Save the spiel fer the mugs, says Maev. You young ’uns, hop in back.

Emmi scrinches her face. Do we hafta? she says.

Don’t squawk, git in, says Maev. I’ll drive.

No, I’m drivin. Lugh pushes past her an climbs in the front. You can ride shotgun.

You ever drove a camel before? she snaps. He shoots her a death look, but slides into the shotgun seat.

We ain’t no savages, sir, Maev says to the driver, we’ll leave you water an a weapon up the trail a ways.

Much obliged, he says.

She says, Fer a man about to lose his livelihood, yer calm does you credit.

He shrugs. Occupational hazard. No point gittin my knickers in a twist. Not that I wear none.

No hard feelins?

Not on my part. Say la vee, sister.

That’s it, she says, slick as a whistle. We’re outta here.

Emmi an Tommo clamber inside the Cosmic Compendalorium. I swing myself onto Hermes. Maev jumps in the driver’s seat next to Lugh. She picks up the reins, an slaps ’em down on the camel sayin, Gee up there, Moses! Gee up!

He turns his head. Gives her a long, hard stare. Then he turns back an starts chewin calmly on his cud.

Lugh looks at Maev. Slick as a whistle, he says.

They climb down. They haul on the bridle. Pull the reins. Then they put their backs into it. They lean aginst his rear end an shove.

An all the time, Lugh’s goin, Yer the boss, Maev. Yer the daddy. Maev knows what she’s doin, Lugh. Hijackin an horse stealin’s her business. Newsflash, girls. This ain’t no horse. It’s a gawdamn camel!

Shut up an push! she yells.

Fergawdsake, I says, how hard can it be? Emmi! Tommo! Come help!

They pile outta the back. Tracker barks. Nero dives an shrieks. But Moses don’t budge. He bawls his head off, spittin an snappin with his vicious yellow teeth.

Ow! Lugh yells. He reels away, his hand clamped on his upper arm. Damn thing bit me! He curses an stamps his foot in pain.

The driver’s jest standin there, watchin. Let me know if you need any help, he calls.

Gawdamn sonofabitch, I mutter. I leap offa Hermes an go fer the driver. I walk fast, loadin my bow, aimin it straight at his face. He throws his hands up. I stop three paces away.

Yer wastin my time, big man, I says. Git this beast on his feet. Yer gonna take us where we wanna go.

Okay, okay, he says, keep yer shirt on, sister.

Move! I keep my bow trained on him as he waddles over to the camel.

Moses! he says, flappin his hands. Stand up, sir! Arise an walk, ye son of Egypt!

Right away, the stupid thing starts to git to its feet.

Yer drivin, I says.

He clambers onto the driver’s bench. I squeeze in beside him.

Maev’s pink-cheeked. Humiliated. The hard-girl hijacker, suckered by a camel. Without a word, she tosses me her bolt shooter an climbs into the back with Tommo an Tracker.

I don’t believe this, says Lugh. He swings hisself onto Hermes. Lifts Emmi to ride in front of him.

I look at the driver. What’re you waitin fer? I says. Move.

If I’m gonna take you where you wanna go, he says, you’ll hafta tell me where that is. His one good eye blinks at me, pale an watery.

Oh no, you don’t catch me that easy.

Where was you headed jest now? I says. My sheema starts to slip back from my face. My tattoo. Don’t let him see. I yank it into place, scowl at him. Well? I says.

East, he says. We got a delivery to make in the storm belt. A tavern called the Lost Cause.

My stummick flips. That’ll do to start with, says I. How far?

Three, maybe four days, says he.

Make it two, an I’ll let you keep that eye of yers.

Two it is, he says.

The Cosmic Compendalorium rattles along. After we cover a couple of miles, the driver clears his throat.

You got me at a disadvantage, he says, moniker-wise, that is. You know my name. Doctor Salmo Slim TPS at yer service. Feel free to call me Slim. Might I have the pleasure of knowin who’s hijacked me?

I says naught. I got one boot braced aginst the buckboard. Nero sits in my lap. He’s bin givin the driver the beady eye since we set off.

That’s a handsome bird, says Slim. Tame crow’s, uh . . . unusual. Don’t s’pose he has a name.

Nero, I says.

Nero stretches over. Flicks the pink dress with his beak an croaks.

Ha! says Slim. You wanna know about the dress, do you? I admit, it ain’t every day you see a fella in a frock. It’s a cautionary tale, friend Nero. A story of laundry an hard likker. Must be a week ago now. I warshed my clothes, britches an shirt, once a year like I always do. Rigged up a couple of branches, y’know . . . to hang it on, right next to the fire so’s it ’ud be dry in the mornin. Well, you know how it is. I must of necked a little too much pop an passed out. Next thing you know, the gawdamn sun’s up an my laundry’s burnt to buggery. The whole shebang fell on the fire. Lucky I had the dress – it was my late mother’s, bin keepin it fer sensamental reasons – otherwise I’d be sittin here in my birthday suit. Mind you, if I was, you might of thought twice about hijackin me, eh? Ha ha! Wouldn’t that of bin a sight! Hooee!

Slim hoots an wheezes an cackles. Nero copies him, bobbin up an down, crow-laughin.

Well, don’t lay a egg, I says.

Thing is, he says, in my line of work, you spend a lot of time sittin. A dress lets the breeze up . . . cool yer dingles down. There’s a lot to be said fer a skirt.

I give him a look. We go on fer a bit, then he says, So, yer all headed to the Lost Cause.

Yer headed there, I says. We’re jest hitchin a ride that far.

You know these parts pretty well? he says.

I says naught.

New Eden ain’t no place fer travellers, he says. Let’s hope we don’t run into the Tonton.

Oh? I says.

New Eden’s their land, they control it top to bottom, includin the roads. There’s guardposts an pretty regular patrols. They stop everybody, check you got the right marks. Quartered circle brands fer Stewards of the Earth, slaves wear iron collars, an the rest of us git one of these. He shoves up his right sleeve, shows me a line of five small circles on the outside of his arm. Naw, he says, we don’t wanna be stopped by them boys.

I aim my bolt shooter at his temple. Then you’ll jest make sure we don’t, I says.

We’ll take the back roads, he says.

We go on fer a bit more. Then he says, They cleared out all the old folk, the sick, an the weak. Some people packed up an left – I know a fair few that headed out west. There’s always one or two prepared to stand their ground, try to keep their land, but they’re all worms’ meat now, so much good it did ’em.

How come they let you stay? I says.

I’m useful to ’em, he says. I got special skills, knowledge handed down the ages. On the medicine side there’s me, Doctor Wong an a sawbones called Hollis. We divide the territory between us. By the way, if you ever git gangrene, don’t let Hollis nowhere near you. Cut off yer own leg, you’ll be better off. Let’s see, who else . . . ? A bunch of junkjimmies, of course – it never ceases to amaze me what them boys can make outta Wrecker junk. Uh . . . that’s about it. Yuh, strong workers an healthy breeders is what they want most.

Breeders? I says.

Of course, he says. The Pathfinder’s makin a new world. An only the right kinda people’s allowed to live in it. If you don’t wanna find yerself workin the land an breedin fer New Eden, you better watch yerself, you an yer friends. Yer jest what he’s after.