“We’ll lose our place in line,” Bill said, but he followed.

Mortimer went straight up to the iron gate and then backed away immediately when a hand stretched through the bars holding a snub-nosed nickel revolver. The man on the other side of the pistol wore the standard black suit and gleaming white shirt, but a well-crafted, pink pin shaped like a mushroom cloud on his lapel possibly denoted some kind of rank.

He cocked the revolver with a thumb. “Good evening, sir. I’m the V.I.P. host on duty, and my name is Lars. I’m sorry for any inconvenience, but this entrance is reserved for special guests of Joey Armageddon. We thank you for your cooperation in avoiding unnecessary bloodshed and ask you to please step back in line.”

“Uh…” Mortimer took a half step forward, holding the pink membership card in front of him. He readied himself to jump back if need be. He didn’t quite have faith in the card’s ability to stop bullets, no matter how well it was laminated.

Lars reached through the bars with his other hand and took the card, read it, smiled at Mortimer. “Very sorry for the misunderstanding, Mr. Tate.” Lars made the revolver disappear into a shoulder holster and swung the gate open. “If you and your party could step this way.”

They walked through the gate, and Lars closed it behind them.

The other side was gardenlike, well manicured, with tall hedges bordering a path that paralleled the slow-moving line on the other side. Discreet lanterns lit the flagstone path.

Mortimer gestured down the path. “That way?” He hoped. It would be a hell of a lot faster than waiting in the huge line on the other side of the hedge.

“You need not walk, sir. I can arrange transportation if you like.”

Mortimer exchanged bemused glances with Bill. “Uh…sure.”

Lars picked up an old-fashioned phone from a pedestal near the gate and dialed three digits. “Yes, I need a sky chariot for a Platinum member and his two guests. How long? Fine.” He hung up.

To Mortimer he said, “It will only be a few minutes. You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

Mortimer had not known what to expect when Lars had ordered a sky chariot. He’d stood for a moment, openly curious, when he’d heard a whoosh and the creak of gears and pulleys. He’d looked up, seen the hot-pink gondola fly overhead, suspended from a thick cable. It had probably been looted from some nearby amusement park. It angled down and landed at a port forty feet away. They crowded in. Lars joined them, explaining first-time Platinum visitors were escorted personally for better service. The open-air gondola (sky bucket, Lars called it informally) was just big enough for the four of them.

So they floated, music wafting up to them, lights playing across the sky. Mortimer began to laugh, deep and throaty, holding his belly. Sheila smiled too, but looked at him curiously.

Bill raised an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”

“I don’t know.” Mortimer kept laughing.

Lars smiled knowingly. “You’ve had a hard journey to get here?”

Mortimer wiped his eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Lars said, “First-time visitors often feel a distinct and sudden euphoria that manifests itself sometimes in an uncontrolled burst of laughter. Upon realizing you have miraculously come through certain death and horror, the relief stimulates an endorphin release in the brain, which facilitates the process. Typical after prolonged exposure to stress and trauma.”

“Whoa,” Bill said. “Were you a psychologist or something?”

“Tax auditor for the IRS.”

Mortimer leaned out of the sky bucket for a better look. They passed over a well-lit section of ground, roughly the size of a football field. Rows and rows of men pedaled stationary bicycles. They all wore black shorts and pink T-shirts, and a thick, steamy heat rose from the area.

The sight of the slave riders put a minor dent in Mortimer’s endorphin production, and his euphoria deflated. Mortimer wasn’t any kind of a historian, but he could think of no era in which the haves hadn’t benefited from the labor of the have-nots. Was there something about the fall of civilization that nudged a man toward socialism? Or were the concepts of “fair” and “unfair” simply less abstract when one observed hundreds of bike-pedaling slaves from the safety and comfort of a soaring sky bucket?

Still, and Mortimer hated admitting it to himself, a small part of him thought, Better them than me.

“We can take you directly into the club for seating,” Lars said. “But if I might make a suggestion, you and your party might like to check in to the hotel and clean up first.”

“Sounds good.”

Sheila said, “I won’t need a room. I’m here to sign on as a Joey Girl.”

The slightest possible twitch of anxiety passed across Lars’s face, but he hid it immediately, smiling instead. “Of course, madam. I’d be happy to drive you back to Human Resources.”

“I don’t have any money,” Mortimer said. “I was given membership in Spring City and was hoping to talk to somebody about credit. I probably need some new clothes.”

“I can attend to every detail,” Lars said.

Lars turned out to be a whirlwind of service and efficiency. He met Mortimer and Bill in their hotel suite after the two had showered, bringing with him Armageddon dollars from Mortimer’s account and fresh suits of clothing for both men.

“Lars, you’ve done a hell of a job,” Mortimer said. “Is tipping still in vogue this day and age?”

“Of course, sir. We’re civilized people here after all.”

Mortimer counted out twenty of the coins and dropped them into Lars’s palm. Lars tried to keep his face neutral, but it was clear he was having some kind of interior argument with himself.

“I feel it’s my duty to inform you, sir, that this amount is, in fact, equal to a month’s salary. And I’m considered senior staff.”

Mortimer tossed back a glass of wine, considered. “I appreciate your telling me the truth. I’ve been out of touch, and I still haven’t got the hang of the new economy. Let’s just say you keep that. And if there are any special favors we need but are too stupid to ask for, you can help us out, okay?”

Lars bowed slightly, had already slipped the coins into his jacket pocket. “It is my utmost delight to make your stay here at Joey Armageddon’s as comfortable as possible, and I assure you that your needs will be in my every thought.”

“Great. Now, if possible, my friend and I would like to see naked girls and get shit-faced.”

“Absolutely, sir. And may I say it will be our pleasure to clean up your vomit should you overindulge.”

Lars escorted them via golf cart through a VIP side entrance. He’d had the foresight to reserve them a table down front, less than ten feet from the stage. Mortimer couldn’t help the dopey grin on his face.

The place was marvelous.

It was set up like a big, indoor band shell, the room opening wider and taller as it went from the stage back to the front entrance. The stage jutted out in a semicircle, edged with small tables, another identical row of tables behind Mortimer. Above that another tier of tables and behind that the club proper with scattered tables, bars along each wall and sequined women in miniskirts hovering from table to table, delivering drinks and flirting with patrons.

Smash Mouth blasted from the sound system, segued into a brassy big-band instrumental with a new pop flavor.

Above, girls in bikinis hung from trapezes, waving and blowing kisses. Once in a while, a spotlight would land on one of the girls, who would then spin around or perform some other minor trapeze trick, prompting enthusiastic applause.