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. "Now, tell me all you can about this Baron of yours."
"You'll destroy him?"
"I haven't even met the man."
"He is evil."
"I don't know; he owns an army. That makes up for a lot...."
After three more days of rest and the old man's stew, I was back to normal—or near enough. I had the old man boil me a tub of water for a bath and a shave. I found a serviceable pair of synthetic fiber long-johns in a chest of drawers, pulled them on and zipped the weather suit over them, then buckled on the holster I had made from a tough plastic.
"That completes my preparations, Pop," I said. "It'll be dark in another half hour. Thanks for everything."
He got to his feet, a worried look on his lined face, like a father the first time Junior asks for the car.