Nobody regulated Lucid Dreaming. Arlen had a host of shoddy imitators. They never lasted long. Whatever Drew Arlen was doing, he was the only person in the whole world who knew how to do it. Most donkeys ignored him: a manipulative con artist, having as much to do with real art as those holos of the Virgin Mary that suddenly “manifested” during religious festivals.

“. . . leaving that home he loved,” Aden’s low, musical voice said, “walking away alone, him, into a dark forest…”

Nobody regulated Lucid Dreaming. And Drew Arlen, as the whole world knew, was Miranda Sharifi’s lover. He was the only Sleeper who went in and out of Huevos Verdes at will. The GSEA followed him constantly, of course, along with enough reporters to fill a small town. It was only his concerts they didn’t take seriously.

I walked back along the gravrail and climbed into my car. The big-headed man was the only one not pressed to the windows. He lay stretched out on a deserted seat, sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. In order not to be hypnotized? In order to better observe the effects of Aden’s performance?

The concert wore on. The warrior took the usual risks, won the usual triumphs, exulted the usual exultations. Simplistic power-trip ideation. When it ended, people turned to each other with emotional hugs, laughing and crying, and then spilled out onto the cold prairie toward the holo of Drew Arlen. It sat, fifteen feet high, a handsome crippled man in a powerchair smiling gently down on his disciples. The surrounding shapes had vanished, unless they were flickering subliminally, which was possible. A few Livers stuck their hands into the holo, trying to touch what had no substance. Desdemona danced inside the pyramid and laid her head against the blanket over Aden’s knees.

Daddy Liver said abruptly, “I bet we could walk, us, to the next town.”

“Well. . .” somebody said. Other voices chimed in.

If we follow the track, us, and stay together—”

“See if any of the roof lights are portable—”

“Some people should stay, them, with the old people.”

The big-headed man watched carefully. That’s the moment I was sure. The entire gravrail breakdown in this techno-forsaken place had been a setup, to gauge the effect of Aden’s concert.

How? By whom?

No. Those weren’t the right questions. The right question was: What was the effect of Aden’s concert?

“You stay here, then, Eddie, with the old people. You, Cassie, tell the people in the other cars. See who wants, them, to go with us. Tasha—”

It took them ten minutes of arguing to get organized. They pried the roof lights off six cars; the lights were portable. People who stayed gave extra jackets to people who left. The first group was just starting down the rail when a light flashed in the sky. A second later I could hear the plane.

The Livers turned silent.

The plane held a single gravrail technician, flanked by two security ’bots, the no-fucking-around kind that both projected a personal safety shield and carried weapons. The crowd watched in silence. The tech’s handsome, genemod face looked strained. Techs are a strained group anyway: genemod for appearance, but without the IQ and ability enhancements, which cost prospective parents a lot more money. You find them repairing machinery, running warehouse distribs, supervising nursing or child-care ’bots. Techs certainly aren’t Livers, but although they live in the enclaves, they aren’t exactly donkeys either. And they know it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tech said unhappily, “Morrison Gravrail, Incorporated, and Senator Cecilia Elizabeth Dawes apologize for the delay in repairing your train. Circumstances beyond our control—”

“And I’m a politician, me!” someone yelled bitterly.

“Why do we vote, us, for you scum?”

“Better tell the Senator she lost votes, her, on this here train!”

“The service we deserve—”

The tech walked resolutely toward the engine, eyes down, paced by his ’bots. I caught the faint shimmer of a Y-energy field as he passed. But a few of the Livers — six or seven — glanced down the track, stretching away in the windy darkness, their eyes bright with what I would have sworn was regret.

It took the tech all of thirteen minutes to fix the gravrail. Nobody molested him. He left in his plane, and the train started up again. Livers played dice, grumbled, slept, tended their cranky children. I walked through all the cars, searching for the big-headed man. He had vanished while I was watching the Livers’ reaction to the donkey tech. We must have left him behind, on the windy prairie, in the concealing dark.

Every once in a while I need, me, to go off in the woods. I didn’t used to tell nobody. But now when I go, two-three times a year, I tell Annie and she fixes me up some raw stuff from the kitchen, apples and potatoes and soysynth that ain’t been made into dishes yet. I stay out there alone, me, for five or six days, away from all of it: the cafe and holodancers and blasting music and warehouse distribs and stomps with clubs and even the Y-energy. I build fires, me. Some people ain’t left East Oleanta in twenty years except to go by gravrail to another town just like it. The deep woods might as well be in China. I think they’re scared, them, of hearing themselves out there.

I was supposed to leave for the woods the morning after the cafe kitchen broke and we talked, us, to Supervisor Samuelson on the official terminal. But I sure wasn’t leaving Annie and Lizzie without food, and I sure wasn’t going no place, me, that had rabid raccoons and a broken warden ’bot.

Lizzie stood by my couch in her nightshirt, a bright pink blot on my morning sleep. “Billy, you think, you, that kitchen is fixed yet?”

Annie came out from her bedroom, yawning, still in her plas-ticloth nightdress. “Leave Billy alone, Lizzie. You hungry, you?”

Lizzie nodded. I sat up, me, on the sofa, with one arm shielding my eyes from the morning sun at the window. “Listen, Annie. I been thinking, me. If they do get that kitchen fixed, we should start taking all the food we can, us, and storing it here. In case it breaks again. We can take right up to the meal chip limit every day — Lizzie and you don’t ever hardly do that and me neither, some days — and then raw stuff from the kitchen. Potatoes and apples and stuff.”

Annie pressed her lips together. She ain’t a morning person, her. But it felt so good to be waking up at Annie’s place that I forgot that, me. She said, “The food would rot in just two-three days. I don’t want, me, to have a lot of half-rotten stuff around here. It ain’t clean.”

“Then we’ll throw it out, us, and get some more.” I spoke gentle. Annie don’t like things to be different than they’ve always been.

Lizzie said, “Billy, you think, you, that kitchen is fixed yet?”

I said, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Let’s go look, us. Better get dressed.”

Annie said, “She got to go, her, to the baths first. She stinks. Me, too. You walk us, Billy?”

“Sure.” What good did she think an old wreck like me’d be against rabid coons? But I’d of walked Annie past them demons she believes in.

Lizzie said, “Billy, you think, you, that kitchen is fixed yet?”

There wasn’t no raccoons near the baths. The men’s bath was empty except for Mr. Keller, who’s so old I don’t think even he remembers if he’s got a first name, and two little boys who shouldn’t of been there alone, them. But they were having themselves a wonderful splashing time. I liked watching them, me. They cheered up the morning.

Mr. Keller told me the cafe kitchen was fixed. I walked Annie and Lizzie, sweet-clean as berries in the dew, to get our breakfast. But the cafe was full, it, not just with Livers eating but of donkeys making a holo of Congresswoman Janet Carol Land.