When the door got outa my way politely, I discovered Color waiting for me, sucking on a tea-bag. “The trousers are properly worn tucked into the boot-tops, O Lord.” Hopping on one leg while making adjustments to the other, I followed this fifteen-inch fluorescent arbiter-of-fashion as he trundled down the hall—the string an’ tag of the teabag trailing out from underneath his shell.
    They were gathered in the living room, and I’d guessed right about the gunbelt, at least. Olongo Featherstone-Haugh couldn’t tuck his trousers in; the pair of denim Bermuda shorts he was wearing, complete with leather tag and copper rivets, missed the'scallops of his sixteen-inch red, white, and gold-eagled mule-ears by a mile. The Tony Lamas matched a heavy leather pistol rig. The shorts matched a monogrammed vest with copper buttons. Parked across the room on the back of a massive roll-top desk was enough pearl-gray Stetson to hold revival-meetings in. Koko sat beside him in a squaw-dress with a concho belt and thirty pounds of turquoise jewelry. The President looked just like a giant furry Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.
    It wouldn’ta been too crazy t’start lookin’ for Georgie right here in this room. Plenty of space between its leather-paneled walls. Both gorillas occupied a two-tone calfskin sofa only slightly smaller than the San Francisco Palace, Koko with a cup of coffee on her knee, Olongo with a cooler in his hand that put me in minda that Texican swim-min’ pool again. He waved me to a similar settee across an acre of slab-rock coffee table, little trilobites an’ petrified seaweed peekin’ up through plate-glass. Lunch was steaming in the middle, plus a stand of Cuban cigars. Badly torn, I evaded the issue by takin’ a better look around.
    First thing when I woke up that momin’, I’d triggered memory-cues I had on twentieth century history—data implanted during Academy days, supplemented regularly since, via DreamCap. Wasn’t sure what good it’d do in this instance: just sittin’ in this room generated dissonances enough t’send me to the migraine ward.
    It was like the bedroom, piled higher and deeper: brick-tile floor; black iron chandelier and wall-sconces, both with pseudokerosene fixtures; more wagon wheels an’ empty grizzly bears; deer, elk, an’ moose-antennae everywhere y’looked. The couch I sat on was draped with a cougar hide.
    In one corner, a glassed-in case displayed three dozen deadly-looking hand-weapons, most of which, by rights, shouldn’ta been invented yet. Perhaps oddest of all, over the arched adobe walk-in fireplace hung a portrait of the 1900’s most-respected flatto idol, John Wayne, enigmatically inscribed: “To Olongo, warmest re-gards, Mike."
    “My dear Captain Gruenblum!” The west-of-the-Pecos ambience suffered immediately for Olongo’s Oxford accent. “Do please make yourself comfortable, old man. It isn’t often we’ve the pleasure to entertain a certifiably Mysterious Stranger.”
    He gestured with a broad hand toward the soup an’ sandwiches a modestly-attired Goldilocks was arranging on the table, filled his own gigantic