Comeback Tour

'It's in the Transvaal,' Duroc said, 'in Greater Rhodesia. Why?'

Fonvielle looked sheepish. 'Ah, well, because Keystone seems to have um…'

'Out with it, commander!'

'…obliterated it.'

X

It was getting dark. The boat was going to need gas soon, or they would be down to using the paddles. Elvis told Krokodil. 'Well, there are people nearby…'

Elvis looked at her. 'You can tell that from some cyborg sense?'

'No, I can tell that from simple observation. Wherever there's garbage, there are people, and look…'

There was a mud lagoon clogged with food wrappers and other disposables, sinking slowly.

'That's someone's dump.'

'Yeah.' Elvis reached for his Moulinex.

'Paranoid.'

'It's the only way to get to be my age, ma'am.'

Nevertheless, he left the gun where it was.

'Yeah,' she sighed. 'I suppose you're right.'

'We'll try silent running from here on in.'

He cut the motor, and took the paddles from the stern locker. He handed her one.

They eased the boat forwards. The swamp was thick here, more mud than water, and it was easy to get clogged with the swampgrass. They'd had to stop several times to unwind long tangles from the propellor.

Elvis could hear noises up ahead. Human noises.

'Sounds like a party,' Krokodil said.

There was music. Cooking smells reached them.

'I sure hope the natives are friendly round here.'

'We'll find out soon enough.'

They could see lights through the hanging cypresses. Elvis felt very hungry again.

''Old eet raight zere, mon ami,' said a harsh, loud voice. The accent was backwoods French.

Elvis pulled his paddle out of the water, and raised his hands.

'We're friends,' he said.

'Easy to say, 'ard to preuve.'

The Frenchman leaned out of the shadows. He was lying in the branches of a cypress, camouflaged among the leaves. He wore a patchwork of oilskins and small pelts, and had long, tangled hair. He was carrying a Grand Guignol shotgun, four barrels welded together in a square. One of those things could blast a hole clear through a bull elephant.

'We're just passing through. My name is Presley, and this is…'

He couldn't think of a way of making 'Krokodil' sound like a friendly name.

'Jessamyn,' she said.

'Enchante, mam'selle. Je suis Zhille.'

'Where is this place?'

'It 'as no name. We float.'

Zhille put up his shotgun.

'Can a feller get some gas around here? Or maybe some food?'

Zhille smiled and kissed his fingers. 'If a felleau 'as ze price of ze services.'

'We can pay,' said Krokodil.

'Zen, come on een, get warm and get fed…'

Zhille held aside a curtain of cypress, and they paddled past his tree.

There was an island ahead, with a bonfire built on it. Elvis realized that it was not a true island, but rather a large raft built on a network of empty oildrums layered over with soil and vegetation. There were shacks and storehouses. And a group of maybe twenty or thirty people, clustered around the fire. A spitted 'gator was turning over the flames, roasting nicely, and big-bellied iron cookpots were heating up gallons of gumbo.

'You laike Cajun cookeeng?' Zhille asked, appearing to tether the boat.

'Yes, sir,' Elvis replied politely.

'You laike plenty of 'ot spices, n'est-ce pas?'

'I surely do.'

'Zen zis ees ze plaice for yiu.'

'The natives,' Krokodil whispered, 'seem friendly.'

Still, Elvis saw her slinging something from Donny Walton's gun collection around her waist You could never be too careful.

There was a small band by the fire, playing fast, raucous zydeco. A serious, thin- cheeked woman with a derby hat and a long skirt sawed away at a fiddle. The rest were okay, but she was good. A few barefoot children were dancing, but most of the crowd were more interested in eating just now.

Zhille introduced them to the community headman, DuFrezne, and his wife Jeanne, and to others. Places were found for them near the fire, in the food line.

Elvis watched the 'gator turning. He had never eaten 'gator before, but knew people who swore by it.

'At least they've taken its eyes out,' Krokodil said.

'They're in the gumbo.'

'Oh well, I've eaten raw lizard in my time. This looks appetizing by comparison.'

'You need to eat?'

She shook her head. 'But I should, here. We don't want anyone thinking there's anything odd about me, do we?'

The fire made strange shapes on her face. Elvis wondered just how odd Krokodil really was. He knew she was packed full of bio-amendments. But there was something else weird about the woman. Sometimes, someone else seemed to be looking out through her eyes.

The music stopped, and the eating started.

Elvis was fortunate enough to get an unidentifiable hunk of tasty, highly-spiced meat. After a day's fast, it was wonderful. And the swamp-brewed moonshine that came with it burned all the tastes out of his mouth anyway. He wondered if his tastebuds had sustained any lasting damage from the liquid fire.

They talked about themselves, but were vague about their reasons for being in the swamplands. Krokodil told DuFrezne her name was Jessamyn Bonney, and that she had been wilder as a teenager. Elvis remembered the name. She had been a War Chief with the Psychopomps, a Western gangcult, four or five years ago. It was hard to imagine the calm woman in glitter make-up and ragged tights. Elvis just said he had been in the army most of his life.

As they talked, Elvis was aware of dark eyes fixed on them. It was the fiddle-player.

As the fires died down, the woman got up, and began a long recital in incomprehensible Cajun French, punctuating her sentences with unearthly melodies.

'Zat ees 'Ti-Mouche,' said Zhille, 'she ees un p'tit crazy, but she 'as ze saight…'

'The Sight?'

Zhille made an expressive gesture. Elvis gathered 'Ti-Mouche was a wise woman, a white witch.

'She talks about yiu,' Zhille said.

'Ti-Mouche was playing a drawn-out but spirited tune, a Devil's Trill.

'What's she saying?'

Zhille wasn't sure whether to pass it on. 'She says zat yiu 'ave…uh, eet 'ard to explain…ze talent?'