basic religious issues behind this present conflict. Firstly, it is our belief, and the only one a right-thinking man can hold, that the Holy Prophet Plaut meant this desert to be-”
“But the Oasis,” cut in Smith, “it’s being shelled?”
“What’s left of it is, yes.”
“How much damage?”
“Before the Militiamen fanatics…” He spit at his boots. “Before they took up positions there, the Qatfia Guards made an unsuccessful attempt to assassinate Dag Wentim, the acting generalissimo of the Norkin Elite Horse Guards. He escaped, but most of the tennis pavilion and the-”
“To really cover this properly,” said Cruz, resting his real hand on the corporal’s shoulder, “we ought to get right up close to the fighting.”
The frogman shook his head. “Not possible,” he told them. “We’re only allowing the crew from
“Ah, but we’re affiliated with them,” said Cruz. “We’ll just pop over there and introduce ourselves.”
“I suppose,” said the guard, “since you seem intent on giving us a fair shake, there’s no harm in allowing-”
“None at all,” Smith assured him.
The middle-aged catwoman in the one-piece khaki cazsuit was saying, “Norbert, don’t be a ninny.”
“But, Mom,” the chubby cat newsman said, digging the toe of his combat boot into the reddish sand beside the newsvan, “this really isn’t my strong suit.”
She caught hold of both his arms just above his fuzzy elbows. “This is the brink of the big time, sonny,” she said. “The making of Norbert Willow, the forging in the fire of combat of an ace newscaster, the-”
“Mom, listen, they sent me out here by mistake,” protested Willow. “The computer fouled up the orders and if you hadn’t insisted that we-”
“You have to grab opportunities when they-”
“Who the heck-I mean honestly, Mom-wants the opportunity to get his backside shot off?”
“There’s no need to talk dirty. Besides, you’re going to be inside this nice safe van with thick armor.” Reaching out, she thunked the side of the TWN vehicle with her calico fist. “Safe as houses, sonny.”
“What I usually do, Mom, for the
“Are you really content to do that for the rest of your life?”
Willow nodded vehemently. “I surely am, Mom, you bet,” he answered. “It’s a darn lot better than being maimed by some crackbrained religious zealots who…”
Cruz and Smith moved around the bickering mother and son team, heading for the open doorway of the big gunmetal landvan.
From inside came a sudden groan and curse.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Merloo. I thought that was your plaz foot I stepped on.”
“Right’s plaz, left’s still real, bimbo.”
“Sorry,” apologized a sweet feminine voice.
Cruz and Smith climbed up into the van.
A one-eyed lizardman in a two-piece paramilitary cazsuit was hopping on one foot in front of a robotcamera. A slim blonde young woman, carrying a small portable voxunit, was watching.
“What the futz do you want, greaseball?” the lizard-man asked Cruz.
Cruz smiled cordially. “It’s a pleasure meeting a famed war correspondent like you.”
“Obviously it is,” agreed Merloo, his visible eye narrowing. “But that doesn’t explain why you and that skinny gink have come barging into my van, does it now?”
“Balls Merloo,” said Smith, feigning awe, “my boyhood idol.”
The blonde was making anxious shooing motions at them. “Shoo, shoo,” she mouthed. “Flee.”
“We’re hitching a ride,” explained Cruz.
“In a grout’s valise,” said Balls Merloo, adjusting his plaid eyepatch with his plaz left hand.
“Dread,” murmured the blonde, hugging the voxunit tightly to her chest. “He’s going to erupt.”
“The situation is this,” said Smith, grinning. “We have to get to the Oasis and you’re just about the only available means of transport.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re wrong there, buster,” Merloo informed him. “Because I’m going to summon two big vicious goons on my staff and have them kick your skinny ass all the way there.”
“Horrors,” said the shivering young woman.
“Tell you what,” the one-eyed newsman said to Cruz. “I have a sweet and kindly side to me. So I’m going to count all the way up to five before I knock you on your flabby keister. One-”
“Wait now.” Cruz held out his metal hand toward the correspondent. “You really ought to take a gander at this, since you have a fake arm yourself.”
“I’m in no flapping mood to admire some halfassed crip’s prosthetic-”
The thin stunbeam had come humming out of Cruz’ middle finger to hit the lizardman smack in the chest.
Balls Merloo dropped right down to the van floor, his various artificial portions producing assorted clicks, clangs and thunks.
“Calamity,” said the blonde, still shaking.
Smith moved to the doorway, caught the handle of the open door. “Good news, Norbert,” he called out before tugging it shut. “You won’t have to go, after all.”
CHAPTER 13
“Would it be all right if I were to introduce myself?” asked the blonde timidly as the newsvan went barreling along across the desert. “Since we seem to be sharing all this adversity together.”
Cruz was driving the borrowed vehicle. “Forgive our rudeness, fair lady,” he said. “I’m Cruz.”
“Jared Smith.” He’d just finished dragging Merloo’s unconscious body behind a tape-editing unit.
“I’m Jazz Miller,” she said, finally setting the vox-unit aside. “Kind of a dippy name, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary,” said Cruz. “It has a nice lilt to it.”
Jazz shrugged. “It’s always struck me as an unfortunate handle.”
“Change it,” advised Smith as he took the passenger seat next to Cruz.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t ever do that. Daddy would hate that. That’d produce a real misfortune,” she said. “He’s miffed enough as it is because of my chosen profession.”
Smith asked, “Which is?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m an associate newscaster. Thus far that’s involved mostly schlepping equipment and avoiding Mr. Merloo’s passes.”
“Would you like to cover the conflict at the Oasis?” said Smith.
She pressed her hands to her stomach. “I…I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Sure you are,” said Cruz.
“Merloo’s unable to function,” Smith pointed out. “You have to step in.”
Cruz added, “It’s the brink of the big time.”
“Actually,” she said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I do know a heck of a lot more about the local political situation than Mr. Merloo does. I was saying to my old Poli Sci prof, Doctor Winiarsky, just last week-”
“Hey, would that be Bryson Winiarsky?” cut in Smith.
“Yes, do you know him or…oh, rack and ruin. I wasn’t supposed to blab about him.”
