At the moment, their bus was passively observing two tall green walls of murky pines, and a line of slumping fence posts with corroded barbed wire. They were parked on Interstate Highway 10, ten miles beyond the eldritch postindustrial settlement of Sulphur, Louisiana. Sulphur had attracted a lot of bemused attention from the krewe of staffers as their campaign bus flitted through town. In the curdled fog of winter, the Cajun town seemed to be one giant oil refinery, measled all over with tattered grass shacks and dented trailer homes.

Now the fog had lifted, and on the far side of Sulphur the passing traffic was light.

“I’m going out,” Oscar announced, “to assess the local situation.”

Donna, his image consultant, brought Oscar a dress shirt. Oscar accepted silk braces, his dress hat, and his Milanese trench coat.

As the stylist ministered to his shoes, Oscar gazed meditatively upon his krewe. Action and fresh air might improve their morale. “Who wants to do some face-time with the U.S. Air Force?”

Jimmy de Paulo leaped from the drivjJer’s seat. “Hey, man, I’ll go!”

“Jimmy,” Oscar said gently, “you can’t. We need you to drive this bus.”

“Oh yeah,” said Jimmy, collapsing crestfallen back into his seat. Moira Matarazzo sat up reluctantly in her bunk. “Is there some reason I should go?” This was Moira’s first extensive period off-camera, after months as the campaign’s media spokeswoman. The normally meticulous Moira now sported a ratted mess of hair, chapped lips, furry eyebrows, wrinkled cotton pajamas. The evil glitter under her champagne-puffed eyelids could have scared a water moccasin. “Because I will go if it’s required, but I don’t really see why I should,” Moira whined. “Roadblocks can be dangerous.”