Smith returned to his computer, wrists resting on the edge of the keyboard. He got down to work, after which not even his shoulders moved. If the wall behind him had been gray, he would have been virtually invisible.
In a larger sense, he was.
Chapter 11
Fabrique Foirade was determined to save the defenseless California desert scorpion.
After his humiliation in La Plomo-where he was all but ignored by the press because of an under-thirty gloryhound with a neutron bomb, and thwarted by other reactionary elements-he had led his troops away.
"Where are we going, Fab?" they had asked.
"Underground," he replied, glowering his frustration.
"But we are underground. We're in the great tradition of Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman, may they rest in peace."
"Jerry's not dead," someone whispered.
"He's worse than dead," Fabrique snapped. "He's a stockbroker. And I know we're underground. We're going deeper than underground. We're going subterranean."
By subterranean, the shock troops of Dirt First!! discovered that a Ramada Inn in Kirkland, Missouri, was meant. They checked in by MasterCard.
They would have used paper money, but they had read that paper was made from wood pulp, which came from trees. It was news to them, but the thought of contributing to the felling of one proud pine by trafficking in folding money was too much for them to bear. After a soul-searching argument, they went with the hated nonbiodegradable plastic tool of capitalism. But only after Fabrique had pointed out that if paper money was out, so were paper checks.
"We're morally excused from paying the MasterCard bill," he concluded. "So there."
At the Ramada, they subjected themselves to hot showers. Some members, long underground, had to be forcibly pushed into the stalls and held down as the sacred soil was drummed from their skins by despised filtered water.
When it was over, they were clean. And unrecognizable.
"Fabrique, is that you?"
"I'm not sure. I don't smell like myself. Joyce?"
"This is amazing. You're a girl. I thought you were a guy!"
Acquaintances renewed, they squatted in an Indian circle to plot strategy.
"We failed," a woman moaned. "None of the cameras were pointed at us." Her greenish teeth were bared in disgust.
"There are other cameras," Fabrique said reassuringly. "Other events. La Plomo ultimately doesn't matter because no trees died, only farmers, and the only animals that were affected were cows. We're not committed to saving the cows."
"But cows are good," someone pointed out. "I used to drink milk before I went vegetarian."
"The world is full of cows," Fabrique said wisely. "We've gotta save the unprotected species first. We'll save the cows later. If they need it."
"But what unprotected species? We've saved most of the important ones. Even those far out addled owls."
"We haven't saved the desert scorpion."
Squatting on the rug, the members of Dirt First!! exchanged quizzical glances. There were more than a few double takes at the many unfamiliar scrubbed faces.
"Is it endangered?" Fabrique was asked.
"Not yet. But soon it will be. Because of one man."
"What man?"
"The grinning pig we saw at the event."
Fabrique flipped a business card into the center of the powwow circle. It landed with a heavy plop.
Someone picked it up, curious.
"Oh, this is one of those condom cards that goofy guy was handing out. Condominia? Is that plural for 'condoms'? I thought 'condoms' was plural for 'condoms'."
" 'Condominia' is plural for 'condominiums,' " Fabrique said gravely. "And condos are the greatest threat to the desert ecosystem since water."
A chorus of gasps raced around the room. Everyone knew what a terrible threat to the natural order water was. Their hair was still wet.
"And by far," Fabrique continued, his voice ringing with indignation, "the most important species to walk the desert is the poor defenseless scorpion. Until this man, this Swindell, came along. I read about him. He's displaced the scorpion population for his stupid Condome complex. And to serve who? Mere people. The scorpion is rightful lord and master of the desert, and we're gonna put him back on his sandy throne!"
Fabrique Foirade raised a righteous fist.
"I move that Dirt First!! declare war on this Swindell defiler person," he shouted.
"I second that!"
The motion passed unanimously. But then, they always did.
"Then it's settled," Fabrique Foirade said, standing up. "We go to California, to the high desert, to rescue the oppressed scorpion! Kilmer, you make the plane reservations. Standby, of course. Joyce, you alert the media. Karen, you have charge of the spikes."
"But, Fab, honey. What'll we need spikes for? We're going to the desert, where there aren't any trees."
That stopped Fabrique Foirade a moment. His long pause held the others raptly. It meant he was thinking-always an event.
"But they do have cacti," he shouted at last. "We'll spike the cacti! If that defiler left any standing."
Through the miracle of nonbiodegradable plastic, the vanguard of Dirt First!! ecowarriors found themselves, a mere seven hours later, in Los Angeles, where they put in a call to their legal representative, Barry Kranish. Collect.
"Barry, babe," Fabrique said, "you'll never guess, man. We're on the most right-on crusade."
"Don't tell me," Barry Kranish said sharply.
"Don't you want to hear how the La Plomo thing went?"
"I know how it went. The six-o'clock news is full of that retro-sixties girl with the neutron bomb. I think I recognized you in the background, spiking a tree, though. Nice going."
"What we got now is better than dead farmers. Bigger than neutron bombs. Scorpions! We're going to stop that cruel Condome project they're building out by Palm Springs."
"I don't want to hear it," Kranish said hastily. "Just try not to get arrested. Now that we're into plastic, I won't be able to bail you out like before. Most judges don't take plastic."
"And Dirt First!! doesn't take any shit off the Man!" crowed Fabrique Foirade. "See you on the eleven-o'clock news!"
But before Fabrique Foirade could get on the eleven-o'clock news he first had to get out into the desert. Plastic got him from Los Angeles by small plane to Palm Springs Municipal Airport and the forbidding edge of the desert.
After that, it became tricky. To ride on the plastic magic carpet required that there be someone to honor it. Unfortunately, there was no one in Palm Springs from whom they could buy, beg, or borrow a car.
"Look, all we wanna do in drive out into the desert," Fabrique explained to the Sure Lease rental agent.
The agent was firm. "Sorry, we don't accept MasterCard. American Express, sure. Visa, definitely. Cash, absolutely. MasterCard, no."
Fabrique pounded the countertop. "But we gotta get out there. It's an ecoemergency. We're here to save the scorpion."
"I'm a Beatles fan myself," the rental agent said, turning aside and pretending to shuffle some important paperwork in the hope the dozen scruffy hippies would leave his office.
But they didn't leave. They huddled in a corner speaking in low, increasingly violent tones. They were arguing.
The rental agent stationed himself closer to overhear, but could not. It was very strange, he thought, the way they would argue with such vehemence without making any intelligible words.
Finally the argument subsided and the leader-he was taller than the rest and wilder of eye-returned to the counter.
"Are you sure you don't want to save the scorpion?" he asked in a very calm voice.
"Not my job," the rental agent returned coolly.