NEAL STEPHENSON

And finally, there is a guy that Y.T. dubs the High Priest. He’s wearing a formerly white lab coat, bearing the logo of some company in the Bay Area. He’s sacked out in the back of a dead station wagon, but when Y.T. enters the area he jumps up and runs toward her in a way that she can’t help but find a little threatening. But compared to these others, he seems almost like a regular, healthy, fit, demented bush-dwelling psychotic.

“You’re here to pick up a suitcase, right?”

“I’m here to pick up something. I don’t know what it is,” she says.

He goes over to one of the dead cars, unlocks the hood, pulls out an aluminum briefcase. It looks exactly like the one that Squeaky took out of the BMW last night. “Here’s your delivery,” he says, striding toward her. She backs away from him instinCtively.

“I understand, I understand,” he says. “I’m a scary creep.”

He puts it on the ground, puts his foot on it, gives it a shove. It slides across the pavement to Y.T., bouncing off the occasional

“There’s no big hurry on this delivery,” he says. ‘Would you like to stay and have a drink? We’ve got I(ool-Aid.”

“I’d love to,” Y.T. says, “but my diabetes is acting up real bad.”

‘Well, then you can just stay and be a guest of our community. We have a lot of wonderful things to tell you about. Things that could really change your life.”

“Do you have anything in writing? Something I could take with me?”

“Gee, I’m afraid we don’t. Why don’t you stay. You seem like a really nice person.”

“Sorry, Jack, but you must be confusing me with a bimbo,” Y.T. says. “Thanks for the suitcase. I’m out of here.”

,Y.T. starts digging at the pavement with one foot, building up speed as fast as she can. On her way out, she passes by a young woman with a shaved head, dressed in the dirty and haggard remains of a Chanel knockoff. As Y.T. goes by her, she smiles vacantly, sticks out her hand, and waves. “Hi,” she says. “ba ma zu na la amu pa go lu ne me a ba du.”

“Yo,” Y.T. says.

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