“Now I have a different perspective on it. America must look, to those poor little buggers down there, about the same as Crete looked to those poor Greek suckers. Except that there’s no coercion involved. Those people down there give up their children willingly. Send them into the labyrinth by the millions to be eaten up. The Industry feeds on them and spits back images, sends out movies and TV programs, over my networks, images of wealth and exotic things beyond their wildest dreams, back to those people, and it gives them something to dream about, something to aspire to. And that is the function of the Raft. It’s just a big old krill carrier.”
Finally the journalist gives up on being a journalist, just starts to slag L. Bob Rife openly. He’s had it with this guy. “That’s disgusting. I can’t believe you can think about people that way.”
“Shit, boy, get down off your high horse. Nobody really gets eaten. It’s just a figure of speech. They come here, they get decent jobs, find Christ, buy a Weber grill, and live happily ever after. What’s wrong with that?”
Rife is pissed. He’s yelling. Behind him, the Bangladeshis are picking up on his emotional vibes and becoming upset themselves. Suddenly, one of them, an incredibly gaunt man with a long drooping mustache, runs in front of the camera and begins to shout: “a ma la ge zen ba dam gal nun ka aria su su na an da…” The sounds spread from him to his neighbors, spreading across the flight deck like a wave.
“Cut,” the journalist says, turning into the camera. “Just cut. The Babble Brigade has started up again.”
The soundtrack now consists of a thousand people speaking in tongues under the high-pitched, shit-eating chuckles of L. Bob Rife.
“This is the miracle of tongues,” Rife shouts above the tumult. “I can understand every word these people are saying. Can you, brother?”
“Yo! Snap out of it, pod!”
Hiro looks up from the card. No one is in his office except for the Librarian.
The image loses focus and veers upward and out of his field of view. Hiro is looking out the windshield of the Vanagon. Someone has just yanked his goggles off his face—not Vitaly.
“I’m out here, gogglehead!”
Hiro looks out the window. It’s Y.T., hanging onto the side of the van with one hand, holding his goggles in the other.
“You spend too much time goggled in,” she says. “Try a little Reality, man.”
“Where we are going,” Hiro says, “we’re going to get more Reality than I can handle.”
As Hiro and Vitaly approach the vast freeway overpass where tonight’s concert is to take place, the solid ferrous quality of the Vanagon attracts MagnaPoons like a Twinkie draws cockroaches. If they knew that Vitaly Chernobyl himself was in the van, they’d go crazy, they’d stall the van’s engine. But right now, they’ll poon anything that might be headed toward the concert.
When they get closer to the overpass, it becomes a lost cause trying to drive at all, the thrashers are so thick and numerous. It’s like putting on crampons and trying to walk through a room full of puppies. They have to nose their way along, tapping the horn, flashing the lights.
Finally, they get to the flatbed semi that constitutes the stage for tonight’s concert. Next to it is another semi, full of amps and other sound gear. The drivers of the trucks, an oppressed minority of two, have retreated into the cab of the sound truck to smoke cigarettes and glare balefully at the swarm of thrashers, their sworn enemies in the food chain of the highways. They will not voluntarily come out until five in the morning, when the way has been made plain.
A couple of the other Meltdowns are standing around smoking cigarettes, holding them between two fingers in the Slavic style, like darts. They stomp the cigarettes out on the concrete with their cheap vinyl shoes, run up to the Vanagon, and begin to haul out the sound equipment. Vitaly puts on goggles, hooks himself into a computer on the sound truck, and begins tuning the system. There’s a 3-D model of the overpass already in memory. He has to figure out how to sync the delays on all the different speaker clusters to maximize the number of nasty, clashing echoes.
Chapter Fifteen
The warm-up band, Blunt Force Trauma, gets rolling at about 9:00 PM. On the first power chord, a whole stack of cheap preowned speakers shorts out; its wires throw sparks into the air, sending an arc of chaos through the massed skateboarders. The sound truck’s electronics isolate the bad circuit and shut it off before anything or anyone gets hurt. Blunt Force Trauma play a kind of speed reggae heavily influenced by the antitechnological ideas of the Meltdowns.
These guys will probably play for an hour, then there will be a couple of hours of Vitaly Chernobyl and the Meltdowns to look forward to. And if Sushi K shows up, he’s welcome to make a guest appearance at the mike.
Just in case that actually happens, Hiro pulls back from the delirious center of the crowd and begins to orbit back and forth along its fringes. Y.T.’s in there somewhere, but no point in trying to track her down. She would be embarrassed, anyway, to be seen with an oldster like Hiro.
Now that the concert is up and running, it will take care of itself. There’s not much more for Hiro to do. Besides, interesting things happen along borders—transitions—not in the middle where everything is the same. There may be something happening along the border of the crowd, back where the lights fade into the shade of the overpass.
The fringe crowd looks pretty typical for the wrong side of an L.A. overpass in the middle of the night. There’s a good-sized shantytown of hardcore Third World unemployables, plus a scattering of schizophrenic first worlders who have long ago burned their brains to ash in the radiant heat of their own imaginings. A lot of them have emerged from their overturned dumpsters and refrigerator boxes to stand on tiptoe at the edge of the crowd and peer into the noise and light. Some of them look sleepy and awed, and some—stocky Latino men—look amused by the whole thing, passing cigarettes back and forth and shaking their heads in disbelief.