Moro showed up at Ruby John's Cot Emporium close to noon. Ginny had a semiprivate stall, covered by a blanket. She'd bathed and braided her hair and cut the legs clean off her jeans. She tugged at Moro's heart.
"It'll be tomorrow morning," Moro said. "Cost you ten gallons of gas."
"Ten gallons," Ginny said. "That's stealin', and you know it."
"Take it or leave it," Moro said. "You got a bad head in that rig. Going to come right off, you don't fix it. You wouldn't like that. Your customers wouldn't like it any at all."
Ginny appeared subdued but not much. "Four gallons. Tops."
"Eight. I got to make the parts myself."
"Five."
"Six," Moro said. "Six and I take you to dinner."
"Five and a half, and I want to be out of this sweatbox at dawn. On the road and gone when the sun starts bakin' your lovely town."
"Damn, you're fun to have around."
Ginny smiled. Sweet and disarming, an unexpected event. "I'm all right. You got to get to know me."
"Just how do I go about that?"
"You don't." The smile turned sober. "I haven't figured that one out."
It looked like rain to the north. Sunrise was dreary. Muddy, less-than-spectacular yellows and reds. Colors through a window no one had bothered to wash. Moro had the van brought out. He said he'd thrown in a lube and hosed out the back. Five and a half gallons were gone out of the wagon. Ginny had Del count while Moro watched.
"I'm honest," Moro said, "you don't have to do that."
"I know," Ginny said, glancing curiously at Dog, who was looking rather strange. He seemed out of sorts. Sulky and off his feed. Ginny followed his eyes and saw Possum atop the van. Possum showed a wet Possum grin.
"Where you headed now?" Moro asked, wanting to hold her as long as he could.
"South," Ginny said, since she was facing that direction.
"I wouldn't," Moro said. "Not real friendly folks down there."
"I'm not picky. Business is business."
"No, sir," Moro shook his head. "Bad business is what it is. You got the Dry Heaves south and east. Doom City after that. Straight down and you'll hit the Hackers. Might run into Fort Pru, bunch of disgruntled insurance agents out on the flats. Stay clear away from them. Isn't worth whatever you'll make."
"You've been a big help," Ginny said.
Moro gripped her door. "You ever listen to anyone, lady? I'm giving good advice."
"Fine," Ginny said, "I'm 'bout as grateful as I can be."
Moro watched her leave. He was consumed by her appearance. The day seemed to focus in her eyes. Nothing he said pleased her in the least. Still, her disdain was friendly enough. There was no malice at all that he could see.
There was something about the sound of Doom City she didn't like. Ginny told Del to head south and maybe west. Around noon, a yellow haze appeared on the ragged rim of the world, like someone rolling a cheap dirty rug across the flats.
"Sandstorm," Possum called from the roof. "Right out of the west. I don't like it at all. I think we better turn. Looks like trouble coming fast."
There was nothing Possum said she couldn't see. He had a habit of saying either too little or more than enough. She told him to cover his guns and get inside, that the sand would take his hide and there was nothing out there he needed to kill that wouldn't wait. Possum Dark sulked but climbed down. Hunched in back of the van, he grasped air in the shape of grips and trigger guards. Practiced rage and windage in his head.
"I'll bet I can beat that storm," Del said. "I got this feeling I can do it."
"Beat it where?" Ginny said. "We don't know where we are or what's ahead."
"That's true," Del said. "All the more reason then to get there soon as we can."
Ginny stepped out and viewed the world with disregard. "I got sand in my teeth and in my toes," she complained. "I'll bet that Moro Gain knows right where storms'll likely be. I'll bet that's what happened, all right."
"Seemed like a decent sort to me," Del said.
"That's what I mean," Ginny said. "You can't trust a man like that at all."
The storm had seemed to last a couple of days. Ginny figured maybe an hour. The sky looked bad as cabbage soup. The land looked just the way it had. She couldn't see the difference between sand recently gone or newly arrived. Del got the van going again. Ginny thought about yesterday's bath. East Bad News had its points.
Before they topped the first rise, Possum Dark began to stomp on the roof. "Vehicles to port," he called out. "Sedans and pickup trucks. Flatbeds and semis. Buses of all kinds."
"What are they doing?" Del said.
"Coming right at us, hauling timber."
"Doing what?" Ginny made a face. "Damn it all, Del, will you stop the car? I swear, you're a driving fool."
Del stopped. Ginny climbed up with Possum to watch. The caravan kept a straight line. Cars and trucks weren't exactly hauling timber . . .but they were. Each carried a section of a wall. Split logs bound together, sharpened at the top. The lead car turned and the others followed. The lead car turned again. In a moment, there was a wooden stockade assembled on the flats, square as if you'd drawn it with a rule. A stockade and a gate. Over the gate a wooden sign:
FORT PRU
Games of Chance & Amusement
Term * Whole Life * Half Life * Death
"I don't like it," said Possum Dark.
"You don't like anything's still alive," Ginny said.
"They've got small arms and they're a nervous-looking bunch."
"They're just horny, Possum. That's the same as nervous, or close enough."
Possum pretended to understand.
"Looks like they're pulled up for the night," she called to Del. "Let's do some business, friend. The overhead don't ever stop."
Five of them came out to the van. They all looked alike. Stringy, darkened by the sun. Bare to the waist except for collars and striped ties. Each carried an attaché case thin as two slices of bread without butter. Two had pistols stuck in their belts. The leader carried a fine-looking sawed-off Remington 12. It hung by a camou guitar strap to his waist. Del didn't like him at all. He had perfect white teeth and a bald head. Eyes the color of jellyfish melting on the beach. He studied the sign on the van and looked at Del.
"You got a whore inside or not?"
Del looked him straight on. "I'm a little displeased at that. It's not the way to talk."
"Hey." The man gave Del a wink. "You don't have to give us the pitch. We're show business folk ourselves."
"Is that right?"
"Wheels of chance and honest cards. Odds I know you'll like. I'm head actuary of this bunch. Name's Fred. That animal up there has a piss-poor attitude, friend. No reason to poke that weapon down my throat. We're friendly people here."
"No reason I can see why Possum'd spray this place with lead and diarrhetics," Del said. "Less you can think of something I can't."
Fred smiled at that. The sun made a big gold ball on his head. "I guess we'll try your girl," he told Del. "'Course we got to see her first. What do you take in trade?"
"Goods as fine as what you're getting in return."
"I've got just the thing." The head actuary winked again. The gesture was starting to irritate Del. Fred nodded, and a friend drew clean white paper from his case. "This here is heavy bond," he told Del, shuffling the edges with his thumb. "Fifty percent linen weave, and we got it by the ream. Won't find anything like it. You can mark on it good or trade it off. Seventh Mercenary Writers came through a week ago. Whole brigade of mounted horse. Near cleaned us out, but we can spare a few reams. We got pencils too. Mirado twos and threes, unsharpened, with erasers on the end. When's the last time you saw that? Why, this stuff's good as gold. We got staples and legal pads. Claim forms, maim forms, forms of every sort. Deals on wheels is what we got. And you got gas under wraps in the wagon behind your van. I can smell it plain from here. Friend, we can sure talk some business with you there. I got seventeen rusty-ass guzzlers runnin' dry."
A gnat-whisker wire sparked hot in Del's head. He could see it in the underwriter's eyes. Gasoline greed was what it was, and he knew these men were bent on more than fleshly pleasure. He knew with androidial dread that when they could, they'd make their play.
"Well now, the gas is not for trade," he said as calmly as he could. "Sex and tacos and dangerous drugs is what we sell."
"No problem," the actuary said. "Why, no problem at all. Just an idea, is all it was. You get that little gal out here and I'll bring in my crew. How's half a ream a man sound to you?"
"Just as fair as it can be," Del said, thinking that half of that would've been fine, knowing dead certain now that Fred intended to take back whatever he gave.
"That Moro fellow was right," Del said. "These insurance boys are bad news. Best thing we can do is take off and let it go."
"Pooh," said Ginny, "that's just the way men are. They come in mad as foamin' dogs and go away like cats licking cream. That's the nature of the fornicatin' trade. You wait and see. Besides, they won't get funny with Possum Dark."
"You wouldn't pray for rain if you were afire," Del muttered. "Well, I'm not unhitching the gas. I'll set you up a stage over the tarp. You can do your number there."
"Suit yourself," Ginny said, kissing a plastic cheek and scooting him out the door. "Now get on out of here and let me start getting cute."
It seemed to be going well. Cheerleader Barbara Jean awoke forgotten wet dreams, left their mouths as dry as snakes. Set them up for Sally the Teach and Nora Nurse, secret violations of the soul. Maybe Ginny was right, Del decided. Faced with girlie delights, a man's normally shitty outlook disappeared. When he was done, he didn't want to wreck a thing for an hour or maybe two. Didn't care about killing for half a day. Del could only guess at this magic and how it worked. Data was one thing, sweet encounters something else.
He caught Possum's eye and felt secure. Forty-eight men waited their turns. Possum knew the caliber of their arms, the length of every blade. His black twin-fifties blessed them all.
Fred the actuary sidled up and grinned at Del. "We sure ought to talk about gas. That's what we ought to do."
"Look," Del said, "gas isn't for trade, I told you that. Go talk to those boys at the refinery, same as us."
"Tried to. They got no use for office supplies."
"That's not my problem," Del said.
"Maybe it is."
Del didn't miss the razor tones. "You got something to say, just say it."
"Half of your gas. We pay our way with the girl and don't give you any trouble."
"You forget about him?"
Fred studied Possum Dark. "I can afford losses better than you. Listen, I know what you are, friend. I know you're not a man. Had a CPA droid just like you 'fore the War."
"Maybe we can talk," Del said, trying to figure what to do.
"Say now, that's what I like to hear."
Ginny's fourth customer staggered out, wild-eyed and white around the gills. "Goddamn, try the Nurse," he bawled to the others. "Never had nothin' like it in my life!"
"Next," Del said, and started stacking bond paper. "Lust is the name of the game, gents, what did I tell you now?"
"The girl plastic, too?" Fred asked.
"Real as you," Del said. "We make some kind of deal, how do I know you'll keep your word?"
"Jesus," Fred said, "what do you think I am? You got my Life Underwriter's Oath!"
The next customer exploded through the curtain, tripped and fell on his face. Picked himself up and shook his head. He looked damaged, bleeding around the eyes.
"She's a tiger," Del announced, wondering what the hell was going on. "'Scuse me a minute," he told Fred, and slipped inside the van. "Just what are you doing in here?" he asked Ginny. "Those boys look like they been through a thrasher."
"Beats me," Ginny said, halfway between Nora and Barbara Jean. "Last old boy jerked around like a snake having a fit. Started pulling out his hair. Somethin' isn't right here, Del. It's gotta be the tapes. I figure that Moro fellow's a cheat."
"We got trouble inside and out," Del told her. "The head of this bunch wants our gas."
"Well, he sure can't have it, by God."
"Ginny, the man's got bug-spit eyes. Says he'll take his chances with Possum. We better clear out while we can."
"Huh-unh." Ginny shook her head. "That'll rile 'em for sure. Give me a minute or two. We've done a bunch of Noras and a Sally. I'll switch them all to Barbara Jean and see."
Del slipped back outside. It seemed a dubious answer at best.
"That's some woman," said Fred.
"She's something else today. Your insurance boys have got her fired."
Fred grinned at that. "Guess I better give her a try."
"I wouldn't," Del said.
"Why not?"
"Let her calm down some. Might be more than you want to handle."
He knew at once this wasn't the thing to say. Fred turned the color of ketchup pie. "Why, you plastic piece of shit! I can handle any woman born . . .or put together out of a kit."
"Suit yourself," Del said, feeling the day going down the drain. "No charge at all."
"Damn right there's not." Fred jerked the next man out of line. "Get ready in there, little lady. I am going to handle all your policy needs!"
The men cheered. Possum Dark, who understood at least three-fifths of the trouble down below, shot Del a questioning look.
"Got any of those tacos?" someone asked.
"Not likely," Del said.
Del considered turning himself off. Android suicide seemed the answer. But in less than three minutes, unnatural howls began to come from the van. The howls turned to shrieks. Life underwriters went rigid. Then Fred emerged, shattered. He looked like a man who'd kicked a bear with boils. His joints appeared to bend the wrong way. He looked whomper-eyed at Del, dazed and out-of-synch. Everything happened then in seconds thin as wire. Del saw Fred find him, saw the oil-spill eyes catch him clean. Saw the sawed-off barrels match the eyes so fast even electric feet couldn't snatch him out of the way in time. Del's arm exploded. He let it go and ran for the van. Possum couldn't help. The actuary was below and too close. The twin-fifties opened up. Underwriters fled. Possum stitched the sand and sent them flying ragged and dead.
Del reached the driver's seat as lead peppered the van. He felt slightly silly. Sitting there with one arm, one hand on the wheel.
"Move over," Ginny said, "that isn't going to work."
"I guess not."
Ginny sent them lurching through the scrub. "Never saw anything like it in my life," she said aloud. "Turned that poor fella on, he started twisting out of his socks, bones snapping like sticks. Damndest orgasm I ever saw."
"Something's not working just right."
"Well, I can see that, Del. Jesus, what's that!" Ginny twisted the wheel as a large part of the desert rose straight up in the air. Smoking sand rained down on the van.
"Rockets," Del said grimly. "That's the reason they figured that crazy-fingered Possum was a snap. Watch where you're going, girl!"
Two fiery pillars exploded ahead. Del leaned out the window and looked back. Half of Fort Pru's wall was in pursuit. Possum sprayed everything in sight, but he couldn't spot where the rockets were coming from. Underwriter assault cars split up, came at them from every side.
"Trying to flank us," Del said. A rocket burst to the right. "Ginny, I'm not real sure what to do."
"How's the stub?"
"Slight electric tingle. Like a doorbell half a mile away. Ginny, they get us in a circle, we're in very deep shit."
"They hit that gas, we won't have to worry about a thing. Oh Lord, now why did I think of that?"
Possum hit a semi clean on. It came to a stop and died, fell over like a bug. Del could see that being a truck and a wall all at once had its problems, balance being one.
"Head right at them," he told Ginny, "then veer off sharp. They can't turn quick going fast."
"Del!"
Bullets rattled the van. Something heavy made a noise. The van skewed to a halt.
Ginny took her hands off the wheel and looked grim. "It appears they got the tires. Del, we're flat dead is what we are. Let's get out of this thing."
And do what? Del wondered. Bearings seemed to roll about in his head. He sensed a malfunction on the way.
The Fort Pru vehicles shrieked to a stop. Crazed life agents piled out and came at them over the flats, firing small arms and hurling stones. A rocket burst nearby.
Possum's guns suddenly stopped. Ginny grimaced in disgust. "Don't you tell me we're out of ammo, Possum Dark. That stuff's plenty hard to get."
Possum started to speak. Del waved his good arm to the north. "Hey now, would you look at that!"
Suddenly there was confusion in the underwriters' ranks. A vaguely familiar pickup had appeared on the rise. The driver weaved through traffic, hurling grenades. They exploded in clusters, bright pink bouquets. He spotted the man with the rocket, lying flat atop a bus. Grenades stopped him cold. Underwriters abandoned the field and ran. Ginny saw a fairly peculiar sight. Six black Harleys had joined the truck. Chow Dogs with Uzis snaked in and out of the ranks, motors snarling and spewing horsetails of sand high in the air. They showed no mercy at all, picking off stragglers as they ran. A few underwriters made it to cover. In a moment, it was over. Fort Pru fled in sectional disarray.
"Well, if that wasn't just in the nick of time," Del said.
"I hate Chow Dogs," Possum said. "They got black tongues, and that's a fact."
"I hope you folks are all right," Moro said. "Well now, friend, looks as if you've thrown an arm."
"Nothing real serious," Del said.
"I'm grateful," Ginny said. "Guess I got to tell you that."
Moro was taken by her penetrating charm, her thankless manner. The fetching smudge of grease on her knee. He thought she was cute as a pup.
"I felt it was something I had to do. Circumstances being what they are."
"And just what circumstances are that?" Ginny asked.
"That pesky Shepherd Dog's sorta responsible for any trouble you might've had. Got a little pissed when that Possum cleaned him out. Five-card stud, I think it was. 'Course there might have been marking and crimping of cards, I couldn't say."
Ginny blew hair out of her eyes. "Mister, far as I can see, you're not making a lot of sense."
"I'm real embarrassed about this. That Dog got mad and kinda screwed up your gear."
"You let a Dog repair my stuff?" Ginny said.
"Perfectly good technician. Taught him mostly myself. Okay if you don't get his dander up. Those Shepherds are inbred, so I hear. What he did was set your tapes in a loop and speed 'em up. Customer'd get, say, twenty-six times his money's worth. Works out to a Mach seven fuck. Could cause bodily harm."
"Lord, I ought to shoot you in the foot," Ginny said.
"Look," Moro said, "I stand behind my work, and I got here quick as I could. Brought friends along to help, and I'm eating the cost of that."
"Damn right," Ginny said. The Chow Dogs sat their Harleys a ways off and glared at Possum. Possum Dark glared back. He secretly admired their leather gear, the Purina crests sewn on the backs.
"I'll be adding up costs," Ginny said. "I'm expecting full repairs."
"You'll get it. Of course you'll have to spend some time in Bad News. Might take a little while."
She caught his look and had to laugh. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch, I'll give you that. What'd you do with that Dog?"
"You want taco meat, I'll make you a deal."
"Yuck. I guess I'll pass."
Del began to weave about in roughly trapezoidal squares. Smoke started to curl out of his stub.
"For Christ's sake, Possum, sit on him or something," Ginny said.
"I can fix that," Moro told her.
"You've about fixed enough, seems to me."
"We're going to get along fine. You wait and see."
"You think so?" Ginny looked alarmed. "I better not get used to having you around."
"It could happen."
"It could just as easy not."
"I'll see about changing that tire," Moro said. "We ought to get Del out of the sun. You think about finding something nice to wear to dinner. East Bad News is kinda picky. We got a lot of pride around here . . ."