CHAPTER 29

GUNNY ALECTO, a garbage-galleon driver, came into the shack that served as the manager’s office, sat on the edge of Nick Frigg’s desk, and said, “Rain rail rape raid rag rascal rack.”

Nick didn’t reply. She was just having trouble getting started; and if he tried to guess the word for which she was searching, he would only further confuse her.

“Rabid race rabble rap rat. Rat!” She had found the wanted noun. “Have you noticed about the rats?”

“What about them?”

“What about who?”

“The rats, Gunny.”

“Did you notice, too?”

“Notice what?”

“The rats are gone,” she said.

“Gone where?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“Asking me what?”

“Where are the rats?”

“We’ve always got rats,” Nick said.

She shook her head. “Not here. Not now. No more.”

Gunny looked like a movie star, except dirty. Nick didn’t know why Victor had made her gorgeous and then assigned her to the dump. Maybe the contrast between her looks and her work amused him. Maybe he had modeled her after one of the Old Race who had rejected him or had otherwise earned his resentment.

“Why don’t you go out there and look for elephants,” Gunny suggested.

“What’re you talking about—elephants?”

“You’re as likely to find them as rats. Plowin’ the trash, I usually chase up packs of them all the time, but I haven’t seen one in three days.”

“Maybe they’re just making their burrows deeper in the pit as we fill it fuller.”

“So we got five?” Gunny asked.

“Five rats?”

“I heard five Old Race dead came in today.”

“Yeah. Plus three dead gone-wrongs,” Nick said.

“Some fun tonight,” she said. “Man, it’s hot today.”

“Louisiana summer, what do you expect.”

“I’m not complaining,” she said. “I like the sun. I wish there was sun at night.”

“It wouldn’t be night if there was sun.”

“That’s the problem,” Gunny agreed.

Communicating with Gunny Alecto could be a challenge. She had looks, and she was as good a garbage-galleon driver as anyone, but her thought processes, as revealed by her conversation, didn’t always track in a linear fashion.

Everyone in the New Race had a rank. At the top were the Alphas, the ruling elite. They were followed by Betas and Gammas.

As manager of the dump, Nick was a Gamma. Everyone on his crew was an Epsilon.

Epsilons had been designed and programmed for brute labor. They were a step or two above the meat machines without self-awareness that one day would replace many factory robots.

No class envy was permitted among those of the New Race. Each had been programmed to be content with the rank to which he had been born and to have no yearning for advancement.

It remained permissible, of course, to disdain and feel superior to those who ranked below you. Contempt for one’s inferiors provided a healthy substitute for dangerous ambition.

Epsilons like Gunny Alecto didn’t receive the wealth of direct-to-brain data downloading given to a Gamma like Nick, just as he received less than any Beta, and far less than any Alpha.

In addition to being less well-educated than the other ranks, Epsilons sometimes seemed to have cognitive problems that indicated their brains were not as carefully crafted as the brains of the upper classes.

“Goat goof gopher goon golf goose gone. Gone! Gone-wrongs. We got three, you said. What’re they like?”

“I haven’t seen them yet,” Nick said.

“They’ll be stupid-looking.”

“I’m sure they will.”

“Stupid-looking gone-wrongs. Some fun tonight.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Nick said, which was true.

“Where do you think they went?”

“The deliverymen put them in the cooler.”

“The rats?” she asked, puzzled.

“I thought you meant the gone-wrongs.”

“I meant the rats. I miss the little fellers. You don’t think we’ve got cats, do you?”

“I haven’t seen any cats.”

“That would explain no rats,” she said. “But if you haven’t seen any, that’s good enough for me.”

If Gunny had been required to live among members of the Old Race, she might not have passed for one of them—or might have been designated mentally disabled.

As a member of the Crosswoods crew, however, she had no life outside the dump. She lived within its gates twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with a bunk in one of the trailers that served as dormitories.

In spite of her problems, she was an excellent dozer pilot, and Nick was glad to have her.

Getting up from the edge of Nick’s desk, Gunny said, “Well, back to the pit—and then some fun tonight, huh?”

“Some fun tonight,” he agreed.