A Princess of The Linear Jungle

secure one from the WMA-approved ranks. Seems the Wharton Medical Association doesn’t license its members to practice out-of-Borough. I suppose I could’ve scouted for a competent sawbones in Hakelight or elsewhere. No guarantee of success there either, though. But then I thought, we don’t need a brain surgeon for this romp, just someone reasonably competent in first aid. So I hit upon your old Borough-mate here. I like his character. He made a mistake in his choice of pals when he was starting his career, but he was blinded by his quest for knowledge. We can all empathize with that, I think. And he didn’t rat out his friends or plead ignorance. He’s smart, and he just needs a chance to rehabilitate himself, which this expedition can offer. Plus, he’s a big bruiser who looks like he can take care of himself in a punch-up. I want to bring him onboard. Do you object?”
    Merritt studied Ransome Pivot’s pared-down lineaments. She sensed that all his boyish bumblepuppy innocence had been burned away, leaving him wiser and humbler, with a core of suffering. How could she refuse?
    “No, of course not, Arturo.”
    Cady Rachis spoke in her torch singer’s throaty purr. “You won’t have cause to regret our presence, dear.”
    Merritt turned google-eyed toward Arturo, who had the good graces at least to look chagrined.
    “Sex appeal and show business, Mer! The final touch! ‘Gorgeous nightclub singer lulls savages with song!’ Can’t you just see the headlines?”
    Merritt fumed silently for a moment, then burst out laughing. She raised her champagne flute and said, “Vayavirunga, beware!”

    The spanking-new cherry-colored and impeller-powered charabanc from Roger Kynard & Progeny was easily eighteen feet long, and featured six rows of padded bench seats.
    A hired uniformed driver occupied the first row behind the steering wheel.
    The second bench hosted Arturo Scoria, Durian Vinnagar and Merritt, with Merritt in the middle as buffer between the rivals.
    In the third rank sat Ransome Pivot and Cady Rachis, holding hands.
    Balsam Troutwine lolled alone in the fourth row with easy imperiousness.
    The last two benches were jammed with six bike messenger boys, looking like a family of slightly disreputable cousins.
    The well-stuffed, strapped-down boot of the charabanc was laden with essential items which Scoria felt uncertain of purchasing in Hakelight.
    The charabanc could make fifteen miles-per-hour with no strain. So whereas the Samuel Smallhorne needed twelve hours to traverse the hundred Blocks of a Borough (and so had set out two days ago), the motorcar could cover that same distance in under two hours. Thus, the trip from Block 70 in Wharton, through the adjacent Borough of Colglazier, and right up to the Wall at the Downtown end of Hake-light, could theoretically be traversed in under six hours. But Scoria had determined they should proceed more slowly, to allow the maximum publicity and attention from crowds along the way.
    If the turnout now lining both sides of Broadway here in Wharton was any accurate indication, their slow progress would be justified. The crowds tooted horns and threw confetti and shouted good luck messages.
    Dan Peart stood alongside the charabanc, straddling his beloved Calloway Tempesta. The empty seat beside Troutwine had been reserved for him, but he had declined.
    “Got to stretch the old hamstrings. Won’t get a chance when we’re wading through those damn weeds.”
    Mayor Milorad Hastings of Wharton gave a brief, albeit pompous speech, President Ogallala fired a compressed-air starter’s pistol with a loud pop! , and the expedition was off!
    Merritt considered how her departure from Wharton compared to her arrival, and was not displeased with what she had accomplished so far in her young life.
    Arturo Scoria was standing up in the moving vehicle, waving boisterously to the crowd. Merritt yanked him down. He boldly kissed her, evoking a tongue-clucking from Vinnagar.
    Merritt turned around and stuck out a sliver of tongue at Cad Rachis.
    So far, so fine!

7.
    INTO VAYAVIRUNGA!

    DAN PEART TOSSED ANOTHER NAIL-STUDDED WASTE PLANK into the dancing flames contained in the big battered metal oil drum, sending a gout of sparks leaping upward into the night sky. Merritt thought to see a Pompatic swooping unnaturally low over their camp. The sight made her shiver, but she tried not to interpret it as an ill omen. Death was the one unavoidable outcome for everyone, and