Lunch was set up on the same table that Jojo had breakfasted at. When Farkas and Jojo returned to the house—Jojo still panting at the slight exertion of keeping up with his rather slow-moving host—they found Mrs. Farkas seated at the head of the table looking at the two men as if they were children who had come late when called. "Hi dear," said Farkas. "Hello, darling," said Mrs. Farkas. "Just been showing Mr. Jojo here around." "Very nice," said Mrs. Farkas in a "big fucking deal" tone of voice.

"Very impressive," said Jojo. It was plain to him that Mrs. Farkas was the power to be reckoned with around the slave farm. Her position to her husband was not unlike his own relation to Leatherman. Leather, like Farkas, had to appear to make the decisions, he had to give the orders, take the praise, be looked upon with fear and trembling, while it was the brainy, if less impressive looking types like Jojo and Mrs. Farkas who actually held the empires together. Jojo and Mrs. Farkas eyed one another and each knew that the other was thinking the same thing. They were of the same type, those two, each cut from the same cloth. As long as there were smart, ruthless people like Jojo and Madame Farkas around, the evil dominion of the continent and all the riches it produced would continue. Without people like them, people like Farkas and Leatherman were doomed.

Mr. Farkas had pulled out all the stops for the luncheon she was about to serve to Jojo. The table was spread with a host of pre-bomb delicacies that were almost unheard of in those days. Only the richest men could afford to lay out the rare canned food that the old Americans had taken for granted.

Jojo was not unaware of the honor that was being done him and he appreciated it. The bad temper of the previous night and the strain of the confrontation over breakfast that morning vanished as course followed sumptuous course. Mrs. Farkas was behaving much as Jojo would have had he been entertaining powerful guests that he wanted something from. Flatter them, indulge their greatest appetites and weaknesses. In Jojo's case, food. Of course, they all knew that if you couldn't get what you wanted through polite means, there was always torture and finally, of course, murder. But no one would dare harm Jojo without risking war with Leatherman.

The first course was placed before him and Jojo looked at it with interest. It was a white and red mixture, a sort of stew that he had never seen before. The smell drifted up to his nose and he couldn't wait to try it.

"What's this?" he asked.

Farkas smiled. It was one of his treasures from the pre-bomb larder. He had looked many times at the faded label.

"They're called Spaghetti-0's," said Mrs. Farkas. "I believe that we own the last cans of them on the continent."

Jojo slurped them down. Ambrosia. "Delish," he said, looking around to see if there were any more.

Mrs. Farkas noted his interest and gestured to a slave to bring more. There were only a few cans left and they were more than likely to vanish into the all-consuming maw of Jojo's busy mouth.

After three cans, the second course was announced. Placed in front of Jojo this time was a steaming pile of canned beef stew.

"Ahhhh," said Farkas with the air of a connoisseur, "Dinty Moore ..."

The third course was the best yet, to Jojo's way of thinking. The Farkas' slaves trotted out the strangest looking foods he had ever seen.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

"We're not sure," said Farkas. "Except that the labels say: Chun-King Chow Mein. And that one is something called Chop Suey."

"Never heard of it," said Jojo.

"They made Chinese swing American," said Mrs. Farkas quoting from the label, as if she knew what it meant.

Side dishes of urine-colored string beans and peas were placed here and there around the table.

"Fresh from the can," said Farkas.

With dessert—"Fluffernutter," explained Mrs. Farkas—came a little light entertainment.

"These were the slaves I thought you might be interested in," said Farkas. Slowly the overseers trotted out the residents of Almost Normal. They differed from the slaves that Jojo was used to seeing. It was like night and day. The men, the women, the children, were tall and strong, looking straight at Jojo and the Farkas without fear. It disconcerted Jojo slightly.

"Home grown?" he asked.

"Of course," lied Madame Farkas easily, hoping that Jojo wouldn't recognize any of the Almost Normals from the slave train he had accompanied in the day before.

"Strong, healthy, and some of 'em are mighty good lookin'," put in Farkas.

"I can see that," said Jojo. They were the finest looking slaves he had seen in a long time. There was something different about this set of people that struck him as totally out of line with the slaves he was used to seeing. How could he have known that it was a simply diet of freedom, hard work for themselves and their families and their friends, years of determining their own future, making their own mistakes, savoring their own triumphs, that had raised these people strong and proud. They were the true descendants of the people who had once dwelt on the now split and tortured continent. It had been people like them that had built a nation. And if the nation was to return, it would be people like them that would rebuild it.

Jojo belched, savoring the mixture of gasses that flowed out of his belly. "Expensive," he asked.

Farkas laughed. "Of course."

Jojo looked at the slaves then looked beyond them. His eyes settled on a figure who was striding across the parade ground. It was one of his Radleps. And he was carrying some heavy burden slung over his shoulder.

Farkas followed the line of his guest's gaze. The 'lep pushed his way through the assembled slaves and carefully lay the dead 'lep at the feet of the masters of creation.

Farkas, his wife, and Jojo looked at the dead 'lep's hideous head wound. The 'lep who had found his fallen comrade spoke for all of them.

"Boss," he said, speaking to Jojo, ignoring Farkas, "we got troubles ..."

Up in the hills, Bonner and the Lash of the Little People were preparing for war. Weapons were cleaned, checked and cleaned again. Sights were carefully aligned, ammo belts gone over with meticulous care to see that every round was properly packed. Once the Lash and their leader were within the compound there would be no time for a jammed gun, a misspent round. Every bullet would count. As it was, a lot of the little guys knew they wouldn't be coming back. But had Floyd or Bonner said that any one of them could back out then, no questions asked, no disgrace incurred, not one of the tiny fighters would have taken the deal. They were positively panting to get into the fight, to shed the blood of their enemies.

Bonner was ready. His shotgun was cleaned and oiled, his Steyr loaded, his knives strapped into place. He would have liked to go over the engine of his war wagon a little, but no one could do any tuning, for fear of attracting attention. The one thing he hadn't done was decide what to do with Bobby and Emily. He would like to have left them in the hills, but there was no guarantee that he could stop to rescue them as they all hauled ass out of the valley. No one, not even the most optimistic Lashman, could pretend that they were going to do anything more than make a lightning raid on the slave farm. They certainly could never capture it, leave alone hold it. They were going to go in, the little guys were going to steal as much as they could, Bonner was going to spring the slaves and then they were all going to get the hell out of there.

"Course, we'll set fire to the place," said Floyd.

"Course," said Bonner.

So what to do with the kids? He would like to have left them in the care of the Mean Brother. But Bonner couldn't do that again, not this time. Once the Mean was inside nothing was going to stop him looking for his brother. Nothing, except a direct order from Bonner, and Bonner didn't have the heart to give it. The kids, it seemed, were on their own. Bobby had demonstrated that he could take care of himself, but Emily? Bobby would have to look after his sister.

Bonner gave his Hi Standard to Bobby. "Use it," he said.

"I will," said Bobby. Bonner could tell by the look in his eye that the kid meant what he said.

Floyd ambled up and looked at the sky. "We go in as soon as it's dark, right?"

"Right," said Bonner.

"Given a thought to how we get through the gates?"

"Figured we'd ram 'em," said Bonner.

"We can't afford to get hung up outside, ya know. We gotta get in and start blastin'. If we get trapped outside them towers are gonna pour shot down on us like all fuckin' get out."

"Figure your war horse'll go through them gates?" asked Bunny who was standing nearby eavesdropping.

"She has to," said Bonner.

"You could use some sorta ram on the nose of that thing."

"Too late for that," said Bonner.

The Mean Brother thought otherwise, and without anyone noticing, he stole out the camp. He was gone for an hour or so, and when he returned, he carried on his back a huge old wrought iron gate, the kind that men like the ones that lived in houses like the one Farkas now occupied used to have on the driveways of their homes. The Mean Brother had trekked over to the neighboring plantation, now in ruins, found the gate, with its heavy, evil pointed spikes on top and carried back. If a ram was needed to reunite him with his brother, then he would find one.

Bonner smiled when he saw what the Mean Brother had found. "Good work," he said.

The Mean shrugged. A two-mile walk with a couple of hundred pounds of old iron on his back was not that big a deal to him.

He laid the gate across the hood of Bonner's car; the rusty spikes projected beyond the prow of the car a good three feet. Together, Bonner and the Mean lashed the ornate, deadly looking ironwork to the hood with rope. Bonner's car had never looked quite so unstoppable—or deadly.

"Still worried?" Bonner asked Bunny.

Bunny's rheumy blue eyes looked over the car, starting with fifty caliber in the stern and ending with the forest of spikes that thrust forward from the bow.

"Nope," he said.

The camp settled down to wait for the day light to fade and bring on the killing night.

* * * * *

The discovery of the dead 'lep had sent a shiver through the slave farm. Mrs. Farkas had sworn to herself. Things were going so good and then this had to happen. She could smell money—she knew that Jojo had tens of thousands of slates in his truck and she wanted them. Now, she thought, the fat fuck was spooked. He'd never deal now. All he wanted to do was get out of there, and he was demanding a huge escort—one so large that if there were any marauders up in the hills they would be able to walk in and take the slave farm if her husband acquiesced to Jojo's demands and sent most. of the Devils out with Jojo's column.

"Man," shrieked Jojo, "do you know what that is?" He pointed at the dead lep. "Ferchrissakes, that was a Psycholep. A Psycholep! There is nothing meaner or tougher, do you read me on that? Nothing. Whoever is out there, man, is a fucking killer. I say again, there is no worse animal than a Psycholep!"

Except for the gent that parted his head, thought Mrs. Farkas, a little unkindly.

"Look," said Farkas soothingly. "You go take a nap ..."

"A NAP!" screamed Jojo, as if unable to believe his ears.

"Yeah, you go take a snooze. I'll send some boys out to look around. If there's anybody out there, they'll take care of it."

"It ain't just anybody out there," said Jojo, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. "It's Bonner and who knows what freaks he has with him." 

"My boys can take care of anybody." 

Jojo folded his arms over his tits and looked at Farkas as if he was crazy. "Sure," he said.

"Look—take a nap. Then we'll have a bite to eat, and then we'll put on a really great show for you." "Spaghetti-Os?" asked Jojo hopefully. 

"Yeah, yeah," said Farkas, "anything you want." 

What a pair of morons, thought Mrs. Farkas.

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