The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Fourteen

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When a new world is terraformed, after the major considerations are successfully taken care of – increasing gravity, beefing up the Van Allen belt, adding or adjusting atmosphere and aquasphere into something more-or-less like Earth-That-Was – standard procedure wais to seed the planet with a variety of flora and fauna to create that world’s new biosphere. Because as much fun as breathing and drinking and not dying from radiation poisoning are, human beings need to be able to eat to thrive – and that takes some sort of complete biosphere. The Chief of Biospheric Mechanics (or some similarly titled Company official) was in charge of rigorously studying the emerging world’s specifics and then going back through the extensive genetic database that was among the most important legacies of Earth-That-Was. Comparing ground conditions on the world to the wide range of original Terran biospheres, he or she would carefully calculate what flora would thrive, in consideration of sunlight, atmo pressure and composition, climate, and soil chemistry. Once that was determined, he or she would start introducing those plants into the world, a few at a time, in several miniature biospheric laboratories. Eventually a substantial number of “winners” would be found. Those winners would be propagated in the Company labs and spread by indentured hand or robot, all around the globe. Usually a biosphere would start, as Earth-That-Was once did, with the simplest of organisms: lichens on land surfaces, and algae in marine systems, with a healthy dose of friendly and helpful bacteria pretty much everywhere. After a few years of the most primitive of life forms ruling the world, a number of selected plant species, artificially engineered for rapid growth and laden with fertilizers, would be seeded around the globe, followed closely by insect species deemed helpful to the quickly-evolving biosphere. Despite their “winner” status in laboratories, not all the plants thrived everywhere – regional variations in soil chemistry, water tables and other microclimatic issues regularly weeded out the weaklings among the floral colonists, while allowing others to thrive. The survivors were not always the ones predicted to thrive, however, and so to hedge their bets the Chief of Biospheric Mechanics would often include some long shots among the staples and standards of shake-and-bake terraformation – because sometimes long shots pay off big. The hardest aspect of Biospheric engineering was, of course, the complete lack of real topsoil. Most moons and planets worthy of terraformation had poor atmos (those that had them at all) and in many ways the Chief was working with a blank canvass. The first twenty years of post-atmo terraformation was a long and grueling process of introducing carbon-based matter into the dry, sterile soils, watering them as liberally as conditions allowed, in order to coax them into life. Sometimes, they got lucky. A world like Epiphany, small, sandy, with a healthy mix of soil chemicals and a comfortable amount of solar illumination, sprang to life like a new Eden, growing topsoil and its attendant flora faster than could be planned for. Within a generation lush jungles would arise from the naked lunar soils, and a broad range of new species, flora and fauna alike, could be added to the new world. The more species, the better – biodiversity was the hallmark of a sustainable world. And then you had worlds like Wuhan. Wuhan was a moon that was just a little too far away from its sun. The solar disk at the equator at noon was just over half the size of that of Sol from Earth, and while the star was significantly brighter, it was also frequently obscured by cloud cover. Only the close proximity of the local gas giant – also frequently obscured by cloud cover, but providing sufficient heat radiation to keep the atmo tolerably warm – made up for the sun’s distance. And then only just. Wuhan had one decent highland, and one long, low, shallow sea that served as reservoir for the aquasphere, such as it was. While the rest of it rose and fell in no particular pattern, it was essentially one long plain ranging from subarctic wastelands to increasingly fertile temperate steppes. It was, therefore, no surprise when a variety of plains grasses and shrubs grudgingly took root there two centuries ago. Had the soils been slightly less alkaline, and slightly more damp, the world may have greened pleasantly. Instead the fertile areas, even after two hundred years of organic material turning into topsoil, were scarce and coveted. Oats grew there, as did some hearty wheats and barleys. But not very well. The sea was likewise more alkaline than was preferred, and while heroic attempts had been made to create some kind of aquaculture industry over the years, if you wanted fish on Wuhan you got it from a concrete fish farm and paid dearly for the treat. The sea did sprout an apron of forest around its edges, and bamboo was especially prolific in the lower valleys around it. Horticulture on Wuhan was overall a disappointment. At the time of its terraformation, the Imperial Yuanese family had invested considerable resources in it. But unlike its motherworld, fertile Yuan, or its lunar cousin, lush T’ien, Wuhan in general was undesirable as a new homeworld. Cultural and racial minorities who had little chance of thriving in larger populations came there – reluctantly – to set up a new life. During the brutal regime of the Tyrant, Shang Yu, it was a place for political prisoners and exiles, included in the Empire but hardly of the Empire. Its austere surroundings could be beautiful, especially in the single E'xiang mountain range, which attracted a certain sort of ascetic religious community. The Imperial Army found also found it an ideal training camp. Otherwise it was an arid, cold, and completely lackluster world. Life could be sustained. Protein vats could provide the raw materials for basic foodstuffs. Cities could produce factories. But with a climate most like Central Asia or upper North America, hopes for a genuine exportable cash crop to bring hard currency to Wuhan were dim. But then one of those biological long shots paid off, and from a whimsical inclusion of fauna by an inspired Chief of Biospherical Mechanics, Wuhan’s greatest industry was born.

*

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“This is the Museum,” Johnny said, sketching the squarish compound on the map with his forefinger. The map was on the kitchen table, and all the crew save Book (who recused himself from planning, since this was not an altruistic affair that would generate a profit but a nakedly greedy hunt for personal gain) and Inara, who was doing whatever it was Inara did when she had the shuttle door closed. Johnny spoke with authority and confidence that was rarely seen in one so young. Though he was at least three years younger than Lieutenant Hauser, Zoë could realistically see him as a smart, young, capable officer, as opposed to an overgrown boy playing at one. Everyone else took him seriously, too, despite his overly polite demeanor – perhaps it was the fact that he had been a killer of men at one point. Zoe could tell. A long history of war, coupled with an equally long history of crime, had led her to the conclusion that a man couldn’t take a life without getting a certain look in his eye. It wasn’t meanness, and it wasn’t necessarily regret. It was a simultaneous recognition of personal power and personal frailty. It was the realization that you were, indeed, responsible for taking a life, and your life could be likewise taken. Mal had it, of course, as did Jayne. Preacher had it, though it was softer, more contemplative. Wash had begun to develop it a little since the torture-and-rescue festivities on Niska’s Skyplex. It was not something he was comfortable with – he still woke up in cold sweats, screaming, from time to time. Simon was bereft of it entirely, as was Kaylee. Inara . . . that was harder. She was as difficult to read as anyone Zoe had ever met, and any conclusions she could draw were just as likely to be the result of purposeful deception as acute observation. Except where the Captain was concerned, of course. On that subject alone Zoe was fair certain what her true feelings were. But Johnny Lei had it in spades. The look of confidence you get when you realize that every man you meet, no matter how important or insignificant in the complex hierarchy of society, was just a man of flesh and blood that could be felled with a gunshot or ended by a knife stroke. “The museum was at one time a Taoist monastery, and before that a palace. It’s scenic, but there’s little other reason for it to be there. The nearest village is a far piece away, and the only reason they turned the moldy old tomb into a museum is because the Alliance, as much as they want to hide history, knows that it can’t be erased. It can be controlled, though. This museum is a repository of all the odds and ends of the Imperial Yuanese dynasties. That’s also why it’s in the middle of nowhere.” “Don’t sound like it’s painless to get to,” Jayne remarked. “Exactly,” Johnny agreed. “It’s probably the least-traveled museum in the ‘verse.” “Oh, good,” Wash remarked, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I hate a place when it gets all touristy.” “So I take it we can just land outside of the place, waltz in, guns blazing, waltz out, and on our merry?” Kaylee asked. “Not likely,” Mal said, pointing to the nearest large city. “See this big circle south o’ Huizhou? Old Imperial airbase, now the property of the Alliance Homeguard. Sixteen nasty little Skyviper aerospace fighters, an’ at least eight armed shuttles. Old stuff, but still good enough to eat our lunch if they get called. Which they will, we make an unauthorized landin’. This ain’t the wilds, folks. This is civilized parts.” “Which means we’ll have to land at the Huizhou spaceport and sneak over to the museum in a shuttle,” Kaylee said. “Steal the box, sneak back, and be back in orbit before anyone notices it’s missing.” “That sure is a powerful lot o’ sneakiness,” Jayne complained. “I like the guns blazin’ plan, myself.” “Hands up, who’s surprised?” Wash asked mockingly. Jayne shot him a predictably dirty look. “I like the sneaky stuff,” Zoe commented. “I’m good at it.” “My sweetie’s good at everything,” Wash beamed proudly. “Except for cooking,” he amended. “Couldn’t cook her way out of a Reaver summer camp with a pound of raw human flesh in her hand.” Zoe shot him a predictably dirty look. “In full consideration, I’m thinkin’ the sneaky stuff is like to be our best bet. We land here, and Wash and Kaylee hang back and hawk our wares at the market, resupply, and generally act like Wash and Kaylee. The rest of us, we split up into two teams. Me an’ Zoe, we go play husband and wife on our honeymoon—” “’Cause that worked out so spectacularly well the last time we tried it,” Zoe commented dryly. “This time, I use more tongue when we kiss,” agreed Mal, earning him a predictably dirty look from Wash. “We take available transport across the plains to the museum.” “I ain’t ‘zactly seein’ a comfy land cruiser in your future, am I?” asked Jayne with a mean chuckle. “Not likely, considerin’. But you an’ Johnny follow up just behind with a shuttle, act as our back-up and extraction team. It’s unlikely that this noodle stand’s gonna have high security, for all it’s a museum. But if they raise a ruckus, I want you to pull our asses out.” “What about us?” Zoe asked. “How are we gonna approach the actual take?” “Umm. About that. Most recent picture we dug up on the cortex is five years old, when the museum was re-dedicated after the war. I hear it was quite a do. Junior assistant vice magistrate of Little Zhong Shan was in attendance. Cash bar.” “This is the part where you inspire me with confidence in your intricate plan, Sir.” “Zoe, we’ll improvise. How hard can it be?” Zoe gave Mal a predictably dirty look. “For all you know, place could be crawlin’ with security guards, cameras, motion detectors, a platoon of Feds and the planetary director of Interpol, and we’d be walkin’ into a trap.” “Well, as it happens, yes, that’s true,” Mal admitted. “But we been up against worse odds. Remember the war,” he reminded her. “Remember we lost,” she replied, dryly. “We did?” Mal acted surprised. “Yes, and it was partially ‘cause we were wed to improvisation, ‘stead of plannin’ things out. ‘Course back then we didn’t have much choice.” “Neither do we now. We found the official brochure for the museum, and two literary references to it on the cortex – one of them fictional. It ain’t Central City, Zoe, it’s Bumfuck.” “I’d like to point out we get our asses kicked an awful lot in Bumfuck,” Wash said, earning a predictably dirty look from Mal. “It’ll be as easy as knockin’ over a candy store,” Jayne gloated. “’Cause back in the war, y’all didn’t have on your side the man they call —” “Oh, God, please don’t say it!” Wash begged. “. . . Jayne,” he said with over-exaggerated coolness. “We had our standards,” Zoe said snidely, though in truth she would have rather had Jayne than some of the recruits who got themselves killed for being to scared or too stupid. Jayne was a natural survivor, a cockroach among men. And he knew his trade. “What’s so funny?” “It’s a long and depressing story,” Zoe said with a sigh. “No, it’s pretty simple, actually,” Wash explained. “Mr. Cobb, here, humped up a job out in Bumfuck and by purest dumb luck ended up bein’ made into a folk hero. Even got a song. He’s been even less tolerable to live with than usual since then. So what do you think of the plan, Prince?” “I think it’s a shiny plan,” Johnny said, nodding. “My father always told me not to make things more complicated than they needed to be. This should be simple. Go in at night, disable a few alarms, knock out a few guards, and back in the shuttle, whoosh!” “That’s what I’m thinkin’” Mal murmured. “If that’s the plan, I have to admit, you’ve had worse,” Zoe said, shaking her head. “That’s the plan,” Mal agreed. “In, out, back home in time for supper. What could go wrong?” he asked, innocently, which earned him a predictably dirty look from everyone in the gang. Except for Johnny, who looked purposeful for the first time since he came aboard.

*

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* Sinclair sat quietly in front of the hotel manager’s desk, while Julian paced impatiently back and forth behind him. Where Sinclair was neatly dressed, Julian was disheveled looking, wearing a poorly cut suit a size too small that let the butt of his pistol peek out from underneath his arm. His tie was crooked and limp, his fringe of hair was a little wild, and the buttons on his coffee-stained shirtfront threatened to burst at belly-level at any moment. It was a costume designed to simultaneously put people off their guard – no one expects sloppy-looking men to be competent – and threaten them. Julian’s mannerisms were loud and flamboyant, constantly tinged with anger and frustration. Sinclair, in contrast, was calm and collected. The dichotomy had often served to ferret out the tidbits of information they used to trace their bounties. “Yes, they were here, not a week gone,” the pale-faced manager admitted nervously. “But I thought you gentlemen were here about the shooting.” That caught Julian’s interest. “Shooting?” “Yes, a quadruple homicide. Nasty bit of business. Took days to clean up. We had to replace the carpets – and we had to keep things quiet, too. No need to spread ugly rumors about such an unfortunate incident.” “Four bodies?” Sinclair asked, airily. “Who were they?” Julian demanded. “Four local gangsters,” admitted the manager. “Scum from over in Meridian City. Ordinarily such criminals wouldn’t be allowed in Apex, proper, but they apparently were wearing suits and security waved them through.” “And this took place, where?” Sinclair asked. “Second floor. Two of them were shot at close range in a corridor – just outside the spacers’ rooms, now that I think about it – and two were found dead in the stairwell landing in the basement.” “Shot?” Julian asked. “No, actually. Well, yes, one was, but that wasn’t what killed him. The security report says their necks were broken, or something like that. One had a gangster symbol drawn in blood on his forehead.” The manager shuddered. “Some malevolent underground criminal organization. I can bring in my head of security, if that would be helpful.” “Please,” agreed Sinclair with a smile. The administrator quietly left the office. “Four bodies?” Sinclair asked, eyebrows raised, when the door was closed. “Something stinks here,” agreed Julian. “Right outside . . . he did say ‘spacer’, didn’t he?” Sinclair checked his notes, scanning quickly across the page. “Yes, according to the report, one Malcolm Reynolds. Says he was out of his room when it happened. Captains a Firefly that was getting re-cored in orbit. Riding around with some rich playboy called . . . Simon Smith.” Sinclair looked up. “Sound familiar?” “Simon’s a pretty common name. That ‘writing on his forehead with blood’ thing, though. That sound familiar?” “Well, we knew they were here from the game biometrics.” “And they were here a week ago. And were riding along on this Firefly – at least when they got here. I think we should check—” He was interrupted by the Security chief, a no-nonsense ex-military type with a lantern jaw and a brush of close-cropped hair. The man introduced himself as Detective Uhl, and took the administrator’s desk without a moment’s hesitation. “Gentlemen, let me be frank,” he began after the ritual bowing was over. “My employer – the Company – has taken great pains to cover up this unfortunate and regrettable incident, and would like to beg your cooperation in ensuring that it receives as little public attention as possible.” “We’ll see what we can do,” Julian said, gruffly. “The manager said something about local gangs?” “The local Tong. Petty criminals, pimps, and thugs, mostly. They usually stay confined to the worker areas, but occasionally a few make it out. Like these four,” he said, nodding to four rough-looking Sinic faces that now hovered over the desk in holographic splendor. “All four are minor thugs, hatchet men and petty enforcers with Yellow Ribbon – that’s the Tong. I’ve been expecting trouble from that quarter since the old boss died half a year ago – power struggle, that sort of thing. Right now they’re having a real shootin’ war, some dispute betwixt the Tong and the temples – but this was a little outside my expectation.” “Does that mark say the White Lotus Society?” Julian asked, squinting as he studied the corpse’s holographic head. “Yes, yes sir it does. Which is highly unusual. White Lotus would be far, far from their territory. And they’d make a bigger show about it – not just kill him and leave him in a stairwell. Now, I won’t say that an individual with a grudge may have been pursuing vengeance – that happens all the time in those circles – but they wouldn’t invoke their Tong name like that without orders.” “Interesting,” Sinclair said, taking notes. “What do you know about this fella, Reynolds?” Uhl shrugged. “Little enough. Captain of a Firefly transport. Pulled in for repairs, and to let the rich young snot on board spend some quality time with his money. Treated the whole damn crew to a vacation, from what I can tell. Reynolds, I interviewed him myself. Big man. Ex-Independent. Browncoat infantry sergeant.” “When did that boat leave?” asked Julian adamantly. “And where was it headed?” Sinclair added. “It left six days ago. No regular flight plan filed – seemed in keeping with them, you ask me. Mr. Smith wanted complete privacy. Wanted to make sure word of his presence here didn’t leak back to his kin in the Core. Wouldn’t even say where he was from, he was so touchy. But he’s got that stink of old money and privilege about him.” “He keep anyone close to him?” “Girlfriend,” admitted Uhl. “Rim girl. Nice. I can see why he likes her.” “He meet with anyone else while he was here?” “Let’s see – one of the sales agents, hotel and restaurant staff, oh, and he met with one of the senior partners, I think. Part of the sales presentation.” “Anyway you could arrange ten minutes of time with him?” Julian quizzed. “Just want to see if he dropped a hint as to where he was headed.” “I can make some waves,” Uhl said cautiously. “But you’re talking about one of my bosses.” “See if he’ll indulge me,” Julian insisted. “And no word of this to anyone. We’re on the trail of a fugitive, and the last thing I want to see is someone tipping our hand.” “Tipping . . . that reminds me. His maid – I think it was his maid – stayed in her room almost all the time. A few trips to the beach, shopping, but always with someone else. Like she needed an escort. But we did catch her alone, once. She played poker one night – and she’s a damn good player. Took the House for ten thousand or more. Five hands. That’s . . . unusual enough for a pit boss to remember.” “You got security cams in there?” Uhl looked insulted. “Yes, of course. Here,” he said, scanning quickly through his hand-held unit until a washed out view of the hotel casino was floating in miniature on the desk. A quiet night. Blackjack, Roulette, and more sophisticated methods of losing money quick were scattered about. The camera froze at one point, displaying a young raven-haired girl sitting at one of the tables. “Can you expand that?” Julian said, eagerly. Her body became larger, and after an adjusting wave rippled through the hologram she came into focus. River Tam. No doubt about it. “I’m gonna need to see that dealer. And the pitt boss. And . . . the sales agent, the waiter at the restaurant, and the senior partner,” Julian demanded, never taking his eyes off of River. “And I definitely need time with the partner. Make it twenty minutes. And remember: no one must know.” Uhl looked hurt. “Please, gentlemen. On Epiphany, we pride ourselves on our discretion.”

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Long before the descent into Wuhan’s gravity well, Inara’s shuttle peeled off and headed for her client’s yacht. The rest of the crew waited out a rough landing strapped down – Wash apologized for it in advance, but the weather on Wuhan was often turbulent. When they did finally punch through the clouds, a vast gray and brown expanse was laid out in front of them. “This,” said Wash reverently, shaking his head, “is not a fertile land.” “Makes Epiphany look like a resort moon!” Jayne said with a snort as he loomed imposingly over Wash’s boards. “Epiphany is a resort moon,” Wash reminded him. “Yeah, that stands to figger,” Jayne said after a moment’s consideration. The rapidly approaching ground stretched out its arid expanse in every direction, a dull grey-brown mottled with patchy spots of discouraged green. Here and there it was dotted with settlements – villages, towns, and a few cities – but all of them could have fit within the boundaries of the metropolis that they were headed for, and rattled. Huizhou was an old city, site of the original terraforming colony. It was now the administrative and industrial center to the small moon. A large and well-defined industrial region to the east and north, a regimented military reserve to the south, and miles and miles of nothing much at all to the west gave it the look of a city perched on the edge of forever. In the center was a mix of old-style Yuanese architecture and more modern Alliance-era gleaming urban spires. But in a decrepit and uneven ring around that city center was a broad swath of slums. More than half of the population of Wuhan was concentrated in Huizhou, and over half the population of Huizhou was concentrated in those slums. The spaceport was on the western edge of the metropolis, a series of concrete landing pads and circles in the chalky dirt that two hundred years of lift-offs had charred black. The Huizhou market was nearby, snuggled up against the lifeline to other worlds like a clingy child. Wash got permission from Control and found their berth, and in only a few moments Serenity’s insect-like landing legs were touching down. “Whew!” Jayne exclaimed. “What kinda smell is that?” “Big city charm with small town aromas,” Kaylee said, brightly. “Gotta love that.” “No, you really don’t,” Mal said sourly as the full brunt of the smell hit him. “What’s a matter, Cap? Thought you grew up on a ranch?” “Cows don’t smell this bad,” Mal muttered. “Wouldn’t let ‘em on my ship if they did. Don’t fret none, I’ll find my way through it.” “I kinda like it,” Zoe said, perversely. “Smells better’n a three-week old rotting corpse.” “Or a man been drowned for a few days,” agreed Jayne. “Wow, you guys are just all smiles, ain’t you?” Kaylee said, exasperatedly. “I like new places.” “Looks like the same ol’ trashy bazaar t’me,” grunted Jayne. “Seen one on damn near every sorry world on th’Rim.” “Yeah, but this trashy bazaar belongs to a fine metropolis in the heart of the civilized Core,” Wash pointed out. “We’re moving up in the ‘verse.” He had the truth of it, mostly. The market area looked more or less like the Eavesdown docks on Persephone, or the busy Celestine Port market on Boros. Too many people crowded in a small place, trying to engage in commerce with children and animals underfoot, cutpurses at large in the crowds, screaming street vendors, wandering security forces with assault weapons displayed, and more than its share of beggars. The dirt track that ran between landing aprons was littered with garbage and cast-off equipment. There were some differences, though: instead of the usual adobe, wood, and corrugated steel shacks they were used to in such places, the local merchants more often sold their wares out of felt yurts, semi-permanent round tents of Central Asian origin. Each dark brown yurt had a wide doorway and a colorful rug, usually with a young barker who was screaming at the top of their lungs about the magnificence and value of the merchandise within. On the aprons themselves the crews of the ships – mostly tramp freighters and independent transport haulers like Serenity – sold right out of their airlocks. It was a noisy, smelly, ramshackle, bustling place. Serenity and her crew fit right in. “You really think we can unload our cargo here?” Wash asked Zoe, doubtfully. “If not here, might as well junk it,” she admitted. “I vote for ‘junk it’” Jayne said. “Tackiest damn stuff I ever saw.” “Hush,” Kaylee reproved. “I’ll get a good price, just you wait and see!” she said confidently. “I wish Simon was here to see this,” she added quietly. “He’d hate it,” Mal said, rolling his eyes. “You think I complain about the stench? Pretty boy wouldn’t leave his gorram room ‘till we hit sky.” “He’s not that bad,” Kaylee said defensively. “Kayleeboo,” Zoe said, patronizingly, “you been crewmates for close on a year, now. I like the boy, too. But Cap’n’s right on this one. Boy’s sissified.” “He’s just not used to this sorta thing,” she insisted. “Hell, I ain’t rightly used to it my own self. But it’s fun! It’s . . . an adventure!” “Girl gets kidnapped, rescued, nearly raped, and shot at, an’ a trip to th’ gorram market is s’posed t’be some sorta adventure?” Jayne asked incredulously. “Girly, you gotta get your priorities right.” “So this is home,” Johnny said, finally emerging from the ship. “Kinda stinks,” he noted, philosophically. “We were just sayin’ that,” Jayne said. “No offense.” “None taken. It does stink.” “Okay, peoples, we are here on a mission,” Mal said, rubbing his hands together. “Wash, you settle up with the portmaster, pay our dock fees. Kaylee, you take a walk around and try to price our cargo against the competition. Zoe, you have the ship, and me, Jayne, and Johnny are going to get us some groceries. Any requests?” “Toilet paper!” Jayne and Zoe said in the same breath. “Onions, white or Vidalia, and bok choy, if you can find some,” Wash said. “Oh, and Type Three protein base. And shaving cream.” “A hundred feet of three phase electrical wire,” Kaylee said, ticking off her mental list. “A crate of duct tape, a box of electrical tape, two rolls of engine tape, light bulbs – you know the sizes – some glass cleaner, lubricant – no, scratch that, we still got that shiny good stuff we picked up on Sophia – pressure suit patches, rubber gloves in my size and yours, water purification tablets, some salt, some pepper, some sugar, something remotely like coffee, some tea, glue – the permanent sort, not the horse-hoof stuff. And tampons. Super absorbent.” Mal turned to Wash, face red. “You said Vidalias’d do?” Before he could answer, there was a slight rumble, and something that everyone thought was a yurt just across the dirt track rolled over and made a horrible howling sound. Jayne drew his gun automatically and looked for cover, until he realized that he wasn’t in imminent danger. Nearly everyone else just gawked in amazement. Except for Johnny, who looked amused and a little disgusted at their reaction. “What’s a matter?” he asked, casually. “You ain’t never seen a mastodon before?”