The Last Book in the Universe by Rodman Philbrick Page B

boss to disobey his orders. When I look at Ryter it’s like he knows what I’m thinking, because he gives me a wink and makes it clear that we just go along while we’ve got the chance.
    â€œChox?” Little Face asks, tugging at my leg.
    â€œSssh,” I tell him. “We’ll be okay.”
    And for the first time since the Monkey Boys grabbed us, I really do think we might make it out alive. Of course I’m assuming Ryter intends to overpower the young tek boss when we get the chance, and then shoot our way out of the fortress. As it turns out, he’s got an entirely different plan: The crazy old fool really does want to see Mongo — the real one, not the hologram version.
    We follow the frightened tek boss into a much smaller passageway — barely room to move, really — and then up a set of metal ladder steps.
    At the top of the stairs the tek boss glances furtively around, takes a deep breath, and then wrenches open the lock on an overhead hatch. He gives Ryter a mournful look, then cautiously pushes open the hatch.
    â€œInside,” he whispers.
    Without hesitation Ryter climbs up the last few rungs of the ladder and disappears through the hatch.
    What choice do I have? I follow him inside, into the secret lair of Mongo the Magnificent, boss man of the Monkey Boys.

 
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    T HE FIRST THING I notice is the horrible stink. Think of moldy dead rats and rotten eggs and dirty diapers. This is worse, much worse. After crawling up through the hatch, I roll to one side and wait for my eyes to adjust to the glittery dimness. Except for the stink, it reminds me of Billy Bizmo’s place, only bigger. A latchboss pleasure-crib stuffed with goodies and gizmos and every possible gaming device. There are lots of soft inflatos that mold themselves to your shape when you sit down, and thick massago-rugs that rub your feet while you walk, and all kinds of beautiful polished things. A lot of it isn’t quite real. The glowing fish that swim in a holoquarium. The 3Ds of female dancers that float above a projection table, wiggling their arms and legs and dancing to music I can’t hear.
    The stink is real, though. Real enough to make your eyes water.
    â€œTry not to breathe through your nose,” Ryter advises.
    I can tell from his expression that he’s not terribly surprised by what he sees or smells. I follow him to the center of the room, where we find a kind of huge round bed that seems to be the source of the horrible stink. Imagine a throne made of thick sleeping mats and you’ve got the idea.
    â€œThe poor wretch,” Ryter says softly.
    Lying on the bed-throne is a shriveled, starving creature soaked in his own filth. Most of his hair has fallen out and lies in a fuzzy pile around his head. His teeth are gone, and his eyes are milky blind. I can barely make out the faded red monkey tattoo on his withered chest. At first glance you might think he’s dead, but he isn’t — not quite. His fingers twitch a little, and his mouth works, as if he’s trying to speak, and you can see where veins pulse weakly in his scrawny neck.
    A faint sound comes from his ruined mouth. “Mmm-mmm-mmm,” like the noise of a small motor running out of power.
    Amber lights slowly blink on the silver boxes of the mindprobe machinery, going, bzzzt bzzzt bzzzt. I get the idea the thing in the bed is trying to talk to the probe machine, or thinks the probe is talking to him. Something like that. The weird thing is, the filthy, bone-starved creature seems to be smiling, as if unaware of his condition.
    â€œWhat happened to him?” I ask.
    The young tek boss has worked up the courage to follow us into the room. “Mongo has been looping for more than a year,” he says.
    â€œLooping?” Ryter asks.
    â€œA probe that keeps repeating in endless variations,” the tek boss explains. “You never have to come out, if you don’t want. This one is