“Folley’s second wife, his daughter, the work slaves. I don’t think he got an overseer after his son left.”
“And they’d be only too willing to help Peacemen in distress! But they’ll know you—”
“I’ve never seen Folley’s wife-we didn’t visit. And Lotta-well, she let me go before. But it’s a better chance than trying to get into the mountains from here.”
They tramped on, in the open now. And, at the end of Folley’s lane, they reversed their jackets, shaking off what they could of the snow. They were still disheveled but a ’copter failure should account for that.
“After all,” Kimber pointed out as they climbed the slight rise to the ugly farmhouse, “Peacemen don’t explain to landsmen. If we ask questions and don’t volunteer much we’ll only be acting in character. It all depends on whether they’ve heard about the chase—”
Smoke arose from the chimney and Dard did not miss the betraying twitch at one of the curtains in a window facing the lane. The arrival was known. Lotta-everything depended now upon Lotta. He shot a glance at Kimber. All the good humor and amusement were wiped from that dark face. This was a tough-very tough muscle-boy, a typical Peaceman who would have no nonsense from a landsman.
The door on the porch which ran the side length of the house opened before they had taken two steps along the cleaned boards. A woman waited for them, her hands tugging smooth a food-spattered apron, an uneasy half-smirk spreading her lips to display a missing front tooth.
“Pax, noble sirs-Pax.” Her voice was as fat and oily as her body and sounded more assured than her expression.
Kimber sketched a version of the official salute and rapped out an answering “Pax—” in an authority-heavy tone.
“This is- ?”