The other man, looking astonished, had dropped the dead chickens and was sliding his musket off his shoulder when I shot him just above the ear, throwing him back several steps before he fell. a small, dark fountain pouring from his skull. Forest seemed to have his situation well in hand so I returned to the moaning sergeant who had turned on his side and was coughing up blood. I pulled his pistol from his belt, cocked the heavy thing and shot him in the back of the head. Those pistols were very accurate at that range. The shot set his hair afire, a foul smell.The bloody-faced man Forest was still sitting on was moaning and mumbling, "please," and "please don't," his face a mess. I finished ramming down the load in his musket, slid the rod home, checked the priming and cocked it."You want to do it?" I asked Forest.He stood and shook his head, rubbing his knuckles on his chest. "Go ahead," he said.I jammed the muzzle of the musket into the man's mouth while he grasped the weapon with. “What brings you to Gomorrah?” Delta did not appear at all surprised at Buttercup’s account of why she had escaped from Buggery, but was quite startled when she discovered that Tracey had been a tourist. She needed a little explanation as to what a tourist was. It was clearly neither a word nor a concept familiar to her. “So people from your country regularly travel to other countries and then leave after only a week or two. And you visit places like Buggery. I don’t think we have any ‘tourists’ in Gomorrah. In fact, we don’t have many visitors at all. Gomorrah’s a kind of international pariah. I don’t believe it has very many foreign friends at all.” “Why’s that? Is it a horrible regime like Buggery?” wondered Tracey. “Well, in fact it’s a democracy. And quite a free democracy. But women aren’t allowed to vote, and whichever government comes in seems to compete with each other to maintain the state of sexual apartheid which distinguishes this country.” “Sexual apartheid?” queried.
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