Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalipse

GINNY SWEETHIPS’ FLYING CIRCUS by Neal Barrett, Jr.

Del drove and Ginny sat.

“They’re taking their sweet time,” Ginny said, “damned if they’re not.”

“They’re itchy,” Del said. “Everyone’s itchy. Everyone’s looking to stay alive.”

“Huh!” Ginny showed disgust. “I sure don’t care for sittin’ out here in the sun. My price is going up by the minute. You wait and see if it doesn’t.”

“Don’t get greedy,” Del said.

Ginny curled her toes on the dash. Her legs felt warm in the sun. The stockade was a hundred yards off. Barbed wire looped above the walls. The sign over the gate read:

The refinery needed paint. It had likely been silver, but was now dull as pewter and black rust. Ginny leaned out the window and called to Possum Dark.

“What’s happening, friend? Those mothers dead in there or what?”

“Thinking,” Possum said. “Fixing to make a move. Considering what to do.” Possum Dark sat atop the van in a steno chair bolted to the roof. Circling the chair was a swivel-ring mount sporting fine twin-fifties black as grease. Possum had a death-view clean around. Keeping out the sun was a red Cinzano umbrella faded pink. Possum studied the stockade and watched heat distort the flats. He didn’t care for the effect. He was suspicious of things less than cut and dried. Apprehensive of illusions of every kind. He scratched his nose and curled his tail around his leg. The gate opened up and men started across the scrub. He teased them in his sights. He prayed they’d do something silly and grand.

Possum counted thirty-seven men. A few carried sidearms, openly or concealed. Possum spotted them all at once. He wasn’t too concerned. This seemed like an easygoing bunch, more intent on fun than fracas. Still, there was always the hope that he was wrong.

The men milled about. They wore patched denim and faded shirts. Possum made them nervous. Del countered that; his appearance set them at ease. The men looked at Del, poked each other and grinned. Del was scrawny and bald except for tufts around the ears. The dusty black coat was too big. His neck thrust out of his shirt like a newborn buzzard looking for meat. The men forgot Possum and gathered around, waiting to see what Del would do. Waiting for Del to get around to showing them what they’d come to see. The van was painted turtle-green. Gold Barnum type named the owner, and the selected vices for sale:

Del puttered about with this and that. He unhitched the wagon from the van and folded out a handy little stage. It didn’t take three minutes to set up, but he dragged it out to ten, then ten on top of that. The men started to whistle and clap their hands. Del looked alarmed. They liked that. He stumbled and they laughed.

“Hey, mister, you got a girl in there or not?” a man called out.

“Better be something here besides you,” another said.

“Gents,” Del said, raising his hands for quiet, “Ginny Sweethips herself will soon appear on this stage, and you’ll be more than glad you waited. Your every wish will be fulfilled, I promise you that. I’m bringing beauty to the wastelands, gents. Lust the way you like it, passion unrestrained. Sexual crimes you never dreamed!”

“Cut the talk, mister,” a man with peach-pit eyes shouted to Del. “Show us what you got.”

Others joined in, stomped their feet and whistled. Del knew he had them. Anger was what he wanted. Frustration and denial. Hatred waiting for sweet release. He waved them off, but they wouldn’t stop. He placed one hand on the door of the van—and brought them to silence at once.

The double doors opened. A worn red curtain was revealed, stenciled with hearts and cherubs. Del extended his hand. He seemed to search behind the curtain, one eye closed in concentra­tion. He looked alarmed, groping for something he couldn’t find. Uncertain he remembered how to do this trick at all. And then, in a sudden burst of motion, Ginny did a double forward flip, and appeared like glory on the stage.

The men broke into shouts of wild abandon. Ginny led them in a cheer. She was dressed for the occasion. Short white skirt shiny bright, white boots with tassels. White sweater with a big red G sewn on the front.

“Ginny Sweethips, gents,” Del announced with a flair, “giving you her own interpretation of Barbara Jean, the Cheerleader Next Door. Innocent as snow, yet a little bit wicked and willing to learn, if Biff the Quarterback will only teach her. Now, what do you say to that?”

They whistled and yelled and stomped. Ginny strutted and switched, doing long-legged kicks that left them gasping with delight. Thirty-seven pairs of eyes showed their needs. Men guessed at hidden parts. Dusted off scenarios of violence and love. Then, as quickly as she’d come, Ginny was gone. Men threatened to storm the stage. Del grinned without concern. The curtain parted and Ginny was back, blond hair replaced with saucy red, costume changed in the blink of an eye. Del introduced Nurse Nora, an angel of mercy weak as soup in the hands of Patient Pete. Moments later, hair black as a raven’s throat, she was School teacher Sally, cold as well water, until Steve the Bad Student loosed the fury chained within.

Ginny vanished again. Applause thundered over the flats. Del urged them on, then spread his hands for quiet.

“Did I lie to you gents? Is she all you ever dreamed? Is this the love you’ve wanted all your life? Could you ask for sweeter limbs, for softer flesh? For whiter teeth, for brighter eyes?”

“Yeah, but is she real?” a man shouted, a man with a broken face sewn up like a sock. “We’re religious people here. We don’t fuck with no machines.”

Others echoed the question with bold shouts and shaking fists.

“Now, I don’t blame you, sir, at all,” Del said. “I’ve had a few dolly droids myself. A plastic embrace at best, I’ll grant you that. Not for the likes of you, for I can tell you’re a man who knows his women. No, sir, Ginny’s real as rain, and she’s yours in the role of your choice. Seven minutes of bliss. It’ll seem like a lifetime, gents, I promise you that. Your goods gladly returned if I’m a liar. And all for only a U.S. gallon of gas!”

Howls and groans at that, as Del expected.

“That’s a cheat is what it is! Ain’t a woman worth it!”

“Gas is better’n gold, and we work damn hard to get it!”

Del stood his ground. Looked grim and disappointed. “I’d be the last man alive to try to part you from your goods,” Del said. “It’s not my place to drive a fellow into the arms of sweet content, to make him rest his manly frame on golden thighs. Not if he thinks this lovely girl’s not worth the fee, no sir. I don’t do business that way and never have.”

The men moved closer. Del could smell their discontent. He read sly thoughts above their heads. There was always this moment when it occurred to them there was a way Ginny’s delights might be obtained for free.

“Give it some thought, friends,” Del said. “A man’s got to do what he’s got to do. And while you’re making up your minds, turn your eyes to the top of the van for a startling and absolutely free display of the slickest bit of marksmanship you’re ever likely to see!”

Before Del’s words were out of his mouth and on the way, before the men could scarcely comprehend, Ginny appeared again and tossed a dozen china saucers in the air.

Possum Dark moved in a blur. Turned 140 degrees in his bolted steno chair and whipped his guns on target, blasting saucers to dust. Thunder rolled across the flats. Crockery rained on the men below. Possum stood and offered a pink killer grin and a little bow. The men saw six-foot-nine and a quarter inches of happy marsupial fury and awesome speed, of black agate eyes and a snout full of icy varmint teeth. Doubts were swept aside. Fifty-caliber madness wasn’t the answer. Fun today was clearly not for free.

“Gentlemen, start your engines,” Del smiled. “I’ll be right here to take your fee. Enjoy a hot taco while you wait your turn at glory. Have a look at our display of fine pharmaceutical wonders and mind-expanding drugs.”

In moments, men were making their way back to the stockade. Soon after that, they returned toting battered tins of gas. Del sniffed each gallon, in case some buffoon thought water would get him by. Each man received a token and took his place. Del sold tacos and dangerous drugs, taking what he could get in trade. Candles and Mason jars, a rusty knife. Half a manual on full-field maintenance for the Chrysler Mark XX Urban Tank. The drugs were different colors but the same: twelve parts oregano, three parts rabbit shit, one part marijuana stems. All this under Possum’s watchful eye.

“By God,” said the first man out of the van. “She’s worth it, I’ll tell you that. Have her do the Nurse, you won’t regret it!”

“The Schoolteacher’s best,” said the second man through. “I never seen the like. I don’t care if she’s real or she ain’t.”

“What’s in these tacos?” a customer asked Del.

“Nobody you know, mister,” Del said.

“It’s been a long day,” Ginny said. “I’m pooped, and that’s the truth.” She wrinkled up her nose. “First thing we hit a town, you hose ’er out good now, Del. Place smells like a sewer or maybe worse.”

Del squinted at the sky and pulled up under the scant shade of mesquite. He stepped out and kicked the tires. Ginny got down, walked around and stretched.

“It’s getting late,” Del said. “You want to go on or stop here?”

“You figure those boys might decide to get a rebate on this gas?”

“Hope they do,” Possum said from atop the van.

“You’re a pisser,” Ginny laughed, “I’ll say that. Hell, let’s keep going. I could use a hot bath and town food. What you figure’s up the road?”

“East Bad News,” Del said, “if this map’s worth anything at all. Ginny, night driving’s no good. You don’t know what’s waiting down the road.”

“I know what’s on the roof,” Ginny said. “Let’s do it. I’m itchy all over with bugs and dirt and that tub keeps shinin’ in my head. You want me to drive a spell, I sure will.”

“Get in,” Del grumbled. “Your driving’s scarier than anything I’ll meet.”

Morning arrived in purple shadow and metal tones, copper, silver, and gold. From a distance, East Bad News looked to Ginny like garbage strewn carelessly over the flats. Closer, it looked like larger garbage. Tin shacks and tents and haphazard buildings rehashed from whatever they were before. Cookfires burned, and the locals wandered about and yawned and scratched. Three places offered food. Other places bed and a bath. Something to look forward to, at least. She spotted the sign down at the far end of town.

“Hold it!” Ginny said. “Pull ’er in right there.” Del looked alarmed. “What for?”

“Don’t get excited. There’s gear needs tending in back. I just want ’em to take a look.”

“Didn’t mention it to me,” Del said.

Ginny saw the sad and droopy eyes, the tired wisps of hair sticking flat to Del’s ears. “Del, there wasn’t anything to mention,” she said in a kindly tone. “Nothing you can really put your finger on, I mean, okay?”

“Whatever you think,” Del said, clearly out of sorts.

Ginny sighed and got out. Barbed wire surrounded the yard behind the shop. The yard was ankle-deep in tangles of rope and copper cable, rusted unidentifiable parts. A battered pickup hugged the wall. Morning heat curled the tin roof of the building. More parts spilled out of the door. Possum made a funny noise, and Ginny saw the Dog step into the light. A Shepherd, maybe six-foot-two. It showed Possum Dark yellow eyes. A man appeared behind the Dog, wiping heavy grease on his pants. Bare to the waist, hair like stuffing out of a chair. Features hard as rock, flint eyes to match. Not bad looking, thought Ginny, if you cleaned him up good.

“Well now,” said the man. He glanced at the van, read the legend on the side, took in Ginny from head to toe. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

“I’m not real little and don’t guess I’m any lady,” Ginny said. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. You open for business or just talk?”

The man grinned. “My name’s Moro Gain. Never turn business away if I can help it.”

“I need electric stuff.”

“We got it. What’s the problem?”

“Huh-unh.” Ginny shook her head. “First, I gotta ask. You do confidential work or tell everything you know?”

“Secret’s my middle name,” Moro said. “Might cost a little more, but you got it.”

“How much?”

Moro closed one eye. “Now, how do I know that? You got a nuclear device in there, or a broken watch? Drive it on in and we’ll take a look.” He aimed a greasy finger at Possum Dark. “Leave him outside.”

“No way.”

“No arms in the shop. That’s a rule.”

“He isn’t carrying. Just the guns you see.” Ginny smiled. “You can shake him down if you like. I wouldn’t, I don’t think.”

“He looks imposing, all right.”

“I’d say he is.”

“What the hell,” Moro said, “drive it in.”

Dog unlocked the gate. Possum climbed down and followed with oily eyes.

“Go find us a place to stay,” Ginny said to Del. “Clean, if you can find it. All the hot water in town. Christ sakes, Del, you still sulking or what?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Del said. “Don’t concern yourself at all.”

“Right.” She hopped behind the wheel. Moro began kicking the door of his shop. It finally sprang free, wide enough to take the van. The supply wagon rocked along behind. Moro lifted the tarp, eyed the thirty-seven tins of unleaded with great interest.

“You get lousy mileage, or what?” he asked Ginny.

Ginny didn’t answer. She stepped out of the van. Light came through broken panes of glass. The skinny windows reminded her of a church. Her eyes got used to shadow, and she saw that that’s what it was. Pews sat to the side, piled high with auto parts. A 1997 Olds was jacked up before the altar.

“Nice place you got here,” she said.

“It works for me,” Moro told her. “Now what kind of trouble you got? Something in the wiring? You said electric stuff.”

“I didn’t mean the motor. Back here.” She led him to the rear and opened the doors.

“God a’Mighty!” Moro said.

“Smells a little raunchy right now. Can’t help that till we hose ’er down.” Ginny stepped inside, looked back, and saw Moro still on the ground. “You coming up or not?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?” She’d seen him watching her move and didn’t really have to ask.

“Well, you know…” Moro shuffled his feet. “How do you figure on paying? For whatever it is I got to do.”

“Gas. You take a look. Tell me how many tins. I say yes or no.”

“We could work something out.”

“We could, huh?”

“Sure.” Moro gave her a foolish grin. “Why not?”

Ginny didn’t blink. “Mister, what kind of girl do you think I am?”

Moro looked puzzled and intent. “I can read good, lady, believe it or not. I figured you wasn’t tacos or dangerous drugs.”

“You figured wrong,” Ginny said. “Sex is just software to me, and don’t you forget it. I haven’t got all day to watch you moonin’ over my parts. I got to move or stand still. When I stand still, you look. When I move, you look more. Can’t fault you for that, I’m about the prettiest thing you ever saw. Don’t let it get in the way of your work.”

Moro couldn’t think of much to say. He took a breath and stepped into the van. There was a bed bolted flat against the floor. A red cotton spread, a worn satin pillow that said Durango, Colorado, and pictured chipmunks and waterfalls. An end table, a pink-shaded lamp with flamingos on the side. Red curtains on the walls. Ballet prints and a naked Minnie Mouse.

“Somethin else,” Moro said.

“Back here’s the problem,” Ginny said. She pulled a curtain aside at the front of the van. There was a plywood cabinet, fitted with brass screws. Ginny took a key out of her jeans and opened it up.

Moro stared a minute, then laughed aloud. “Sensory tapes? Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.” He took a new look at Ginny, a look Ginny didn’t miss. “Haven’t seen a rig like this in years. Didn’t know there were any still around.”

“I’ve got three tapes,” Ginny explained. “A brunette, a redhead, and a blond. Found a whole cache in Ardmore, Oklahoma. Had to look at ’bout three or four hundred to find girls that looked close enough to me. Nearly went nuts ’fore it was over. Anyway, I did it. Spliced ’em down to seven minutes each.”

Moro glanced back at the bed. “How do you put ’em under?”

“Little needle comes up out the mattress. Sticks them in the ass lightnin’ fast. They’re out like that. Seven-minute dose. Headpiece is in the end table there. I get it on and off them real quick. Wires go under the floorboards back here to the rig.”

“Jesus,” Moro said. “They ever catch you at this, you are cooked, lady.”

“That’s what Possum’s for,” Ginny said. “Possum’s pretty good at what he does. Now what’s that look all about?”

“I wasn’t sure right off if you were real.”

Ginny laughed aloud. “So what do you think now?”

“I think maybe you are.”

“Right,” Ginny said. “It’s Del who’s the droid, not me. Wimp IX Series. Didn’t make a whole lot. Not much demand. The customers think it’s me, never think to look at him. He’s a damn good barker and pretty good at tacos and drugs. A little too sensitive, you ask me. Well, nobody’s perfect, so they say.”

“The trouble you’re having’s in the rig?”

“I guess,” Ginny said, “beats the hell out of me.” She bit her lip and wrinkled her brow. Moro found the gestures most inviting. “Slips a little, I think. Maybe I got a short, huh?”

“Maybe.” Moro fiddled with the rig, testing one of the spools with his thumb. “I’ll have to get in here and see.”

“It’s all yours. I’ll be wherever it is Del’s got me staying.”

“Ruby John’s,” Moro said. “Only place there is with a good roof. I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

“Well sure you would.”

“You got a real shitty attitude, friend.”

“I get a whole lot of practice,” Ginny said.

“And I’ve got a certain amount of pride,” Moro told her. “I don’t intend to ask you more than three or four times and that’s it.”

Ginny nodded. Right on the edge of approval. “You’ve got promise,” she said. “Not a whole lot, maybe, but some.”

“Does that mean dinner, or not?”

“Means not. Means if I wanted to have dinner with some guy, you’d maybe fit the bill.”

Moro’s eyes got hot. “Hell with you, lady. I don’t need the company that bad.”

“Fine.” Ginny sniffed the air and walked out. “You have a nice day.”

Moro watched her walk. Watched denims mould her legs, studied the hydraulics of her hips. Considered several unlikely acts. Considered cleaning up, searching for proper clothes. Considered finding a bottle and watching the tapes. A plastic embrace at best, or so he’d heard, but a lot less hassle in the end.

Possum Dark watched the van disappear into the shop. He felt uneasy at once. His place was on top. Keeping Ginny from harm. Sending feral prayers for murder to absent genetic gods. His eyes hadn’t left Dog since he’d appeared. Primal smells, old fears and needs, assailed his senses. Dog locked the gate and turned around. Didn’t come closer, just turned.

“I’m Dog Quick,” he said, folding hairy arms. “I don’t much care for Possums.”

“I don’t much care for Dogs,” said Possum Dark. Dog seemed to understand.

“What did you do before the War?”

“Worked in a theme park. Our Wildlife Heritage. That kind of shit. What about you?”

“Security, what else?” Dog made a face. “Learned a little electrics. Picked up a lot more from Moro Gain. I’ve done worse.” He nodded toward the shop. “You like to shoot people with that thing?”

“Anytime I get the chance.”

“You ever play any cards?”

“Some.” Possum Dark showed his teeth. “I guess I could handle myself with a Dog.”

“For real goods?” Dog returned the grin.

“New deck, unbroken seal, table stakes,” Possum said.

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. Colours 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:

“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 attache 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 colour 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 Dels 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 calibre 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 Tore 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 colour 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…”