"So youll help me?"

Bib got to his feet. "I sure will. Cmon with me, darling."

Amy, holding her pack by the straps, followed Bib outside to Bibs rig, an enormous, streamlined, diesel-powered tractor-trailer combo bearing the proud name Dixie Belle on its prow in cherry-red letters. Amy was awed.

"Does this actually run on fossil fuels?"

"You bet, honeychile. I know thats an illegal substance in Agnostica, but they give us truckers an exemption so long as were just passing through. You wont catch me driving one of those water-farting hydrogen creepers, no sir! Take me twice as long just to break even on my routes."

Bib opened the passenger-side door and removed a crinkly silver suit identical to the one he wore.

"Here, darling, slip into this."

"Do I have to get naked?"

Bib laughed. "Well, you would if you were planning to drive 24/7 like yours truly. Then youd want to be hooked into the Dixie Belles waste-recycling system, epidermal scrubber, nutrient feeds and booster drips. But since were only gonna use this suit to fool the federales, it just needs access to one of your veins. So roll up your right sleeve."

Amy did as requested, then snugged into the suit, which seamed invisibly at the rear and automatically shrunk to fit her. Then she and Bib got into the tractor cab.

"Wow! This looks like the inside of the Long March Mars ship!"

"Waal, we aint going quite so far as Mars, but I do believe in comfort and technology. Jack yerself in at that port there-"

Once Amys suit was plugged into the dash, she felt a deft pinprick on her arm. She worried for an instant that Bib was going to drug her and deliver her to the harem of some Yemeni prince. But when nothing happened to her as the big man started the mighty yet purring engine of the truck, she relaxed.

"Just let me do the talking at Customs, kay?" u p r> Sure.

The Dixie Belle ambled throatily up to the crossing.

On the New Austin side, the border was protected by a variety of biological barricades, many of them with Batchelder Bioengineering pedigrees: hedges of thorny plants, troops of fire ante, pods of mini-shoggoths. On the Georgetown, Faithland, side, the barriers were strictly inanimate: robot lenses and gun muzzles, monomolecular wire, gluball anti-personnel mines. This natural-artificial interface was as clear a political statement of the differences between Agnostica and Faithland as any tract Two New Austin inspectors came up to the stopped truck. The first, a short, stocky Latina, led a redacted dog, a Rhodesian Ridgeback with a hypertrophied snout. This mutant canine proceeded to sniff all around the tractor and trailer, while the woman inspected the intelligent seals placed on the trailer at its point of origin. The second inspector, an African-Agnostican with a jaunty goatee, came around to Bibs door.

"Blood sample, please."

"Sure thing, officer." Bib extended his hand and pressed his thumb into the sampling pad on the inspectors ViewMaster. Then the guardian of the gates came around to Amys side, and she did the same, stifling her reluctance to reveal her identity.

Surely the game was up now ...?

In a few seconds, both inspectors seemed satisfied.

"You and your daughter go safe now, Mr. Bogardus."

"Will do, compadre!"

Once through the New Austin arch, the Dixie Belle sailed beyond the corresponding Georgetown gate and its comparable procedures just as easily.

Once they were a few miles down Route 35, Amy finally felt it was safe to speak.

"'Daughter? How did you-?"

Bib patted the dashboard affectionately. "The ol Dixie Belle has a handful of useful genomic codes on file. She just injected you with a batch of silicrobes that had a tropism for the cells of your thumb. Once they got there, they started scavagening up all your original blood cells and making replacement blood with different DNA in it. For a second or two, your thumb belonged to somebody else. Then they put everything right again and croaked. Otherwise, you woulda had one helluva immune reaction."

Now that Bib had explained things to her, Amy could sense a faint soreness in her thumb. "Oh. So I cant pull that trick again?"

"Nuh-huh. Not unless youre hooked up to the Dixie Belle. Fraid youre on your own otherwise."

"Well, I guess Ill just have to hope I dont have any more run-ins with the federales on my way to Nashville."

"Not too likely. Faithlands perty quiet these days on the homeland security front, ever since President OReilly unleashed that sweet little global virus."

Amy remembered learning about this Faithland anti-terrorist measure in school. Forgetting to employ her new accent and diction, she said, "You mean the Glowworm Patch? The one that spreads by touch and retroengineers into humans a luciferase gene thats activated by certain high-order brain chemistry patterns?"

"Thats the one, honeychile. Mighty hard to commit terrorism when thinking about it make you glow bright blue in public."

Amy gave vent to a huge yawn at this point.

Bib regarded Amy tenderly. He paid no attention to the road, since the Dixie Belle was on cyber-control. "Maybe you should get some sleep now, honeychile."

"You wouldnt mind ...?"

"No, Ill just punch up some Government Mule in my earbuds and do my road-warrior thing."

"'Kay. Thanks ..."

Before she knew it, Amy was asleep.

When she awoke, daylight reigned outside, and they were approaching a major metropolitan area.

"Is that-?"

"Oklahoma City? Sure enough. Heres where you and me gotta part ways, I fear. Im gonna drop you off at the Greyhound terminal. I figger you prolly got enough cash for a ticket to Nashville. Or do you need some bits on your chop?"

"No, no, Im all set, Bib. Thank you so much for all youve done. You been-you been sweeter to me than mamas ice tea."

"Waal, Amy, you done reminded me of my own little princess, so warnt no way in Gods creation I could let you be disappointed. You take care now, yhear, on the rest of your trip. Faithlands a mighty safe place for the most part, but theres always folks out there looking to score."

Stripped of the trucks passenger suit, wearing her backpack, Amy stood on the sidewalk outside the bus terminal, waving goodbye to the Dixie Belle.

So much for all the horrible things the Agnosticans liked to say about the Faithlanders. Amy felt confirmed in her decision to leave the elite enclave into which she had been born.

She looked around now at the streets of the first Faithland city she had ever visited, expecting to see immense differences from home. Truth to tell, however, many of the same franchises occupied various storefronts, although a few names were new to her. She wondered if JENNAS PEIGNOIRS was equivalent to VICTORIAS SECRET.

It wouldve been nice to explore a little, but Nashville beckoned.

The ticket to Nashville took almost fifty of Amys euros, which she exchanged for forty dollars at an ATM in the terminal. She even had a few dollars left over for breakfast at the terminal cafe.

A few hours later, Amy was on her bus, heading east. She had taken what appeared to be the seat with possibly the most congenial companion: an Asian woman not much older than Amy herself. Although conventionally pretty, the woman had chosen to downplay her looks with a lack of makeup, severe hairstyle and drab clothing.

After a dozen miles of mutual silence, the woman turned to Amy and introduced herself in a perky manner.

"Hi, there, my names Cindy Lou Hu."

The womans English was excellent, but accented. After Amy volunteered her own name, she asked, "Are you from, like, another country?"

"Yes, of course. Shanghai, China. Im here to visit Brother Rays Gospel Mission in Nashville."

"Huh?"

Cindy Lou explained that her family had been evangelical Christians for two generations, ever since adopting the creed from American missionaries. Now she was returning to the source of her faith for instruction in spreading the gospel even further.

"Faith is one of your countrys last, best exports. No one sells religion abroad like Faithland. Brother Ray and his peers are everywhere around the world. They might assign me to Latin America or Africa or Mongolia even. It all depends. Wherever I can do the most good bringing the word of Jesus to unbelievers. Are you a believer, Amy?"

Amy began to squirm. This kind of conversation was never encountered in Agnostica. "Uh, well, I guess Im kind of a, um, secular humanist."

Cindy Lous smile did not waver, but definitely acquired a steely gleam. "Oh, you must read some of these tracts I happen to have with me. Right now. And then well talk about them. Weve got tons of time."

Fifteen hours later, as the bus pulled into Nashville, Amys brain felt as if it had been extracted, pureed and reinserted into her skull. She was convinced that the friendly "dialogue" on Jesus and all matters Biblical that Cindy Lou had subjected her to was a form of torture banned by the Geneva Convention.

Still, Amy had not crumbled. She managed to refuse Cindy Lous repeated importunings to stay at Brother Rays mission. And engaging in a mass baptism was definitely ruled out. So as the two women parted around midnight outside the Nashville terminal, Amy was finally left extensively on her own, for the first time since she had escaped from New Austin.

The first thing she did was find cheap lodgings with her ViewMaster. In the Ikea capsule hotel on Commerce, not far from the Cumberland River, Amy gratefully rested her head on her thin pillow the size of a handkerchief-a Snooli, according to its label-knowing that she was only a short distance away from all the famous musical sites she had come so far to see.

And perhaps close in time as well to a career in music.

The next morning Amy was up early, eager to see all the attractions that Nashville had to offer. Surely by nightfall she would have connected through some magical serendipity with the forces that would transform her life and allow her musical talent to blossom.

The first place she intended to visit after breakfast was Music Row, the district where all the famous recording studios thrived. Here had so many of her favorite songs been digitized. The sidewalks practically gleamed golden with glory in Amys mind.

But when Amy arrived at Music Row, she quickly found the district to be a hollow recreation of what she had envisioned, a series of museums and shops without any professional musicians around at all. Only fatuous tour guides and sullen gift-shop cashiers afforded any connection to the fabulous heritage of Nashville.

A few simple inquiries soon revealed that Music Row had been obsoleted about ten years ago, by the ultimate perfection of home-recording software and the changed nature of music distribution. Music Row was now distributed unevenly across all of Faithland, in a thousand garages and bedrooms, of tract houses and mansions alike.

Saddened but still hopeful after touring the simulated remnants of the district, Amy decided to treat herself to some barbecue. She found a place called Hog Heaven on 27th Street and walked the long blocks there. But the meal disagreed with her. Tennessee barbecue, it turned out, wasnt anything like New Austins. Weird sauces, weird coleslaw, weird beans, weird cornbread.

But even this disappointing repast failed to dim Amys excitement at the thought of what awaited her tonight. The Grand Ole Opry was performing in the historic Ryman auditorium, and she had snagged a cheap ticket with her ViewMaster.

Amy spent the remainder of the afternoon strolling around the clean and pretty city. She listened to the locals talk, working on her own accent Despite a few letdowns, Amy felt sure she would still settle here. There must be a club scene through which she could meet like-minded fans and aspiring artists.

A brief nap back in her hotel room refreshed her for the Opry.

At the theater, Amy debated buying some snacks to serve in lieu of supper. But her money was rapidly dwindling, and she held out despite the grumblings of her stomach.

Inside, Amy settled into her seat, full of anticipation. Even the snickers of some nearby girls her own age-who apparently had nothing better to do than make fun of Amys outfit-failed to quash her fervor.

But with the very first act, her faith evaporated, and she knew she was in for heartache.

None of these performers were familiar to her. Favoring the old-time classic singers, Amy had not kept up with the latest voices and faces. Still, she could have become emotionally invested in their songs if they hadnt been all tarted up with synthetic sounds and pop arrangements. Where was the soul and heart of a Willie Nelson or Hank Williams III? Nowhere, it was obvious by intermission.

Amy didnt even stay for the rest of the show, but instead trudged downheartedly back to her hotel, where she deluged Mr. Taxes with a monsoon of tears.

In the morning, Amy realized she had one last place to go that would reaffirm her connection with this city, would justify her arduous trip here, would inspire her future course.

The Country Music Hall of Fame.

With a lighter step, Amy hurried down to the corner of Demonbreun and 5th, arriving just as the museum opened.

She went immediately to the Gretchen Wilson exhibit.

Gretchen, Amy knew, had retired five years ago, after a long and fruitful career. But perhaps the exhibit would contain updated information about her current whereabouts (surely Gretchen still called Nashville home). Or perhaps-hope sprang eternal-there would be notice of a comeback tour.

At the Gretchen Wilson display, Amy synced her ViewMaster with the kiosk there and brought up onto her screen all the information the Country Music Hall of Fame had to offer on her heroine. The digital guides voice came through her earbuds.

"Since retiring from the road, Gretchen Wilson has invested much of her wealth in Batchelder Bioengineering and now resides in New Austin where she can more closely monitor her business affairs "

Amy found herself out on the sidewalk without any memory of having exited the museum. For a long time she just stood rooted to the spot as foot traffic surged around her. Then she turned toward her hotel to reclaim her pack and check out.

As she walked, she punched up some Johnny Cash.

"Lead me gently home, father, lead me gently home ..."

Attempting to write porn or erotica is a dicey business. The turn-ons of any given individual are generally so unique or specific that the writer risks striking out entirely by presenting his own conceptions of whats sexy-or perhaps even grossing the reader out, thus achieving the opposite of the intended result! The level of linguistic specificity that should be employed, along with matters of style, presents other minefields. Then theres the hot-button issues (pardon the pun) of gender, politics, class, race and power struggles to contend with. My erotic novel, A Mouthful of Tongues, has provoked reactions that varied across the spectrum. One friend admitted that he read it aloud to excite his lover, and they had a rousing time. Several students at Georgia Tech, who read it as a class assignment (Professor Lisa Yaszek was either brilliant or demented to assign this) generally gave it a thumbs-down.

So in the end, the budding pornographer can and probably should create only for himself or herself, and just pray there are readers out there who resonate.

Im praying, Im praying!

PINOCCHIA.

Chapter 1.

How it came to pass that Pinocchia was subject to malprogramming during her creation.

Once upon a future Monday, a low-level employee of RealDoll, Inc., showed up for work high.

Shukey Broadhead had spent the entire weekend abusing MUD. MUD was a nano-drug that put its users in actual mental communication among themselves, after wiring high-bandwidth neuro-radio circuits directly to their synapses. Users of MUD found themselves inhabiting a consensus artificial reality in which they could experience various adventures. This virtual world overlaid the real one in the users sensorium. Physical actions in the real world translated to analogous actions in the imaginary world. Thus, MUD users generally immured themselves during their trips, so that their non-referential physical movements, incongruous with their exterior surroundings, did not get them into trouble.

Broadhead had indeed taken this precaution, spending the past forty-eight hours cooped up in his parents basement, where he had his living quarters. He had subsisted solely on a high-energy nutriceutical drink, even peeing into the empty soda bottles to avoid venturing out.

When Monday rolled around, Broadhead believed himself to be relatively free of the influence of MUD. But of course the brain-wiring, once installed by the initial usage, was permanently established, being subsequently activated with trigger doses. And the trigger dose of the illegal drug which Broadhead had taken on Friday night had been abnormally large.

Thus when the young man left home for the Atlanta RealDoll factory, he found himself disconcertingly subject to traces of interference on his brainscreen. The streets of the city were erratically and intermittently overlaid with the forest paths of his fantasy world, while the skyscrapers of the burg resembled castles and mountains. Average citizens became supernatural creatures.

Broadhead almost turned around and went home. But he knew that if he missed yet another day of work, chances were good that hed be fired. And he didnt relish looking for another job in these tight times, or, failing that, being drafted into the War Is Peace Corps.