"Gas car," the driver corrected, amused by Thomas's awe. "That'll be some city official, probably Albers from Toluca Lake. An emergency in town, I guess."
The traffic slowly untangled itself and moved out again, and Thomas sat back thoughtfully. "Tell me about those android cops," he said.
They were passing under the Sunset Boulevard bridge now, and Thomas stared curiously at the beggars calling to passing vehicles and coughing theatrically or waving crippled limbs to excite pity. "A few years ago," the driver said, "Mayor Pelias decided his police force was no good. They were well paid but not very effective, you know? So he started brewing androids and using them on the police force. He caught a lot of criticism for it at the time—androids had been used only for roadwork and construction before that, and everybody said they weren't near smart enough to be cops. But some scientist figured out how to implant a little box they call a padmu in the androids' heads, and it lets 'em think and do things almost as well as a human cop, and more reliably. So pretty soon he converted entirely to android. Saves a whole lot of money, 'cause androids are cheap to produce in quantity, they don't need a salary, and they eat grass like cows." The old man laughed. "You should see them grazing. A field of naked guys on their hands and knees eating grass."
"Wow," Thomas said. He was quiet for the rest of the ride, wondering what sort of world he'd traded the quiet halls and familiar disciplines of the Merignac monastery for.
Just inside the high city wall they pulled over while a customs officer checked the cargo for contraband liquor ("Fusel oil in the Oregon vodka," the officer explained), and Thomas hopped down from the bench and walked around to the driver's side.
"Thanks for the lift. It would have taken me till noon to get here on foot."
"Yeah, it would have," the old man agreed. "What's your name?"
"Thomas."
"Well, Thomas, I'm John St. Coutras." He stuck out his hand, and Thomas stepped up onto the rear brake pedal extending his own hand to St. Coutras. Immediately a deep boom echoed, the cart lurched, the horse neighed and reared and the customs officer dropped his clipboard. A cloud of raspy gray smoke hung in the air, and in the ensuing silence Thomas could hear bits of stone pattering to the pavement on the other side of the courtyard.
"You stepped on the rear brake pedal, I believe," St. Coutras said.
"Uh… yes." They completed the delayed handshake. Smoke, Thomas noticed, rose from the hole in the passenger's backrest. "That's how you shoot it, huh?"
St. Coutras nodded.
"What the hell have you got? A cannon?" brayed the customs man, who had by this time found his voice. "You guys aware that shooting firearms inside the walls is a felony? Hah? I'll—"
"It was an accidental discharge," St. Coutras explained calmly, "which is just a misdemeanor. But here," he said, reaching into his pocket, "let me pay for the wall repair." He handed the officer several coins.
"Well, all right, then," muttered the man, as he shambled back to his little plywood office. "Can't have that sort of thing, you know; I'll let you off with a warning this time…"
"Gee. I'm sorry about that," Thomas said. "I'd pay you back, but—"
"Forget it, Thomas. It's good community relations to give customs men money."
"Oh. Well… thanks again for the ride." Thomas waved and then walked through an archway into the full sunlight of Western Avenue.
CHAPTER 2: A Day in the City
The waiter, after giving Thomas a long, doubtful look, led him down the aisle to a narrow booth at the rear of the restaurant.
"There you are, sir," he said. "Would you care for coffee?"
"Yes," said Thomas, "and a ham and swiss cheese and bell pepper omelette, and sourdough toast, and fried potatoes with onions, and a big glass of very cold beer."
The waiter slowly wrote it all on a pad and then stared at Thomas, plainly dubious about the young man's finances, but intimidated by the monk's robe.
"I can afford it," sniffed Thomas haughtily. He waved the man away.
As soon as the waiter walked off Thomas dipped the first finger of his left hand into his water glass, washing the deep gash he'd sustained the night before. He wiped off the dried blood with his napkin. Looks all right, he decided. It'll leave a scar, but I guess it's clean.
Most of the restaurant's booths were empty, which struck Thomas as an odd state of affairs for breakfast time on such a sunny morning. Slightly apprehensive, he wondered about the quality of the food.
A tiny, leaded-glass window was set in the wall next to his left ear, and he hunched around in his seat to look outside, A congested line of vehicles was moving north on Western—away from the city, Thomas realized. The carts all seemed to be filled with chairs and mattresses, and he saw men pulling several of them, strapped into harnesses meant for horses. A policeman was walking down the line, and the people in the carts pulled sheaves of papers from their pockets and let him examine them. Sometimes he would keep the papers and make the owner move his cart out of the line to return into the city. Remembering that St. Coutras had said all the cops were androids, Thomas tried to look more closely at this one, but the wavy window glass prevented him from seeing anything clearly.
Six young men clutching long sticks strode up the sidewalk. They sprinted the last 30 meters to the policeman and clubbed him to the ground from behind. For a full 20 seconds they crouched above the uniformed body, raining savage, full-arm blows; then they ran away in different directions. Thomas had expected the people in the traffic line to say or do something, but they watched the beating disinterestedly. After a few minutes another policeman appeared and began calmly checking their papers.
Frowning and upset, Thomas turned back to his table. Do androids feel pain? he wondered. The replacement cop didn't seem bothered by his predecessor's fate so why should he be? He had enough problems without worrying about the well-being of some creature who was brewed in a vat.
At that moment his beer arrived, followed closely by the food he'd ordered. Until he took a long drink of the cold beer, he felt a little queasy about eating, but then his hunger returned in force. He wolfed the food and washed it down with another glass of beer.
By the time he finished he had forgotten the unfortunate android and was leaning back, feeling comfortable and debating whether or not to buy a cigar. After a while the waiter appeared.
"What do I owe you?" asked Thomas, reaching into his pocket.
"Forty solis."
Thomas smiled. "No, really."
"Forty solis," the waiter repeated slowly, moving to block Thomas's exit from the booth.
Thomas's smile disappeared. "Forty solis for one breakfast?" he gasped. "Since when? Brother William told me you can get a good dinner for ten."
"Apparently Brother William hasn't been to town for a while," the waiter growled. "The Los Angeles soli has been dropping ever since last summer." He grabbed Thomas by the collar. "Listen, brother—if you are a monk, which I doubt; where's your rosary?— you're lucky we'll take solis at all, since Thursday morning. Most shops are closed, won't take any currency till they see where it stands. Now trot out 40 solis or we'll be using your lousy hide to wash dishes with tonight."
"Oh, all right then!" said Thomas indignantly, pushing aside the waiter's arm. "Here." He reached into his pocket again with his right hand; with his left he picked up his water glass and splashed its contents into the waiter's face. While the man's eyes were closed, Thomas punched him in the stomach and then grabbed his hair to pull his dripping face down hard onto the empty breakfast plate. Crockery flew, and the waiter yelled in pain.