“Yo, pound sand!” snapped Lazaro. “I voted for Tucker, too, you know, and I’m not some crazed redneck you can just ...” He trailed off suddenly and looked around—as if for approval—but nobody said a word.
“—on the face of it,” finished Nigel, succinctly. He looked at Mr. Fantastic and then at me. “And you know it as well as I do.”
I looked out through the long, narrow windshield: at the armed, thickset men—most of them were at last partially overweight—and their dirty, dark-colored trucks; at the poised rifles and trained, glinting machine g*n, the rocket launcher with its big, tank-killing warhead.
Mr. Fantastic, meanwhile, had gotten back into his seat. “What’s it going to be, Jamie?”
I unbuckled my harness and leaned forward, elbows on my knees—began rubbing my temples.
At last I s
