Finally he burst through a tangle of oleander bushes, showering himself with dew, and saw its concrete bulk rising up out of a stand of junipers, the high white rim already lit by the sun. Thomas recalled reading that it was only locally known as the Hollywood Freeway; to the hardy merchants who drove their donkey-borne cargoes along its ancient track from San Francisco to San Diego, is was known as Route Five. There were even legends that the road stretched farther, north to Canada and south into Mexico.
He climbed a young sapling, edged out along a bending branch, and then dropped onto the surprisingly wide concrete surface of the freeway.
As soon as he stood up he felt leagues removed from the monastery. Worldly, adventurous-looking debris was scattered along the sides of the old highway, and cast long, sharp shadows across the lanes—at one point the charred remains of an overturned cart were fouled in the railing, and donkey skeletons, broken wheels and rusted sections of machinery lay everywhere, as if strewn by some passing giant. He even found a rusty sword, its blade broken off a foot below the bell guard, and carried it with him until he noticed tiny bugs infesting the rotted leather grip.
The heel strap on his left sandal had snapped sometime during his frantic exodus, which now caused him some difficulty in walking. He put up with it for a while and then sat down, annoyed at the delay, to see if it could be tied up. His attempt at repair only served to break the strap off entirely, and he was about to fling the wretched, mud-caked sandal away and proceed barefoot when he remembered seeing a short length of wire among the loot he'd taken from the bird-man a few hours ago. He emptied his pocket… and stared for the first time at the plunder he'd risked his hand and possibly his life for: a cheap ring, several bottle caps, a few gum wrappers, some broken glass, 11 one-soli coins, and the wire.
Oh no, he thought, stunned with disappointment. Buying breakfast will use up nearly my entire haul. I can't afford to stay in Los Angeles even one day.
Fixing the sandal was one step, he told himself. And if he used his wits a young, well-educated man like himself ought to be able to get by in the city.
With a confidence born of naiveté and cheery sunlight, he whistled as he twisted the wire onto his sandal, slipped it on and then continued his southward trek.
He had walked about half a kilometer when a rattling and creaking behind him made him stop and look over his shoulder. A horse-drawn cart was advancing at a leisurely pace, its white-bearded driver waving amiably at Thomas, who waved back and smiled.
"Good morning, brother!" called the driver as he reined in beside Thomas. "It's no trouble, I hope, that's got you on foot?"
"No trouble, no," replied Thomas, brushing the dark hair from his eyes, "but it is slow travel. I'd be much obliged for a ride into Los Angeles."
"Sure, hop aboard. Careful of the box, there; it's black powder." Thomas climbed up onto the driver's bench and sat back comfortably on the passenger side, glad to rest his legs. The bed of the cart was filled with wooden boxes over which a tarpaulin had been roped.
"What's your cargo?" asked Thomas, peering back at the boxes as the cart got under way.
"Guns, lead and powder, brother," answered the old man. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened, and Thomas knew he was grinning even though the bushy white beard hid his mouth. "I know you're a good lad," he added, "but do me the kindness of looking at the backrest you're leaning on."
Thomas stared at the old man, and then sat up and turned around. In the center of the passenger side of the backrest was a metal-rimmed hole big enough to put a thumb into. The wood immediately around it was blackened as if by smoke.
"Uh… what is that?" asked Thomas cautiously, not leaning back.
"The barrel of a gun, son," the driver told him with a dry chuckle. "Throws .50 caliber hollow-point slugs. Take it easy, I won't shoot it. It's just there so we can trust each other."
"Oh." Thomas sat back gingerly. "Have you ever had to use it?" he asked after a while.
"Oh, yeah." The old man spat meditatively. "Going through Agoura last summer, a hitchhiker pulled a knife. Said I was a warmonger and he was going to kill me so kids could play on the beaches, or something like that. It blew him right over Aeolus's head," he finished, nodding at the horse.
The sun had warmed the air and dried Thomas's robe, and the even rocking of the old cart was making him sleepy. Determined to resist it, he sat up straighter and pointed at a marble shrine glittering in the new sunlight on a hill to the left. "What's over there?"
"That's the old Odin Temple," the driver told him. He glanced at Thomas. "You're not from around here?"
"Well, yes," Thomas conceded. No harm in telling him part of it. "I'm from the Merignac monastery, though—I grew up there—so I haven't learned much about the area. They're cloisters, you know."
"Hm," said the old man, nodding. "I knew they made wine and cheese, but I sure never knew they handled oysters." Thomas didn't try to explain. "So what'll you do in L.A.? Work in one of the Broadway missions?"
"No," said Thomas carelessly. "I figure I'll wander down to San Pedro and sign aboard a tramp steamer. See a bit of the world." He'd given his situation some thought, and this seemed the wisest course.
They were well into Hollywood by now, and Thomas could see the crazily leaning roofs of houses sticking up like fantastic hats above the freeway rail. Barking dogs and screaming children could be heard from time to time among the rickety wooden stands by the edge of the freeway. Their occupants sold everything from cool beer and tacos to horseshoes and axle grease. Crows flapped by lazily or huddled in secretive groups along the rail.
"Getting into civilization now," the driver observed. "A tramp steamer, eh? Good job for a young man, if you're tough. I was a deckhand on the Humboldt Queen back in… oh… '47, I guess, when Randall Dowling was wiping out the Carmel pirates. Wild times, I tell you."
Thomas would have liked to hear more, but the old man lapsed into silence. "What brings you and your guns into L.A.?" he asked.
"Oh, I sell 'em to the city government," the driver said. "Mayor Pelias wants every one of his android cops to carry a real firearm, not just the traditional sword-and-stick. He's the gunsmith's patron saint."
"Android cops?" Thomas asked. "What do you mean?"
"They didn't tell you much in that monastery, did they?"
The traffic—bicycles, rickshaws and many horse-drawn carts—had become fairly thick. Suddenly it broke into a disordered rout for the right-hand lane at a series of strident blasts of a horn behind them. Thirty-five meters up the road a mounted merchant attempted to vault his panicky horse right over a slow-moving rickshaw; and a crew of roadside laborers rushed in to clear away the wreckage and moaning bodies and cut the throat of the crippled horse.
"What in hell is going on?" Thomas cried. "Why's everybody moving over?"
"Hear that horn?" the driver asked as he calmly worked his cart in between two beer wagons and set the hand brake. "That means a gas car's coming."
The blaap, blaap, blaap of the horn was very loud now. Because of the tall beer wagon, Thomas could see nothing to the rear, so he kept his eyes on the empty left lane.
All at once it appeared and sped past, and the racket of the horn slowly diminished. Thomas had only a quick glimpse of a big, blue-painted metal body, on thick, rubber wheels, carrying a driver in the front, a passenger in the rear and, in a makeshift chair on the roof, a red-faced man blowing like a maniac into a long brass trumpet. Thomas was extremely impressed.
"God," he said, "What did you say that was? A lascar?"