Alan Dean Foster - To The Vanishing Point

To The Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

To Cele Patterson, the angel of Peter Cooper with love and affection

1

DESOLATION IS MAGNIFIED at seventy miles per hour. At that speed,

colors that are normally separate and distinct tend to blend together like the

test pattern on an old TV. Sharply defined objects melt into one another,

precluding identification, forestalling recognition. Landscapes adopt the

illusion of reality.

It's worse in the desert because there is so little to focus on. Those

creatures that don't hide usually spend the daylight hours sleeping. For most

of the year the plant life is dressed in a blistered gray hue that seems

designed to confuse the eye. Nothing moves except the tormented air that rises

in waves from the frying-pan pavement in front of you.

In summer, when the thermometer in the Mojave creeps past the 110 mark

with threatening regularity, all activity ceases. Like the sidewinders and the

kangaroo rats, the desert's human inhabitants have gone to ground by eight

A.M., embracing the protection of dark buildings and overstressed air

conditioners.

Once you get out past Barstow, driving east, civilization vanishes for

hundreds of miles except for one tiny outpost called Baker. The map will

insist you're still in the United States of America, but if not for the

nondescript ribbon of concrete known as Interstate 40 you might as well be

crossing the Gobi, or the Sahara, or the Namib. Brothers in emptiness. Parts

of the Great Southwest Desert are as deadly empty as Arabia's Rub' al Khali.

If anything stands out it's the absence of black. Everything is painted

light or white. In the Mojave black is the color of fools; sometimes dead

ones. Now and again travelers convinced that living in the twentieth century

has endowed them with immunity break down out in the desert. Travelers

neglectful of water. Transient visitors who perish of dehydration despite

aerial surveillance and thermos bottles and air-conditioning and CB radios.

Dull the desert can be, but it slays the thoughtless and carefree as

efficiently as any gilded Toledo blade. Indifference makes it no less lethal.

The Sonderbergs had no thoughts of dying, though there were times since

they'd left Los Angeles when Frank thought of doing some killing of his own,

if only in the metaphorical sense. It was his own fault and he knew it.

Normally they flew to Las Vegas. He'd decided they'd do it differently this

time. Among the things that had inspired this changeling journey was the fact

that Wendy was now old enough to appreciate the beauty of their unspoiled

surroundings. That she had not the slightest intention of doing so was no

fault of his. He ought to have known better.

Straightening slightly in the captain's chair enabled him to see her in

the rearview mirror. Sixteen and pretty, she was convulsing on the couch that

folded out to make a bed. Her head snapped from side to side, her torso

twitched violently at the waist, and her feet massaged the floor. Eyes shut in

private rapture, she was moving to the electrified rhythm of an

unpronounceable group of heavy-metal leprechauns, delivered exclusively to her

ears via the tiny wire that connected earphones and Walkman.

Though he would never have said so among peers, Frank didn't consider

his daughter's musical taste all that bad. It wasn't so very different from

what he'd been chastised for listening to when he was her age. But it was one

thing to appreciate, another to be addicted. Wendy only removed the damn

earphones to bathe and to sleep, and he wasn't sure about the latter.

Fascinating sights were whizzing past outside the motor home and the only time

his daughter opened her eyes was to change tapes.

Even when she paused briefly between concerts it was difficult to get

her to pay attention to the country they were passing through. Worse, she was

just old and smart enough to come up with a new word each week to describe her

father. The current pejorative-of-the-month was "droll." As in his telling her

plaintively, "Why don't you watch some of this scenery? Why the hell do you

think I took off the extra time and shelled out the extra bucks to rent this

palace on wheels so we could drive and look and learn instead of flying?" And

her rolling her eyes and replying, "Oh, Daddy. How droll."

He would have welcomed the comment from Steven, who was ten. He would

have welcomed anything from Steven, so long as it didn't sound like a whine.

His son was two years too old to still be a whiner. Overweight, unattractive,

he only displayed enthusiasm when they drew near the next Burger King or

McDonald's or Carl's Junior. Anything but a Wendy's, because that was the name

of his despised, contemptuous older sister.

Frank settled back into the thickly padded seat. Two junkies he was

raising. One addicted to indecipherable music, the other to junk food. He

glanced to his right, and his expression softened. God knew Alicia tried her

best. The children were just going through a phase, she would assure him. That

was her favorite line and she clung to it like a talisman, reciting it like a

prayer. Just going through a phase. No matter what the problem was, it was

just a phase. Heavy metal, it's just a phase. Overeating, a phase. Cats and

dogs phasing out now. Scarred bass guitarists and Big Macs phasing in.

He was being too hard on himself, he knew. His kids could be worse.

Steven might grow out of his gluttony, and at least Wendy wasn't into drugs.

Not so far as he knew.

Alicia still had that glow. She'd never been truly beautiful, but there

was a serenity about her he'd always found attractive. The maid helped

maintain that aura, as did the money. She'd been much more hyper when they'd

met. Success bred in contentment, bred out her early nervousness and

uncertainty. They enjoyed each other's company, and that was more important

than superficial physical attractiveness. Besides, he was no Cary Grant

himself.

She'd been ambivalent about this project all along, but she'd agreed to

renting the motor home and driving to Vegas instead of flying as usual because

he'd been so enthusiastic. He knew she'd done it for that reason and not

because she thought it was the right way to go. The warm feeling prompted him

to reach over with his right hand and pat her thigh. She looked back and

smiled that familiar half-certain smile of hers.

"Love you, too."

He returned his attention to the empty highway ahead. The big engine

sang to itself beneath the hood. The outside thermometer read ninety-eight and

rising. Other vehicles, even eighteen-wheelers, were scarce this morning.

"It's not working out."

She glanced back, then settled into her seat again. "You mean the kids?

You can't really blame them. They'd rather be lying by the pool. At their age

there's no vacation in getting there."

"I know. It's my fault."

The kids enjoyed Vegas. Wendy was old enough to enjoy watching the

young men at the pool and in the casino. Steven liked the pool, too, and

freaked over the selection of video games, not to mention over being able to

order room service. With the children occupied, Alicia spent the day soaking

up the sun while Frank relaxed from the business. At night he and Alicia would

take in a show or spend some time at the craps table while the kids relaxed in

front of the TV, watching movies. They were pretty good about that, he had to

admit.

Now Steven was whining constantly and Wendy had withdrawn to her

private metal nirvana, and it was all his fault. Just this once he'd

determined to do something different. He hoped for enlightenment, but the

result so far had been unrelenting discontent and alienation. Maybe he should

have let Alicia stock the motor home's larder with Steven's requested cookies

and chips and candy. At least he wouldn't have had to put up with the boy's

continual whining ever since they'd left San Bernardino.

Wendy didn't whine. She just ignored him, as she ignored the barren

landscape flashing past the windows while slipping fresh tapes in and out of

her player as efficiently as any late-night DJ. Frank no longer tried to point

out ocotillo or cholla, jumping cactus or paloverde. He could have counted on

more response from a stone.

"You never thought much of this trip either, did you?"

Alicia Sonderberg tried to frame a tactful reply. Truth to tell, she'd

been startled when her husband had first broached the idea. It wasn't like

him. One of the traits she most loved him for was his predictability. She'd

found him a welcome change from her own unsettled adolescence. Frank made her

feel safe and secure right from the start, even during the early days when

they'd lived in a cramped studio apartment in a run-down section of Santa

Monica while he'd tried to start his business. He was dependable, reliable.

Then out of nowhere came his declared intention to deviate from their

vacation plans, from the pattern they'd followed for years. Instead of flying

to Vegas, let's rent a motor home and drive, he'd announced brightly.

She smiled to herself. It wasn't as if he'd proposed chartering a plane

to fly to the North Pole so they could watch polar bears and walrus.

Nevertheless, she'd quietly tried to change his mind, arguing that Steven

wasn't old enough to appreciate whatever they might encounter and that Wendy

wouldn't care. That she'd been proven correct so far was small comfort. She

derived no pleasure from her husband's disappointment.

It was no way to begin a vacation. He'd always expected the truth from

her and she'd always given it to him, but it was going to be hard to reply

honestly. Oh sure, one or two things they'd seen had been of interest, but

they had to consider the children. Frankly, Wendy and Steven were bored to

tears. Wendy wanted boys to admire her new swimsuits and Steven wanted his

snacks. Their idea of a vacation was not slowing down to watch a real, live

rattlesnake cross the road. It wasn't Alicia's, either. The closest she wanted

to get to creepy-crawlies was watching them on PBS. She was even more of a

city person than Frank. Thank God they could afford a gardener.

Seeing how genuinely distraught her husband was, she tried to work

around the question. "Frank, you know how I always like to look my best for

you."

He frowned. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Cosmetics don't hold up too well in this kind of climate. That's why I

don't go outside when we're in Vegas, except to go to the pool."

"You're being evasive, hon."

She smiled gently. "Maybe a little. Frank, you've got to admit this

hasn't been very exciting so far."

"Did I promise excitement? Did I ever say it was going to be exciting?

We're going to spend a week in Vegas, for chrissake. Isn't that excitement

enough? Can't we take a few days away from that to have an educational

experience?"

She looked toward the middle of the motor home. "I'm afraid the kids

have had all the education they can take."

He grunted and leaned over the wheel. "The kids! My kids. The zombie

and the human garbage disposal. The Jacksons they ain't."

"Frank, their summer vacation just started. They've been nine months in

school. The last thing in the world they're interested in is an educational

experience. Don't you remember what it was like when you were their age?"

"It should be fun for them, too." He was losing ground and knew it. "I

mean, seeing that big diamondback cross the road. You know how many kids never

get that close to a real, live rattler?"

"Every kid in L.A. gets to the zoo."

"That's not the same thing as seeing it in its natural habitat," he

protested.

"I'm not sure I-40 qualifies as a natural habitat, Frank."

He nodded to himself. "You're gonna fight me on this one, aren't you?"

He swerved slightly to avoid a piece of broken crate littering the pavement,

pulling into the fast lane to go around it. He barely bothered to glance at

the sideview mirror. There'd been so little traffic since they'd left the

outskirts of San Bernardino he felt they had the highway to themselves. In a

sense they did.

The Sonderberg children attended private school. The public schools

didn't let out for another two weeks. That was another reason why they always

vacationed this time of year. The usual tourist destinations were still devoid

of high school and college students and families traveling with kids. Only

Wendy was upset, bemoaning the lack of boys her own age to chat with.

Frank worried about his daughter's preoccupation with members of the

opposite sex, only to have Alicia reassure him that it was nothing but another

phase. Wendy was no worse than any other pretty girl that age, and better than

some. It was all part of growing up. Like her son's admittedly regrettable

overeating problem.

Alicia had to admit that her son's junk food binge was lasting longer

than was healthy. His continued inactivity wouldn't be so bad if he was, say,

a computer genius or something. But he was quite average, well-meaning enough

but in no way exceptional. In that regard he was much like his parents. Frank

Sonderberg had risen above his station through sheer determination and hard

work. Maybe when Steven was older he would begin to show some skill, or at

least a little of his father's drive. To date, however, the boy had proved

himself relentlessly ordinary.

Nobody appreciated what he was trying to do for them with this trip,

Frank mused. Not Wendy and Steven, not even Alicia. They knew only city life,

the big house, the private schools, vacations, and shopping sprees. It wasn't

right. He enjoyed all those things himself, having worked hard to gain them.

But there ought to be some balance in a person's life. Frank was big on

balance.

If you lived in the city then you should spend some time in the

country, and if you were a country person you needed to experience the

sophistication of the city. Balance. Television couldn't compensate. Watching

the creatures of the desert on Nova or Disney or Nature wasn't the same as

encountering them in the wild.

Their brief sight of a family of javelinas in a gully just the other

side of Barstow had been instructive. Alicia couldn't get over how "cute" the

two babies were. Wendy wondered why all the fuss over a bunch of hairy pigs,

and Steven spent the whole evening at the RV park whining about bacon and pork

chops. While there was something to be said for reducing an experience to its

essential elements, his family had a way of doing it that transformed the

extraordinary into the mundane.

Maybe he was expecting too much of them. Especially the kids. He

doubted they were all that different from their friends. Everything had been

given to them. Alicia knew better, but his decision to drive instead of fly to

Vegas was clearly baffling to her as well.

Indifference and muted hostility. Those were his rewards for trying to

act the responsible father. For trying to show his family something of the

world beyond Los Angeles. Side trips to San Diego, San Francisco, and New York

didn't count. He'd sired an urban family, pure and simple. To Wendy and Steven

a wildlife expedition consisted of going to the beach and fighting to avoid

anything organic while playing in the surf.

He looked up at the map secured by magnetic clips to the bare metal

dash above the radio/cassette player. Fifty miles to go to Baker, the

minuscule outpost of civilization that lay between Barstow and Vegas. This was

one of the emptiest spots in California. Nothing to the south, Death Valley to

the north.

In point of fact, he reluctantly confessed to himself, it was pretty

boring. Not like the Pacific Northwest or the bayous of the Deep South. Not

that he was intimate with those regions, either. He was an armchair explorer,

letting someone else's camera be his eyes. Until this trip.

He was ready to admit defeat, conquered by apathy. Already he'd

discarded his original plan to take several days between San Bernardino and

Vegas to explore side roads and beckoning arroyos. Not even the unblemished

night sky had been sufficient to enthrall his offspring.

"We saw it all at the planetarium, Daddy." So much for his daughter's

sense of wonder. As for Steven, he could only decry the absence of a laser

show.

"Right," he muttered to no one in particular. "I give in."

Alicia glanced over curiously. "You give in to what, dear?"

Instead of replying he turned his head to the right, shouted toward the

back of the motor home. "Hey! You kids!"

Steven looked up from his comic book. "What's up, Dad?"

"We're going to -- Get that thing off your sister's head, will you?"

The boy shook his head violently. "Uh-uh. If I touch 'em she'll hit me.

Shes always hitting me."

Alicia finally managed to catch her daughter's eye. Wendy rolled her

eyes and nudged the earphones back from her ears. Moetley Cruee drifted weakly

through the motor home.

"What is it now?"

"You win." Frank kept one hand on the steering wheel.

Wendy glanced at her little brother, who shrugged. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I give up. I try to introduce you to a new experience, try to

show you something unique, and I'm just wasting my time. I know when I'm

beaten."

"Frank, watch the road," Alicia cautioned him.

"I am watching the road. Not that there's anything to watch." He waved

his hand at the cream-gray concrete. "There's nobody else out here. We're the

only ones stupid enough to drive this stretch of road in the middle of the

day, right?"

That wasn't entirely true. Eager gamblers crammed into old Chevys and

Toyotas occasionally rocketed past the motor home, exceeding the speed limit

by a good twenty to thirty miles an hour in their haste to reach the neon

lights and gaming tables just over the state line. They vanished rapidly over

the shimmering, heat-struck horizon.

"We're not making any more stops," he explained tiredly. "We're gonna

drive straight through. When we get there we'll check in to a big hotel, just

like everybody wants. I'll turn the motor home in to the rental agency and

we'll fly home when vacation's up."

"Wow, that's great, Dad!"

"Thanks, Pops." Wendy slid her headphones back into position, closed

her eyes. "That's really rad of you." Her upper body began to sway

rhythmically.

"You're both welcome." His sarcasm was lost on them. He saw that Steven

had abandoned his comic book in favor of a Transformer toy.

When he'd been a boy he'd had cap pistols and a football and a train.

Immutable diversions. Now they had toys that turned into other toys. What

galled him was that he couldn't figure out how they worked. He'd once spent a

futile couple of hours fiddling with one of his son's Transformers and had

achieved only a fine sense of feeling daft. Steven's pudgy fingers

effortlessly turned the chunk of brightly colored plastic and metal into a

succession of sleek gadgets.

"You look worried," said Alicia. "You're upset."

"Sure I'm upset."

"You've got that look on your face."

"What look? The look that says I'm forty and death is just around the

corner?" He tried hard not to smile at her and failed. She reached over and

caressed his right arm, squeezing gently. Both his expression and his voice

softened.

"You've known me so long. I don't know what I'd do without you, babe."

"Same back at you, Sonderberg. Want to drive for another hour, or you

want me to take over?"

"Naw. I'll stay with it awhile longer. After all, I'd planned on

driving for another couple of days. You're not real disappointed, are you?"

"Would I lie to you, Frank? No, I'm not disappointed. A real bed and a

real shower would be so nice."

"So much for the natural experience," he grunted.

"If you want to expose the children to nature, maybe at the end of

summer we can all go up to Yosemite together. I think they'd handle that

okay."

"Sure they would. There's fast food machines everywhere, cable TV, and

plenty of boys for your daughter to flirt with. We can stay in some fancy

hotel and eat out every night."

Her smile faded slightly. "You know, Frank, keeping house even on

wheels and cooking three meals a day on that little gas stove isn't exactly my

idea of a vacation."

"All right. Point conceded. Look, I've already given in, haven't I? I

said we'd drive straight on through and take the plane back when it's time to

come home. Don't make me feel any worse about it than I already do."

"I know you better than that, Frank. You're protesting too much. Don't

tell me you've been having such a grand time yourself. Be honest, now."

As usual with Alicia he was unable to muster a convincing lie. "Yes and

no. I'm disappointed the kids didn't get to see more of this country. I'm

sorry you and I didn't get to see more. But maybe they aren't old enough to

appreciate it like I thought, and maybe it's the wrong time of year." Even

though it was early summer it was already too hot to stand outside for long.

"My intentions were good, sweetheart."

"I know that, Frank. I think the children realize it, too."

He was nodding to himself. "My intentions were good. It was just the

actuality that stank, right?" He held up a hand to forestall her protest.

"Maybe we'll try it again another year." He stared out the bug-splattered

windshield at the endless ribbon of highway, the sallow-colored hills, and

frugal vegetation. "Yosemite probably would be more interesting. It's just

that we were going to Vegas anyway."

"Education shouldn't be the main purpose of a vacation, dear. It's a

lot like work. It's hard enough to get you to relax. You're thinking about

work right now, aren't you?"

"I'm always thinking about work. Can't help it, hon. I'm trying to run

fifty-six stores and get ready to open those four new ones in Oregon. Two in

Portland, one in Medford, the other in Eugene. It's tough to leave stuff like

that behind you. You don't know what it's like trying to run the company now

that it's gotten so big."

"No, but I know what it's like to try living with the man who does.

That's exasperating enough. If not for your own sake then for mine, try to put

it out of your mind long enough to relax a little. It'll do you good."

"We go through this every time we go away. God knows I've heard the

same thing from every doctor I've ever seen. You know what they say? They say

it's a miracle my blood pressure isn't higher than it is. You're right about

it, of course."

"You're going to have to try to learn to relax in spite of yourself.

You sure you don't want me to take over?"

"No, I'll drive for another hour, anyway. Alicia, when you've built up

something like the business from nothing, it becomes a lot like a child

itself. It's tough to put it out of your mind."

"Well, you have two other children to consider. Sometimes it's

important for us to think about what they want instead of what we want for

them."

He made a face. "You make it sound like I've been forcing them to sit

through a ten-hour lecture on national monetary policy." He reached out to tap

the map with a finger. "That ghost town yesterday was fun, wasn't it?" He

looked back. "Didn't everybody have fun at the ghost town?"

"They had great corn dogs." Steven tried to sound hopeful, aware that

his father was less than pleased with him. He wasn't sure his reply had the

desired effect, though.

"What about you?"

"Say what?" Wendy slipped off the headphones.

"Calico." Frank spoke patiently, trying to watch the road at the same

time. "The ghost town. Didn't you have a good time there?"

"Actually, Pops, I thought it was kind of a drag. The walk through the

gold mine, that's just so old. And the bar where all they could sell was soda.

I mean, come on, Pops. Get real."

"You'd have preferred a beer, I suppose." She just smiled knowingly.

"You've got a few years to go before you're legal, kiddo."

"Maybe I'm not legal, but I'm cute." She was teasing him now, he knew.

Demonstrating the social superiority of the American adolescent. "I can get

beer in Vegas, you know."

"Where? Who gave you beer?"

"Frank." Alicia spoke softly, trying to calm her husband. "Can't you

see she's just trying to get to you?"

He turned grumpily back to his driving. "She's succeeding. If I find

out someone in a casino is selling sixteen-year-olds beer, especially my

sixteen-year-old..."

"Take it easy, Frank."

"I know, I know. Blood pressure."

"I mean," said Wendy, her attention and voice beginning to fade under

the influence of the tape she was listening to, "it was a place for golden

oldies, you know?"

Frank forced himself to keep both hands on the wheel. "Just remember

it's the golden oldies up here who're paying for this trip and for those

invisible swimsuits you think you're going to wear poolside. I swear," he

muttered, "the less material they put in those things the more they charge.

I'm waiting for pasties and a fig leaf at fifty bucks a pop."

"Frank..." Alicia began warningly.

"What 'Frank'? You think I shouldn't talk like that in front of the

kids? You think they're innocents? Your daughter doesn't listen to that metal

crap all the time. She can hear when she wants to. And I'm not going to have

her parading around some casino pool in those new suits. They don't hide

anything. She can wear 'em in the room if she wants, but that's it."

"Frank, this is Las Vegas we're going to, remember? The hotels are full

of showgirls and would-be actresses. You really think anyone's going to pay

any attention to a sixteen-year-old?" She looked back. "No offense, darling."

"Oh, gee, Mom, none taken," said her daughter sardonically. "When we

get there I'll damn well dress as I please."

"What? What was that?" Frank managed a furious glance backward. "What

did you say, young lady?"

"Frank, please keep your eyes on the road." Alicia hastily examined the

map, looked out her window with forced excitement in her voice. "Oh, look! See

those mountains over there?"

Not really wanting to look but willing to change the subject, Wendy

turned boredly without removing her headset to peer out the long window above

the convertible couch. Steven scrambled onto his knees to do likewise.

"What about them?" She turned up the volume on the tape player

slightly, willing to meet her mother halfway but in no mood for a geology

lecture.

Alicia double-checked the map. "They're called the Devil's Playground."

Wendy slumped, burdened by the sheer weight of her parents' presence.

"Whoopie."

"But just look at them." Alicia was trying real hard, Frank knew, and

he loved her for it. "Isn't it fascinating to wonder how a place like that

could get such a name?"

"Yeah, kinda," said Steven slowly, displaying interest in something

other than food and his toys for the first time in the last hundred miles.

His sister eyed him in surprise. "Give me a break, little brother." She

found herself staring through the glass in spite of herself. "There's nothing

out there, Mom. Just like there's been nothing out there since we left L.A."

"But the name. Can't you just see some poor prospector or hunter

struggling through this awful country by himself, without freeways and

hamburger stands and gas stations to fall back on? That's who probably named

this place."

"Maybe it was a thermometer salesman," Frank quipped, feeling a little

better now that the decision had been made. "Or some old guy with a burro and

a beard who spent his whole life looking to make the big strike."

"Yes," said Alicia. "This whole part of the country is covered with

names like that, and the bones of the people who bestowed them."

"Honestly, you two." Wendy popped a stick of gum in her mouth,

extracting it from its package as neatly as a woodpecker would siphon a grub

from beneath the bark of an elm. "Probably named by some guy who inherited a

couple thousand acres out here. Maybe he thought it would bring tourists.

'Come see the Devil's Playground. Pan for gold. Touch a cactus. Souvenirs,

cold cherry cider, hot dogs, kids eat free.' That's where your weird names

come from."

"You're not much of a romantic." Frank refused to let her upset him. "I

thought all girls your age were supposed to be romantics."

"Oh, we are, Pops, we are. But not about nowhere dumps like this. Now,

if Bon Jovi or Roger Hornsby were giving a concert out here, I'd get real

romantic." She gestured at the blasted landscape visible through the window.

"Get real. The name's the only thing distinctive about this place. It looks

just like the last hundred miles we've driven and just like the next hundred

miles will look." She blew a bubble, let it burst, sucked the pink latex back

through her teeth.

Alicia settled back in her seat, the expression on her face saying "I

tried." Frank had nothing to add. As a father he was coming to appreciate that

the worldview of sixteen-year-old girls was somewhat limited.

Though Wendy's disinterest continued, her mother's hypothesizing had

stimulated Steven. He was still staring avidly out the side window. So the

line about the wandering prospector had been useful after all, Frank mused,

though his son was more likely conjuring up visions of cowboys and Indians.

Times had changed. These days all the kids wanted to be the Indians. He

couldn't remember who'd once told him that history was like a flapjack. As

soon as it was done on one side, somebody would flip it over to expose the

untouched obverse, whereupon a new raft of eager revisers would set to

rewriting a period anew. As soon as it got cold, it would get flipped again.

Pity they were driving from Los Angeles instead of, say, Utah. They

could have driven through the Grand Canyon or Zion or Bryce instead of this

boring, eventless terrain. They'd flown over the Mojave many times and, much

as he wanted to believe otherwise, he was coming to realize that this part of

the country was better viewed from the air. Mountains, canyons, even the plant

life had a skeletal aspect. It was as if the upper foot of the planet here had

been stripped away, as though the landscape had been scoured by an immense

sandblaster.

Only the government had a use for this kind of country, chopping it up

into military reservations larger than many states. One percent utilized,

ninety-nine percent ignored. Only the air had real value, bright and clear.

Mountains that appeared to crowd the highway were actually many miles away. It

caused a man to concentrate on the little things. When you built an important

business with your own hands you became a stickler for detail. Maybe that was

why he spent so much time on each ocotillo, each Joshua tree and prickly pear.

Tough little suckers, he thought. He could appreciate them even if his

family could not.

"How much further, Dad?"

Frank blinked behind his sunglasses. He'd been daydreaming. His gaze

dropped to the odometer. "Twenty miles. Twenty minutes, kiddo."

Steven nodded, spoke hesitantly. "Do you think they'll have ...?"

"No, I don't think they'll have a McDonald's. The whole town of Baker

is about the size of your school. Don't tell me you're out of food already."

"It's all cookies and stuff, Dad. I'm really hungry."

"It's close to lunchtime," Alicia pointed out, "and it would be nice to

eat in a restaurant. I can throw something together, of course, but..."

"No, no, everybody's made their feelings perfectly clear. We'll see

what they've got to offer, kiddo. If there's a halfway clean-looking cafe,

we'll stop. I promise."

"All right!"

Truth was, Frank was feeling hungry himself. Could be this journeying

by motor home wasn't exactly as the salesman who'd rented it to him had

described it.

Near noon, and the sun was high overhead. Nowhere for man or beast to

hide. The thermometer flirted with the hundred mark. Thank God it was only

May. In a few weeks a hundred would be a cool day out here.

It was hot enough, though, for the sight of a lone figure standing by

the side of the road to startle him. He began to slow down, barely realizing

he was doing so.

2

IT TOOK A MOMENT for Alicia to react. She made his name into an

extended question. "Frank?"

He nodded. "Some fool hitchhiking."

She leaned forward. The solitary shape was unmistakable now, motionless

as a monument. "You aren't thinking of picking him up?"

"Why not? Everybody's so bored, maybe some company would add a little

excitement. I could do with some conversation."

His wife didn't try to conceal her anxiety. "What kind of person would

be hitchhiking way out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Someone trying to get to somewhere." He took a perverse delight in her

obvious unease. "That's something that would be interesting to find out.

Besides, I wouldn't leave a dog on the side of the road on a day like this."

He squinted as he rode down on the brake. "Don't see any luggage. Maybe he had

a breakdown. Good thing we came along."

"Frank, I don't know if this is such a good idea."

Steven had his nose pressed against the window. Conscious that

something out of the ordinary was taking place, Wendy had removed her

headphones and had actually turned off her Walkman.

If he hadn't been so fed up with his family, Frank would ordinarily

have cruised on past, but he was ready to do anything to shake them out of

their lethargy. Now he found himself wondering if maybe Alicia wasn't right

and he was about to do something foolish. Certainly the absence of any luggage

was peculiar. He scanned the ground bordering the road, but there was no place

for malign accomplices to hide. The skinny bushes concealed nothing. There

were no large boulders and the ground was flat.

If his supposition was correct and the hitcher's vehicle had broken

down somewhere close by, their ride-to-be had already disobeyed the first rule

of desert survival: namely, to stay with your car. The people who died out

here were the ones who naively thought they could walk to safety. No sign of a

stalled vehicle, though. An off-road machine, maybe, stuck somewhere out in

the sand. He strained but could see only isolated plant growth spotting dirty

beige terrain. A couple of beer cans slowly disintegrated in the sun amid a

tiara of crumpled plastic packaging.

As he pulled over, the hitchhiker turned to face them. The right hand

which had been extended in the classic hitcher's pose, hand out, thumb up, now

fell to the figure's side. Wendy had come forward to lean between her parents

for a better view.

"How old is he?"

Frank's eyes widened slightly. It was Alicia who replied. "It doesn't

look like a 'he,' dear." She turned to her husband. "I apologize, Frank."

"What?" His eyes followed the lone figure as it walked slowly toward

them.

"It's probably a good thing you stopped. She's in trouble or she

wouldn't be out here alone like this. I wonder what happened. I wonder where

her car is?"

"Bet she had a fight with her boyfriend," said Wendy. "Bet he kicked

her out and left her here."

"If so, it wasn't long ago." Frank stopped staring. "She's not even

sweating."

Alicia eyed him curiously. "I didn't think your eyesight was that good,

dear."

Frank ignored the gentle dig. "Wendy, get the door for the lady."

His daughter nodded vigorously and moved to do so.

Compared to the air-conditioned interior of the motor home, the air

that came flowing through the open door had the force of blast furnace

exhaust. Wendy automatically retreated from it. As she stepped back, the

hitchhiker climbed in, thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

She was Wendy's height and slim as a reed. It was impossible to tell if

the purple and gold scarf she wore wound around her head was a separate piece

of clothing or merely part of her sari-like dress. Wispy folds of multihued

silk wrapped round and round her body, tenuous as cirrus clouds. They moved

slightly in the blast of air-conditioning, like sleeping snakes. There was

just a hint of dark skin beneath, and none of undergarments. Even as he

stared, a layer of silk fell into place, leaving Frank to wonder if he'd seen

anything at all.

He'd been wrong about something else. The hitchhiker had only looked

cool. Beads of sweat hung like flattened pearls from her dark forehead. She

used a hand to wipe them away. As she did so she moved some of the silk,

revealing thin, brilliantly blond hair. It fell almost to her feet, a golden

cascade incongruous against her olivine skin.

"No wonder she's hot," Alicia murmured. "Look at all that hair."

The woman must have overheard because she turned to look at them and

smiled. Frank saw she had violet eyes. The only other woman Frank knew of who

had violet eyes was Elizabeth Taylor. He'd always suspected it to be a trick

of glamour photography. But this young woman's eyes were a light violet, the

color of tanzanite. They were too large for that small, heart-shaped face,

like the eyes of those Keene paintings that had been so popular back in the

sixties. Big-eyed children and dogs. The mouth was tiny, the nose and chin

almost nonexistent. Everything was overwhelmed by those eyes.

Her head and neck appeared almost too thin to support the weight of all

that hair, but closer inspection revealed that while extraordinarily long,

those gleaming blond tresses were thin and wispy, the ends trailing off to

near invisibility.

"It's not so very uncomfortable," she said in reply to Alicia's

observation. Her voice was high-pitched, ethereal. Not frail. Just soft and

distant.

Quit staring, Frank told himself. She's just a small-boned little gal.

No pointed ears and no tendrils sprouting from her forehead. Not much to her

at all. What was it Spencer Tracy had said about Katharine Hepburn? "Not much,

but what there is is choice." He felt himself flush, turned back to face the

dash.

"I really like your clothes." Diplomacy is an alien conception to

sixteen-year-olds. "And, oh, wow, check out these nails, Mom!" Wendy's eyes

were wide, admiring.

The woman smiled and held up her right hand. Frank saw that each of her

Alan Dean Foster - To The Vanishing Point

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