Hackworth turned and saw that it was the young woman in the devil costume 
who had acted as tour guide for the Heartlanders. She was very petite, dressed 
in a long black skirt slit all the way to the hipbone, and she had nice hair, 
very thick and black and glossy. She carried a glass of wheat beer over to the 
counter, primly swept her devil's tail out of the way in a gesture that 
Hackworth found hopelessly fetching, and took a seat. Then she let out an 
explosive sigh and put her head down on her arms for a few moments, her 
blinking red horns reflecting in the curved window like the taillights of a 
full-laner. Hackworth laced his fingers together around his pint and smelled 
her perfume. Down below, the chorus had gotten out of hand and was trying to 
pull off a rather ambitious Busby Berkeley dance number. They showed an uncanny 
ability to act in unison—something to do with the 'sites that had 
burrowed into their brains—but their bodies were stiff, weak, and badly 
coordinated. What they did, they did with absolute conviction, which made it 
good anyway.