Boyd and Stoneleigh

Doctor Smith hesitates, but then gives the group five minutes to speak to the injured judge, promising to pull them out of the room by the ears if they linger, combat veterans or not. The room is quite small, but clean and well-lighted. Judge Boyd is in traction, both his legs in plaster up to the waist, one arm and most of the head bandaged. He is hooked to various tubes. That’s what you get when you are a judge: first, many and grievous injuries and, if you survive, the best possible care.
Boyd’s eyes seem a bit out of focus, but he listens to Zed. After Zed finishes his report, the wounded judge is silent for a moment. Then he whispers “This is bad. Stoneleigh. You tell him of this. He will know what to do.” Boyd stops, and the group leaves his bed. Zed uses the phone system of Uptown to contact judge Stoneleigh, a man used to special circumstances and unusual problems. He deals with outsiders, jhats between missions and other human flotsam. Apart from being one of the unofficial links between LAW and many other groups in the Wastes, he is also known to be one of the best informed people in the city. He is on the line after a bit of static. “So why do you call me? Did you fuck up? Don’t tell me you fucked up!” “No, sir, everything is alright with Porter, but something else has turned up.” He repeats his report, and also tells Stoneleigh, that doctor Smith seems to be bent on telling judge Korvanova, the iron lady, about this development. Stoneleigh is less than enthusiastic “Gimme the man”. The doctor takes the receiver and is browbeaten into keeping his mouth shut. A very silent Smith returns the receiver to Zed. Stoneleigh continues “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll take care of matters in Uptown. I know just the people of getting this done. You take those two visitors and try to find this false healer. Up to now, I’m not going to involve Korvanova, she will just do a big fucking sweep, with lots of broken glass and angry downtowners, while our prey goes to ground. That’s counterproductive. We keep this option in reserve, and happily, the good doctor Smith agrees. You report to me, if you find something, you let me know without delay. Any questions!” “No, sir, no questions at all…wait. I would need a weapons permit for the benefactor’s bodyguard. If we identify the intruder, things might get ugly and an additional shooter on site might come in handy.” “We’ll give the guy a permit for a pistol, rifle or shotgun of his choosing, limited to two weeks. I’ll contact judge Paul at the Lock, he will pass you the necessary papers.” And judge Stoneleigh hangs up.
At the Lock, an apologetic judge Paul hands Dan Hawking a weapons permit for a hunting rifle, valid for two weeks, counting from now. After the paperwork is done, the group decides to return to the Terminus for something to eat and sleeping arrangements. The Terminus Diner is crowded, mostly travelers and railers, but also some citizens. The place seems to have passed the last three quarters of a century nearly unchanged: Spacious red plastic seats, white Formica tables, aluminum and neon. There is even a jukebox, blaring the strange music of the Long Ago. But instead of prim waitresses, armed railers, hung with charms and covered by their strange icons, serve the tables, and while burgers and classic pizza are available, they cost a small fortune. The group looks for information about recent developments in the city, and, after some asking, they learn that a new healer has set up shop somewhere in Demeter. He is cheap, quite skilled, and he seems to hold confidentiality in high regard, so you can turn up at his doorstep with a gunshot wound with the judges being none the wiser.
After that, everyone goes to their quarters, Zed in the austere barracks in Uptown, Mal in the cozy confines of his car and Dan in a small hovel on the top floor of the Terminus Diner. Rod, on the other hand, has other plans.