you come now, you're a shoo-in for a seat on the board. How can you turn that down?' I said, 'Just watch me.''
We left the main road, turning right alongside a second fence and a row of low, shuttered buildings. Behind them was a storage yard strewn with heavy machinery and steel scrap, enormous items, but all dwarfed beneath the vast white hangar that towered like an iceberg over all. Many cars and trucks were parked before a second checkpoint, this one manned by only a few guards. Apparently they had been notified about us, because they let us through without any interrogation, keeping well clear of me.
'How you doing, Sam?' Cowper called to one.
'What did you do?' Sam demanded. 'I can't raise Reynolds.'
'Reynolds is gone-you must've seen the explosion. If I were you, I'd get over there.'
'You led them to us,' Sam said coldly, clicking his gun's safety on and off. 'We were doing okay until you led them here, Fred. You and that…' He couldn't bring himself to say it. Keeping his eyes averted from mine, the man said, 'You should've stayed away. You're not going to get what you came for.'
'All I'm after right now is Ed Albemarle. He in there?'
'He's in there, but he's not going to be able to help you. Nobody is.'
'Thanks, Sam. It's good to see you, too.'
To our backs, the man said, 'I could shoot you for being out after lockdown! I'd be within my rights!'
As we crossed the tarmac toward the hangar, Cowper noticed my upset, and whispered to me, 'He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't worry, he won't shoot. And it's not true, you know, what he said about us leading them in. Those things were already on their way-we just happened to come along at the same time they did. It's that 'critical mass' the TV predicted: They saturate the urban areas, then fan out across the countryside when they run out of prey. Providence is spilling over-we just hit the wave front is all.' He was sweating.
'What does he mean, we're not going to get what we came for, nobody's going to help us?'
'Aw, nothin'-it's nothing for you to worry about.'
We approached a door and were buzzed through from the guard shack. At first all I saw was a cavernous room full of machinery-rows of giant rusty drums covered with scaffolding; multistory steel frameworks like half- finished buildings; antlike workers toiling under bleak factory lights-but then the sound began to register: thrash- metal music and the familiar rasp and clatter of practicing skate-punks, punctuated by echoing cheers and catcalls. I could see lots of hardhats, but no one was working. The door locked shut behind us.
This was no longer a factory. It was a playground. An industrial-chic skate park. Curved steel plates weighing tons, and cylinders wide as subway tunnels, had been commandeered for aerial stunts by bike and skateboard fiends. People swung like Tarzan from dizzying catwalks in the rafters or, more alarmingly, bungee- jumped the hundred or so feet to the concrete floor, springing back just in time. A deejay standing on a huge, multiwheeled platform-the mother of all flatbed trucks-plied his stylings before a scattering of headbangers and homeboys and someone wearing a big-headed chipmunk costume. The aisles between machines were Turkish bazaars full of tents and sleeping bags, with clotheslines slung like cobwebs overhead.
Everyone seemed completely unaware of the nightmare outside. What's more, they were kids, teenagers- boys. Hundreds of boys. A tough-looking bunch in their work boots, hooded sweatshirts, baggy pants, and stocking caps. They were filthy as chimney sweeps from life in the factory. Staring in wonder, all I could do was silently mouth, 'Oh my gosh.'
Our appearance on the floor began to have a ripple effect. As people saw us, saw me, they reacted in surprise, pointing us out to others nearby and gradually bringing a halt to all the activities. Some fell back, others began to come forward to meet us. Among the latter were many older men I hadn't noticed at first. They didn't look particularly friendly.
One exception was a burly, chinless guy in dirty denim coveralls who came running up, eyes wide, and clasped hands with Cowper. 'Fred, you bastard,' he said. 'Where in hell did you come from?'
'Hell is right,' said Cowper. He leaned toward the other man, and said, 'What's the bad news, Ed?'
The bigger man pursed his lips, bobbing his head. 'It's like you said, Fred. They screwed us.'
'When?'
'Last week. Had a big recommissioning ceremony, gave us a steak dinner, then dropped the bomb while we were all loosening our belts.'
'Who did? Sandoval?'
The heavyset man nodded bitterly, saying, 'Those bastards never had any intention of taking us along.'
'Has she put to sea?'
'Not yet, but they're not telling us anything. Should be anytime now.'
'I could've told ya.'
'You did.'
'Did they give any reason?'
'Yeah, we got a boatload of sensitive materials the day before from Norfolk-you know about SPAM?'
'What do you mean, Spam?'
The other man waved the question away. 'Sensitive Personnel and Materials-crap! All the stuff the government can't leave behind when it shuts down. Basically SPAM got our seat. I don't care about me, but those kids busted ass for a month, and now they get bumped by a shipment of top secret nonsense? The future is riding with these kids, and they're fit for duty.'
'Oh yeah?' Cowper said, eyeing the gritty playland. 'Where at? Ringling Brothers?'
The other man perked up defensively. 'Hey,' he said, 'don't knock 'em for blowing off steam. After last week, we're all on strike around here.'
'Now, Albemarle, that sounds like union talk.'
Ed Albemarle laughed grimly, 'Yeah, it's a union shop now. We're gonna start picketing. Give the X-jobs signs to carry.' Throughout the conversation he had pointedly avoided looking my way, though everyone else in the place was. Now he turned toward me, and I could see the nervous whites of his eyes. 'And who's the little lady?' he asked.
Before Cowper could speak, I said, 'Lulu. Lulu Pangloss,' offering my hand. It almost killed him to shake it. Hoping to put him at ease, I added, 'How do you do, Mr. Albemarle?'
He regarded me with the awe of a man seeing a talking dog. 'God damn,' he said, taking back his hand. 'You know… girls are bad medicine these days. I'm surprised you got in.'
And none too pleased, I thought.
'She's okay,' said Cowper. 'She has a condition-female trouble. She ain't gonna turn.'
Though I understood the necessity, it was mortifying to hear him announce this to everyone. To those boys.
'Why?' Albemarle said suspiciously. 'How old is she?'
'Seventeen,' I replied, at which they all caught their breaths and seemed to backpedal, or at least lean backward. My age bounced around the group like heresy, triggering furious whispering and a few cries of 'Uh-uh!' and 'Hell no!'
Albemarle looked apologetically at Cowper. 'Fred, how can we have her in here?' he asked. 'I'm in charge of these people's safety.'
'Then you better forget about her and get these kids moving. All hell's breaking loose outside.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You'd know if you'd turn off that racket.' He meant the music. Albemarle complied, barking an order that was relayed back to the deejay. The boy, having come down for the commotion, mounted the crawler and killed the sound. At once it was possible to hear the faint sputtering of gunfire outside. Everyone in the room became transfixed.
'I'm telling you,' said Cowper, 'we have to get 'em out of here, Ed. Beau Reynolds is dead, and Security ain't gonna hold that fence for long. It's up to us now. We gotta move, and fast.'
A few people reacted strongly to the news of Reynolds's death, but Albemarle spoke over them. 'Move where?' he said. 'There's a lockdown in effect-no unsupervised activity. Set foot out of here, and we'll be shot on sight.'
'We're the least of their worries, Ed. This is our chance, while they're putting every available man on that fence.'
