Part 92 (1/2)
”Crazy talk,” she says. ”How on earth would that happen?”
And the Deep Blue Sea The end of the world had come and gone. It turned out not to matter much in the long run.
The mail still had to get through.
Harrie signed yesterday's paperwork, checked the dates against the calendar, contemplated her signature for a moment, and capped her pen. She weighed the metal barrel in her hand and met Dispatch's faded eyes. ”What's special about (his trip?”
He shrugged and turned the clipboard around on the counter, checking each sheet to be certain she'd filled them out properly. She didn't bother watching. She never made mistakes. ”Does there have to be something special?”
”You don't pay my fees unless it's special, Patch.” She grinned as he lifted an insulated steel case onto the counter.
”This has to be in Sacramento in eight hours,” he said.
”What is it?”
”Medical goods. Fetal stem-cell cultures. In a climate-controlled unit. They can't get too hot or too cold, there's some arcane formula about how long they can live in this given quant.i.ty of growth media, and the customer's paying very handsomely to see them in California by eighteen hundred hours.”
”It's almost oh ten hundred now. What's too hot or too cold?” Harrie hefted the case. It was lighter than it looked; it would slide effortlessly into the saddlebags on her touring bike.
”Any hotter than it already is,” Dispatch said, mopping his brow. ”Can you do it?”
”Eight hours? Phoenix to Sacramento?” Harrie leaned back to check the sun. ”It'll take me through Vegas. The California routes aren't any good at that speed since the Big One.”
”I wouldn't send anybody else. Fastest way is through Reno.”
”There's no gasoline from somewhere this side of the dam to Tonopah. Even my courier card won't help me there-”
”There's a checkpoint in Boulder City. They'll fuel you.”
”Military?”
”I did say they were paying very well.” He shrugged, shoulders already gleaming with sweat. It was going to be a hot one. Harrie guessed it would hit a hundred and twenty in Phoenix.
At least she was headed north.
”I'll do it,” she said, and held her hand out for the package receipt. ”Any pickups in Reno?”
”You know what they say about Reno?”
”Yeah. It's so close to h.e.l.l that you can see Sparks.” Naming the city's largest suburb.
”Right. You don't want anything in Reno. Go straight through,” Patch said. ”Don't stop in Vegas, whatever you do. The overpa.s.s's come down, but that won't affect you unless there's debris. Stay on the 95 through to Fallon; it'll see you clear.”
”Check.” She slung the case over her shoulder, pretending she didn't see Patch wince. ”I'll radio when I hit Sacramento-”
”Telegraph,” he said. ”The crackle between here and there would kill your signal otherwise.”
”Check,” again, turning to the propped-open door. Her pre-war Kawasaki Concours crouched against the crumbling curb like an enormous, restless cat. Not the prettiest bike around, but it got you there. a.s.suming you didn't ditch the top-heavy son of a b.i.t.c.h in the parking lot.
”Harrie-”
”What?” She paused, but didn't turn.
”If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.”
She glanced behind her, strands of hair catching on the strap of the insulated case and on the shoulder loops of her leathers. ”What if I meet the Devil?”
She let the Concours glide through the curves of the long descent to Hoover Dam, a breather after the hard straight push from Phoenix, and considered her options. She'd have to average near enough a hundred sixty clicks an hour to make the run on time. It should be smooth sailing; she'd be surprised if she saw another vehicle between Boulder City and Tonopah.
She'd checked out a backup dosimeter before she left Phoenix, just in case. Both clicked softly as she crossed the dam and the poisoned river, rea.s.suring her with alert, friendly chatter. She couldn't pause to enjoy the expanse of blue on her right side or the view down the escarpment on the left, but the dam was in pretty good shape, all things considered.
It was more than you could say for Vegas.
Once upon a time-she downs.h.i.+fted as she hit the steep grade up the north side of Black Canyon, sweat already soaking her hair-once upon a time a delivery like this would have been made by aircraft. There were places where it still would be. Places where there was money for fuel, money for airstrip repairs.
Places where most of the aircraft weren't parked in tidy rows, poisoned birds lined up beside poisoned runways, hot enough that you could hear the dosimeters clicking as you drove past.
A runner's contract was a h.e.l.l of a lot cheaper. Even when you charged the way Patch charged.
Sunlight glinted off the Colorado River so far below, flas.h.i.+ng red and gold as mirrors. Crumbling casino on the right, now, and the canyon echoing the purr of the sleek black bike. The asphalt was spider webbed but still halfway smooth smooth enough for a big bike, anyway. A big bike cruising at a steady ninety kph, much too fast if there was anything in the road. Something skittered aside as she thought it, a grey blur instantly lost among the red and black blurs of the receding rock walls on either side. Bighorn sheep. n.o.body'd bothered to tell them to clear out before the wind could make them sick.
Funny thing was, they seemed to be thriving.
Harrie leaned into the last curve, braking in and accelerating out just to feel the tug of g-forces, and gunned it up the straightaway leading to the checkpoint at Boulder City. A red light flashed on a peeling steel pole beside the road. The Kawasaki whined and buzzed between her thighs, displeased to be restrained, then gentled as she eased the throttle, mindful of dust.
Houses had been knocked down across the top of the rise that served as host to the guard's s.h.i.+elded quarters, permitting an unimpeded view of Boulder City stretching out below. The bulldozer that had done the work slumped nearby, rusting under bubbled paint, too radioactive to be taken away. Too radioactive even to be melted down for salvage.
Boulder City had been affluent once. Harrie could see the husks of trendy businesses on either side of Main Street: brick and stucco buildings in red and taupe, some whitewashed wood frames peeling in slow curls, submissive to the desert heat.
The gates beyond the checkpoint were closed and so were the lead shutters on the guard's shelter. A digital sign over the roof gave an ambient radiation reading in the mid double digits and a temperature reading in the low triple digits, Fahrenheit. It would get hotter-and ”hotter”-as she descended into Vegas.
Harrie dropped the side stand as the Kawasaki rolled to a halt, and thumbed her horn.
The young man who emerged from the shack was surprisingly tidy, given his remote duty station. Cap set regulation, boots s.h.i.+ny under the dust. He was still settling his breathing filter as he climbed down red metal steps and trotted over to Harrie's bike. Harrie wondered who he'd p.i.s.sed off to draw this duty, or if he was a novelist who had volunteered.
”Runner,” she said, her voice echoing through her helmet mike. She tapped the ID card visible inside the windowed pocket on the breast of her leathers, tugged her papers from the pouch on her tank with a clumsy gloved hand and unfolded them inside their transparent carrier. ”You're supposed to gas me up for the run to Tonopah.”
”You have an independent filter or just the one in your helmet?” All efficiency as he perused her papers. ”Independent.”
”Visor up, please.” He wouldn't ask her to take the helmet off. There was too much dust. She complied, and he checked her eyes and nose against the photo ID.
”Angharad Crowther. This looks in order. You're with UPS?”
”Independent contractor,” Harrie said. ”It's a medical run.”
He turned away, gesturing her to follow, and led her to the pumps. They were shrouded in plastic, one diesel and one unleaded. ”Is that a Connie?”
”A little modified so she doesn't buzz so much.” Harrie petted the gas tank with a gloved hand. ”Anything I should know about between here and Tonopah?”
He shrugged. ”You know the rules, I hope.”