8456893456983

But you couldn’t always have steak. Sometimes you had to settle for bean sprouts and tofu. At least
they kept body and soul together until you could butcher the next cow.
Except psychic tofu and bean sprouts hadn’t kept Tommy the Truck’s body and soul together, had
they?
“There used to be more steam,” Crow said.
“Don’t be daft. That’s like the rubes saying that fifty years ago people were more neighborly. It’s a
myth, and I don’t want you spreading it around. People are nervous enough already.”
“You know me better than that. And I don’t think it is a myth, darlin. If you think about it, it
stands to reason. Fifty years ago there was more of everything—oil, wildlife, arable land, clean air.
There were even a few honest politicians.”
“Yes!” Rose cried. “Richard Nixon, remember him? Prince of the Rubes?”
But he wouldn’t go chasing up this false trail. Crow might be a bit lacking in the vision
department, but he was rarely distracted. That was why he was her second. He might even have a
point. Who was to say that humans capable of providing the nourishment the True needed weren’t
dwindling, just like schools of tuna in the Pacific?
“You better bust open one of the canisters, Rosie.” He saw her eyes widen and raised a hand to stop
her from speaking. “Nobody’s saying that out loud, but the whole family’s thinking about it.”
Rose had no doubt they were, and the idea that Tommy had died of complications resulting from
malnutrition had a certain horrid plausibility. When steam was in short supply, life grew hard and
lost its savor. They weren’t vampires from one of those old Hammer horror pictures, but they still
needed to eat.
“And how long since we’ve had a seventh wave?” Crow asked.
He knew the answer to that, and so did she. The True Knot had limited precognitive skills, but
when a truly big rube disaster was approaching—a seventh wave—they all felt it. Although the
details of the attack on the World Trade Center had only begun to clarify for them in the late summer
of 2001, they had known something was going to happen in New York City for months in advance. She
could still remember the joy and anticipation. She supposed hungry rubes felt the same way when
they smelled a particularly savory meal cooking in the kitchen.
There had been plenty for everybody that day, and in the days following. There might only have
been a couple of true steamheads among those who died when the Towers fell, but when the disaster
was big enough, agony and violent death had an enriching quality. Which was why the True was
drawn to such sites, like insects to a bright light. Locating single rube steamheads was far more
difficult, and there were only three of them now with that specialized sonar in their heads: Grampa
Flick, Barry the Chink, and Rose herself.
She got up, grabbed a neatly folded boatneck top from the counter, and pulled it over her head. As
always, she looked gorgeous in a way that was a bit unearthly (those high cheekbones and slightly
tipped eyes) but extremely sexy. She put her hat back on and gave it a tap for good luck. “How many
full canisters do you think are left, Crow?”
He shrugged. “A dozen? Fifteen?”
“In that neighborhood,” she agreed. Better that none of them knew the truth, not even her second.
The last thing she needed was for the current unease to become outright panic. When people
panicked, they ran in all directions. If that happened, the True might disintegrate.
Meanwhile, Crow was looking at her, and closely. Before he could see too much, she said, “Can you
four-wall this place tonight?”
“You kidding? With the price of gas and diesel what it is, the guy who owns it can’t fill half his
spots, even on weekends. He’ll jump at the chance.”
“Then do it. We’re going to take canister steam. Spread the word.”