floor space were covered with a cornucopia of electronic

components, circuit boards, tools, wire spools, diagrams, notebooks,

pens, pencils, calculators, tape recorders, audio components,

guitars, banjos, mandolins, Celtic harps, harmonicas, synthesizer

keyboards, dulcimers, coiled strings, coils of solder, old bags of

popcorn and potato chips, beer cans, old pre-Collapse record albums

and compact discs, tape cassettes, floppy discs, manuals, reams of

computer paper, and magazines. The walls and ceiling of the

apartment were covered with sheets of foam rubber to deaden the

mind-shattering sonic assault of the audio system, with speakers

the size of room dividers blasting forth the elemental power chords

of a classic pre-Collapse band, The Ramones, singing about how

they wanted to be committed.

Orchestrating all this chaos was a slightly chubby, owlish-looking

young man with a mass of curly black hair, a thick and full black

beard that covered most of his face, and somewhat

distracted-looking brown eyes behind a pair of round, wire-rimmed

glasses. He was wearing faded old jeans, well-worn running shoes,

a black T-shirt, and a threadbare, brown corduroy jacket with

patches on the elbows. This was Claude Eustace Warburton, a. k. a.

“Pirate. ” He did not look very piratical. He looked more like

something that pops up from beneath a tree stump to grant you

three wishes.

Modred winced and covered his ears against the din. Pirate

mouthed something that could have been, “Oh, sorry, ” reached into

the pocket of his jacket, and took out a remote-control device, which

he used to shut off the audio system.

“My God, ” said Modred, “it’s a wonder you’re not completely

deaf!”

“What?” I

“I said, it’s a wonder you’re not… ” His voice trailed off as he saw

the grin. “Very funny.”

“How’re you doin‘, Pirate?” Kira said. “This is my friend, Michael

Cornwall.”

“Pleased to meet you, ” Pirate said, offering his hand. “Come in.

Have a seat.”