That was a shocker. The railbugs were what took you from the place where you were to the place you wanted to be, all over the civilized world. You made your way to the nearest railbug station, never very far, and summoned a bug. No more than a minute or two later one would slide off the main line and onto your siding and open its doors. When you got in you took a seat—it wouldn't have stopped if no seat had been vacant—and chose your destination. The rest was automatic. You read, or drowsed, or watched a vid on the back of the seat ahead of you, or worked on your screen, or whatever. The bug slid back onto the main line, stopping now and then to pick up another passenger or let one off at his own stop. And there you were.
Oddly, Orbis didn't think railbugs were particularly sinful. (It was human beings who had invented them, not the damned—the really damned—Heechee.) He took them all the time.
Not here, though. Not now.
Nor was there much else available. There were no vehicles at the taxi stand, nor did the other passengers seem to expect any. Most of them were being met and led off by some local authority. That was no help to Orbis McClune. There was no one to meet him.
What he did next was easy for him, since he had done it so often before. He chose one of his fellow travelers—an elderly woman whose principal virtue was that she wasn't busy talking to someone else at the moment—and said, "Madam, I am going to ask you the most important question of your life. Will you take a moment of your time to help me save a soul?"
She wouldn't. She wouldn't even answer him, just turned and walked away. The next available person was a dark-skinned young man irritably looking around for someone who clearly wasn't there. He wouldn't either. Nor would the one after that, which made McClune pause to consider a change of plans.
These were all quite irreligious people. Perhaps the place to start delivering his message was right here.
He was looking for a suitable counter to climb onto when he heard himself called. It was the voice of the woman with the palm camera. "Hey, you," she was calling. "You, Reverend! Come here a minute!"
She was beckoning to him with one hand, while the other was doing its best to wave off a couple of raggedy-looking urchins, apparently begging for money. As he hesitated she said impatiently, "Come on, for God's sake. I was talking to my machine mind and I think we might be able to do each other some good. Do you know who I am?"
McClune did not, but before he could say so one of the children at the woman's side spoke up. "I seen you," she said. "You were in the p-vids, telling where to go for food and stuff."
"Why, that's right," she woman said, giving the little girl a small, unencouraging smile. "My name is Cara le Brun, I'm a reporter and, yes, I did do some of those public service announcements. So you see," she said, returning her attention to Orbis McClune, "I'm legit. I'm here to get human interest stories from the victims, and it seems to me you could help me out. Like the religious angle, I mean; Barb says that hasn't been covered much yet."
McClune pursed his lips, considering whether to give up his new plan. "I hear you saying how I'll be helping you," he said, thinking about it. "You didn't say what you can do for me."
"Expenses," she said. "What else? I don't know if you've noticed, but everything's sky-high here. I don't know what kind of financing you have—" She paused inquiringly, got no answer from him, gave him a brisk nod. "That's what I thought. Well, I've got an expense account and Barb cleared it with the higher-ups. That means I can take care of your costs, too—I mean, for a day or two, anyway. Within reason. Well?"
"Who's Barb?"
The woman looked impatient. "What do you need to know that for? Barbara is what they call my machine mind, that's all. So, McClune? What's your answer?"
He hesitated, reminded of something. "You haven't mentioned my name to your machine mind, have you?"
"No. Why would I? And what's the difference if I did? I'm waiting, McClune."
Relieved, McClune gave her his sweet and meaningless smile again. "I accept, of course," he said.
As far as Cara le Brun had a plan, it was to head up into the hills, where most of the survivors had taken refuge.
At first McClune was not attracted to that idea. Down on flattened-out Waveland was where God's wrath had struck its avenging blow, and something in McClune's heart yearned to see the results of that terrible judgment.
On the other hand, it didn't take him long to learn that there wasn't anybody down there who was still alive. His saving word would be better delivered to the survivors, that tiny fraction of former sinners who had been spared a dreadful death. So he held up his hand to stop the little girl, who was going on and on about the advantages of someplace called Barstow. "Fine with me," he said, ignoring the child. "How do we get there?"
The woman looked around irritably. "I could spring for a cab," she said, "but there don't appear to be any." She was looking glumly at the point on the curb marked "Taxi Rank," where a longish line of people was hopelessly sweating in the heat and not moving at all. The only visible motion was far away, beyond the end of the terminal, where some of the earth-moving machines from the plane's cargo hold were already lumbering away in single file to where they were needed.
McClune hesitated, wondering if that were a sign. Perhaps it wasn't God's design for him to go along with this trollop's plans. It wouldn't he hard to talk one of the machine drivers into giving him a ride down into the destroyed area. He closed his eyes, asking for guidance, but he didn't seem to receive any.
Or, it turned out, need to. The little girl who had been standing with her fists on her hips, looking indignant, spoke up. "Jeez, don't you guys listen? You need a guide. I'm it."
Le Brun frowned, then inspected the girl narrowly. So did McClune. The child looked to be no more than twelve. Her hair was cut in a ragged soupbowl and did not appear to have been washed for some time. More offensive to McClune, what she was wearing was the shortest of shorts, with a tank top that had been meant for someone with actual breasts.
Le Brun didn't seem to like what she saw any more than he did. "What we need is a vehicle, not a guide," she said. "Do you know where we can get one?"
"Sure I do. Only the vehicle comes with the guiding. It's a package. You don't get one without you take the other," the girl said. "You want the deal or not? If you don't, there's plenty of others around here that will."
"How much?" le Brun asked practically.
"Two hundred a day," the girl said, watching le Brun's face. When it didn't display immediate shock, she tacked on, "Each, I mean. Plus expenses for, like, fuel and such."
Le Brun gave her an unamused grin. "I'll take it before it gets any higher," she said sourly. "Do you know where we want to go? Someplace up in the hills, where there are thousands of refugees. I'm thinking of heading into the high desert, or maybe—"
But the girl wasn't waiting to hear the older woman's thoughts. "Barstow," she said sagely. "That's the place to go."
Le Brun didn't like being interrupted. "Why Barstow?" she demanded.
The girl was looking around nervously. "It's got everything you want, take my word for it. And I can get you there in an hour. Are we going?"
Le Brun thought for a moment. "Has it got a decent hotel, at least?"
The girl said pityingly, "Lady, there aren't any hotels, not that you could get into anyway. Trust me. I'll give you a place to stay." She wasn't looking at her prospective employer anymore. She was looking at a pair of sweating and harried policemen, shoving their way through the crowd in their general direction. "That's it," she said. "Take it or leave it. Coming?"