Alan Dean Foster - Into the Out Of

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TO THE VANISHING POINT

THE MAN WHO USED THE UNIVERSE

To Bill and Sally Smythe, Who took us to the edge of the Out Of and made it fun despite the

sweat, the lack of sleep, and the tsetse flies,

This book is dedicated with friendship and affection.

1

Tombigbee National Forest, Mississippi—9 June

“Man, look at that mother burn!”

“Sure is a pretty sight.” Luther Vandorm's eyes were shining.

“Hey, BJ!” Walter Conroy called over to the stocky, vacant-looking man who stood close by. “Do me a

favor, will you?”

“Sure, Walter. Anything.”

Conroy strode toward him, fumbling in the pockets of his ballooning white robe. He had to steady the

conical white hat that perched uneasily atop his head. Finding what he'd been digging for, he handed the

compact 35mm camera to the other man.

“Get a shot of Luther and me, will you?” He showed his friend the camera, knowing that he had to keep

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any explanations simple. “See, it's one of those new Jap all-automatic jobbies.” He flipped a switch, the

camera beeped once, and a small built-in flash popped up. “Just wait till the little red light comes on in the

viewfinder. That means the flash is powered up and all set to go.”

The other man eyed the camera uncertainly. “I dunno, Walter. I dunno anything much about cameras.”

Conroy tried not to sound too exasperated. “I told you.” He spoke slowly, forming the words carefully

and leaving BJ time to catch up. Everyone knew BJ was a little slow, but he was willing enough to help

with anything and was much stronger than he looked. “Here—it's set now. Just point the lens at Luther

and me and press this here button and the camera will do the rest. Just make sure you can see both of us

through the viewfinder, okay?”

“Well, okay.” BJ accepted the camera with obvious reluctance. He was solidly built, deceptively

muscular, with an undistinguished face and a hairline that was beginning to recede. Currently he wore the

expression of a tenth-grader trying to cope with a Cray computer.

“Hold on just a minute,” Walter urged him as he ran to stand next to his buddy. “Wait till I give the

word.” Then he was standing next to Vandorm, who managed to cram his wife and kids into the picture

as well. Conroy put his arm around his companion's skinny shoulders and they all forced smiles into the

camera.

They were not alone. Plenty of their friends were standing in a circle behind them, hooting and hollering

as the huge burning cross threw glowing embers up into the night sky. Some of them were laughing a little

too much. A definite boundary had been created around the cross. It was composed of discarded beer

cans and shredded cigarettes.

BJ squinted into the flames, listening to the crackle of the burning cross, and waited until Vandorm pulled

his wife close to him. She was holding Vandorm Junior in her arms. He wore a miniature white sheet

outfit she'd sewed for him herself. Twelve-year-old Mike stood restlessly in front of his mom and dad.

He looked like he wished he were somewhere else.

They stood grinning back at BJ until the corners of their mouths began to cramp. Finally Vandorm's wife

whispered to her husband. “If you don't tell that idiot to shoot we're going to have our rear ends toasted.

I can't hang around here all night, Luther. The clothes in the washer are going to start to mildew if I don't

get ’em in the dryer pretty soon.”

“Hush up, woman. He'll hear you.”

A short, sharp laugh. “So what? He don't understand a tenth of what he do hear.”

“Don't be afraid of it,” Vandorm told BJ. “Just look through the little window and push the button.”

“Sure thing, Luther!” BJ waved cheerfully, then raised the camera and aimed. He hesitated. “I forgot

which button, Luther.”

“Shit,” Vandorm snapped. “The one on the right-hand side. Just push it once!”

“Okay.” BJ carefully followed the instructions and the Vandorms heard the click as the shutter snapped.

“Praise the Lord,” Mrs. Vandorm murmured, “he did it. Oh, damn, the baby's wet again. Mike, you stay

here with your father.” Trying to juggle both the infant and the awkward conical hat, she strode away

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from the blaze toward the line of pickup trucks and station wagons parked nearby, chiding the baby

gently as she walked.

Walter Conroy took back his camera. “Thanks, BJ.” Meanwhile Luther Vandorm was clapping his

older son affectionately on the shoulder. In his sheets and pointed hat, the twelve-year-old looked like an

uncomfortable downsized version of his old man.

“What d'you think of all this, son? Your first cross burning, I mean.”

“I dunno, dad. I mean,” he hastened to correct himself, “it's neat, really neat.”

“Thataboy.” Vandorm looked proud. “Ain't he somethin'?”

“Sure is,” BJ agreed.

Vandorm leaned over to look into his son's face. “And what is it you want to do when you grow up?”

The boy took a deep breath and turned away so he wouldn't have to confront his father's eyes. He

would much rather have been home playing basketball with his friends. You could do that at ten o'clock

at night in Mississippi in June. Even reruns on TV would've been better than this. But his parents had

insisted and he knew better than to argue.

So he recited with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster. “I want to save America by ridding it of

all the kikes, niggers, and wops who've taken control of the government.”

“That's my boy.” Vandorm would have ruffled his son's sandy brown hair except that it would have

knocked off the white hat. There was a dark stain down the front of his own sheet where he'd spilled the

Coke float they'd bought at the Dairy Queen. His wife hadn't let up on him about that until they'd reached

the site.

As Mike Vandorm was gazing at the fire a mischievous grin spread over his face. “It would've been

better if we could've brought some hot dogs and marshmallows.”

Vandorm gripped the boy's shoulder hard. “Now listen, son, this is serious business your daddy's

involved in here. Ain't nuthin’ to joke about. I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again,

understand? Not unless you want a taste of my belt.”

“Sure, dad. I was only kidding. Hey, can we go soon?”

Vandorm straightened. “I know it's a little late for you to still be up, son, but this is more important than

anything they're teachin’ you in that damn school. This is an important moment in your life and I wanted

this to be a big night for you. You don't know how proud it makes me to have you here with me.”

“Yeah, sure, dad.” Mike's voice fell to a whisper.

“Anyway, your mom'll take you and Junior home soon. Me and BJ and Walter and Mr. Sutherlin got an

important meeting at the Sutherlins’ house tonight. Real important.” Vandorm puffed himself up like a

toad frog, trying to make himself look bigger than he really was, not only in his son's eyes but in BJ's as

well.

As he thought about the meeting the air of paternal affection vanished. His expression twisted into

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something blind and unintelligent and nasty, the sort of look an australopithecine might once have favored

an enemy with. It was prompted by a mixture of uncertainty, fear, and grim determination, all wrapped up

in a basket of bigotry nurtured by twenty years of menial jobs and hard times.

“Gonna besome meeting. Ain't it, BJ? We finally gonna do something besides talk.”

“Sure are,” agreed the simple man who'd taken the photograph. Instead of evil or viciousness, BJ's face

displayed nothing more complex than stolid anticipation.

Poor ol’ BJ Tree. He worked nights as a janitor at the Junior College in nearby Tupelo and when you

got right down to it, he didn't appear to have the brains God gave a crawfish. But he was of similar mind

and feelings as the rest of them, a lot stronger than you would think, and most important of all, he was

ready and willing to do what he was told.

The organization Vandorm and Conroy and Sutherlin had formed had plenty of use for a man like that.

The three of them had enough brains for four anyway, Vandorm thought with pride. None of the chapter

members suspected that there was a more committed subchapter operating in their midst.

“Can I go now, dad?”

“Sure, go on, git over to your mama.” Vandorm shook his head dolefully as he watched his son scamper

off toward the old Ford wagon parked at the far end of the line. “I dunno, BJ. Maybe he's still too young.

But I had to bring him. Got to do somethin’ to counteract all that crap they keep fillin’ his mind with at

that school. All that garbage about ecology and equality when they ought to be teachin’ the kids the

basics—reading and writing and good old American educational values. Got to look out for your own

kids these days. Commies and homosexuals running half the schools.”

“Don't I know it,” said BJ. That was BJ. Always agreeable. A crash sounded behind them and both men

turned to look. One of the arms of the cross had finally burned through and fallen, sending up a spray of

embers which nearly set Warren Kennour's sheets on fire. He and Jeremy Davis and a couple of the

other boys were so drunk they could hardly stand. Vandorm chuckled.

“This secrecy's been pretty tough on Cecelia, BJ, but she hasn't complained. No sir, not a bit. She's

been supportive right down the line. It's just that tryin’ to get the tuition together to send Mike to that

private patriot's school is damn near about to break us. But I'll teach him myself before I see him play

football with a bunch of pickaninnies. Now I hear tell they got a couple of Vietnamese goin’ to school

there too. I tell you, BJ,” he said seriously, “somebody's got to start doin’ something to wake up the

people of this country or we ain't gonna be no better in twenty years than the dogs at the pound, just a

bunch of mongrels and mutts nobody respects anymore.”

BJ nodded enthusiastically. “You said a mouthful there, Luther. Hey, you want a beer? I got a six-pack

in the car.”

“That's mighty fine of you, BJ.” Luther never offered the other man a drink. For one thing, there was no

point in spending the money to keep the big dummy in suds when he couldn't remember from whence the

largess originated and, for another, BJ always seemed to have plenty of beer on hand. They headed back

toward the line of vehicles. A few were parked on the far side of the old fence, away from the others.

They were five yards from BJ's battered Chevy pickup when two men stepped out of the darkness into

the flickering light cast by the slowly dying blaze.

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“Luther Vandorm?” The man had a heavy five o'clock shadow and was clad in jeans, short-sleeved

shirt, and boots. His companion wore a suit. The speaker's eyes flicked to his left. “BJ Tree?”

Vandorm's gaze narrowed as he studied the intruders. He was more upset than concerned. Sure, cross

burning was illegal, but in rural Mississippi that still meant no more than a small fine and maybe a

tongue-lashing from some county judge.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” He didn't recognize either of them. They didn't look like Sheriff

Kingman's boys, who would look the other way so long as there was no damage to public property. Nor

did he care for the accent of the speaker. Not from around here, that was for sure.

The man removed a small billfold from a back pocket. When he held it up to the light the bottom half

dropped down. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. You're all under arrest.”

“Hey, what is this? Who the hell do you people think you are?” Inside, Vandorm was trembling. Not

because he feared being arrested for a little harmless cross burning, but because of what was concealed

in the pickup next to BJ's. It was brand-new, boasted four high-intensity lights on top, halogen fog lamps

in front, a chrome roll bar, and displayed a bright Confederate flag on the flanks. It was Walter Conroy's

truck.

In the glove compartment was a small folder. Inside the folder were the plans that he and Conroy and BJ

and Sutherlin had worked on for the past three months. The plans that described in detail exactly how the

four of them planned to blow up the office of the American Civil Liberties Union in downtown Jackson.

In addition to the pair of hunting rifles mounted on the back window rack, the pickup held a secret

compartment behind the seats. Vandorm had installed it himself, working nights when the garage was

deserted. The compartment contained two Uzi submachine guns that Conroy had bought in New

Orleans. Considered together, the machine guns and the plans were likely to bring more than a

tongue-lashing down on all of them in any court in the country.

He took a step backward and stumbled. His white hat fell off and he stumbled again, stepping on it.

“Just let me get my ID.” He turned and pointed toward the other cars. “It's in my wagon over there.”

“Just hold it right there, friend.” The man in the suit produced a small blue snub-nosed pistol. He held it

loosely in his right hand—but not that loosely.

“But my ID,” Vandorm whined. He'd never had a gun pointed at him before and it shook him pretty

bad. He felt a warm trickle start crawling down his right thigh and saw the disgust in the eyes of the man

who'd spoken first.

There was no way out. More men in suits had appeared and were rounding up the rest of the celebrants.

The station wagon was gone and he thanked God Cecelia and the boys had gotten away before the bust

had come down.

Two new vehicles drove in on the dirt access road and pulled up in the parking area. The big vans had

little bars over the windows, just like on TV.

He could see what was coming as clearly as he'd seen the porno film that had unspooled at Sutherlin's

last weekend. All their planning and careful preparation was going to go down the drain. The dynamite

and blasting caps and expensive Uzis would be confiscated. Just when they were ready to do something

and wake the country up a little, this had to happen.

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How had they found out? Who'd given them away? He slumped. Maybe no one had given them away.

Most likely this was just a routine roundup. The government men probably knew nothing of the plans or

guns. But they'd sure as hell find out when they searched the truck. And they would search the truck,

Vandorm had no doubt of that. Of all the dumb, stinking, rotten luck!

Across the way he could see two of them going through Sutherlin's Cadillac already. Sutherlin stood

nearby looking stiff and uncomfortable in his neatly pressed whites. Probably wondering what this would

do to his lucrative accounting practice when the word got out, Vandorm mused. The Cadillac contained a

duplicate set of plans. About the best he and Conroy could hope for was that, having found one set of

plans, they wouldn't search the pickup and find the guns. His spirits lifted slightly. There was a chance the

rest of them might get off light unless Sutherlin talked. He didn't know if they could count on the

accountant's silence.

“You fellers are making a big mistake,” he told the pair of agents who'd confronted him. “We weren't

doing anyone any harm. Just exercising our Constitutional right of assembly.” It seemed as though

hundreds of agents were prowling through the woods, though in reality there were fewer than two dozen.

Men in whites, his friends and drinking buddies, the neighbors he shot pool with, were being hustled into

the waiting vans. Some of them were too far gone to know what was happening to them. Soon he and BJ

were being marched across the clearing to join them.

“Don't you people have anything better to do?” BJ said angrily.

Vandorm was surprised. BJ didn't volunteer much in the way of conversation. He reacted instead of

initiating. Apparently the actual arrest had triggered something within him. Vandorm was glad because it

took the agent's eyes off him; those accusing, disgusted-looking eyes.

BJ wasn't finished. “Why ain't you out bustin’ the Mafia or runnin’ down burglars instead of harassin’

regular folks who ain't doin’ anyone any harm.”

“Just keep moving,” said the man in the jeans. His companion no longer held the pistol pointed at

Vandorm. Luther gazed longingly at the shielding darkness of the woods nearby, but he didn't feel his legs

were in shape for anything longer than a ten-yard sprint. What would've been the point? They had his

name, had identified him at the beginning. Running would solve nothing.

It occurred to him suddenly that their chapter must have been under surveillance for some time. In

addition to being embarrassed, he now felt like a fool.

The rear doors of the van gaped wide. BJ was still talking.

“It's damn wrong, that's what it is. Y'all ought to be out doin’ some decent work instead of troublin’

honest folks.”

“Just get in, BJ,” Luther told him. “You don't have to say anything to these people. Wait till Sutherlin's

lawyer talks to you.” He was starting to regain a smidgen of his former self-confidence. A backward

glance revealed the big pickup squatting alone and uninspected on the far side of the clearing. Maybe

they'd even miss the papers in Sutherlin's Caddy. They might get out of this yet!

“You guys are making a big mistake, you'll see. What did you go to all this trouble for? So you could

stick us with a drunk and disorderly? A little cross burning on National Forest land? It's our damn forest!

What's that gonna get us, a warning and a fifty-dollar fine? Damn waste of taxpayers’ money is what it

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is.”

“Just find a seat,” said the man in the jeans. His companion gestured casually with the pistol.

“Come on, hurry it up.”

BJ stopped, turned, and took a step toward him. He was smiling that silly, sappy grin Vandorm and the

others had come to know so well these past several months.

“I don't ‘preciate being rushed, mister—especially by ugly people. And you're just about the ugliest

people I ever did see.”

The agent's gun whipped up fast to crack BJ across the face and send him staggering backward. He sat

down hard near the right rear tires. The first agent stepped between BJ and his colleague and grabbed

the latter's arm. The agent was breathing hard, glaring down at the man on the ground. A thin stream of

blood dripped from the corner of BJ's mouth.

“Jesus, Bill, take it easy!” the first agent muttered. The other agent made a visible effort to calm himself.

His reply was low, barely under control.

“Easy. Yeah, right. Look, you take care of these two.”

“Sure. Go and help Dave with the paperwork.”

The agent nodded, staring at BJ as Luther helped his friend to his feet. The hatred between the two men

poisoned what little fresh air remained in the clearing.

“You listen to me, cracker,” growled the agent. “You better hope I never meet you on the street when

I'm off duty, man.”

“That'll be up to me,” BJ replied easily, “because I'll be able to smell you comin', nigger.”

Vandorm's eyes got as big as light bulbs. “Holy—Get in the damn van, BJ, come on, get in the van!” He

was pushing and shoving at his friend.

“Yeah, get in,” said the first agent. “Look, we're all highly trained here but we're human, too. You better

get your friend inside,” he told Luther sharply, “before he opens his mouth one time too many and we

have a serious situation on our hands.”

“Right, yeah, sure.” Vandorm practically dragged the grimacing BJ into the vehicle, making sure they got

seats away from the doors.

“Christ, BJ! I always knew you were slow, but I didn't think you were crazy. That guy could've killed

you.”

“Hell, I ain't afraid of him.” BJ's brows drew together. “Are you afraid of him, Luther? You once told me

you weren't afraid o’ no gov'mint men.” Another brace of celebrants was shoved in before the doors

were closed and locked from the outside.

One trailing the other, the two vans rumbled off into the night, following the access road that led out of

the forest. After a while other vehicles began to follow, emerging from concealing brush. Most of them

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were four-wheel drives.

Eventually only two remained. Their occupants began a thorough examination of the cars the cross

burners had left behind. A couple of them started spraying the collapsing fire with extinguishers to make

sure the blaze wouldn't spread to the nearby woods. They would all be there long into the morning hours

and then they too would drive off, leaving the clearing ringed with a ghostly semicircle of abandoned

vehicles, all facing a pile of smoldering ashes.

2

Seattle, Washington—9 June

Merry Sharrow was taking her final order of the morning and almost enjoying it. Almost enjoying it

because Mrs. Gustafson the supervisor wasn't peering over her shoulder to make sure every little box

and line were properly filled out. Their shift ended simultaneously, but Gustafson had enough seniority to

depart nine minutes early. Merry and her co-workers were left to carry on alone until Fred Travers and

the rest of the day shift punched in.

So she was able to relax as she took the order from the young man from Missoula. He was buying his

first real sleeping bag and was full of questions about loft and rip-stop nylon and the technical differences

between goose and duck down. She was happy to supply the information (that was part of her job) but

not to the point of staying one second beyond quitting time.

She didn't try to hurry his decision. Never rush a customer, she'd been told while training for the job. A

rushed customer is an irritated customer, and an irritated customer is one lost forever.

At two minutes to eight he finally made up his mind and bought a pair of Himalayan goose down bags,

comfort level forty below, five-year guarantee. He put it on his VISA card and bid her a pleasant

farewell, explaining that he was already late for work. The refrain was familiar to Merry. The majority of

the country was on its way to work just as she was getting off.

Merry worked the graveyard shift at Eddie Bauer. Midnight to eight in the morning. For her the rising

sun signified the arrival of early evening. It wasn't as bad as people usually thought. She'd trained herself

to sleep from six in the evening until eleven at night. She was free every day of her life. All pretty

backwards, but her friends understood. Because of necessity most of her friends were the women she

worked with. They shared the same problems, the same time-shifted lifestyles.

She totalled the night's calls and receipts, made sure all the orders had been entered into the central

computer, and prepared to check out. There was no hurry. You didn't hit a lot of rush hour traffic going

east out of Seattle at eight in the morning. What traffic there was was coming into the city, not going out.

Yes, she had most of her life free, even if she didn't do anything with it. Shop and sleep and watch soap

operas and take it easy and if she wanted a semblance of a normal social life, there was always the

weekends.

Her social life pretty much consisted of her relationship with Donald. He was a junior designer with

Boeing. They'd been going together (a convenient euphemism for sleeping together) for four years. Merry

was twenty-eight and getting edgy. Admittedly, it was difficult to sustain anything like a normal

relationship with another human being when you only saw him on weekends. Or in the evening, when he

was lively and full of energy and all she wanted to do was go to bed. Correction: go to sleep.

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They managed somehow. Donald was bright, cheerful, attractive, all-in-all a nice catch. There was just

one drawback. She was beginning to suspect he didn't want to be caught.

All her life she'd done what she was told, been the good girl, the complaisant woman. Maybe it was time

to make some changes. No—nomaybe about it. Twenty-eight. Nobody was going to change things for

her. Her friend Amy was always telling her that. She was going to have to take charge of her life herself,

going to have to force any changes herself.

Easy to say. Change a life. Take charge. Change your world. How? Where do you start?

Maybe by going home. Eddie Bauer's phone lines were open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a

week. There were sixteen operator stations designed to take incoming orders. During the graveyard shift

only three were occupied. By Merry, her friend Amy, and Nikki the Cat, as the part-time dancer

preferred to be called. After 1:30 business usually dropped off, picking up again at 5:00 when it turned

8:00 on the East Coast. That's when people in places like New York and Boston and Washington, D.C.,

began waking up and spending money.

Washington, D.C. Here she'd lived most of her life in Washington state and had never seen the other.

Well, why not? She had a vacation coming, theyowed her a vacation. For some reason the nation's

capital felt like the right place to visit. By God, why not? Do it, do something for yourself for a change.

Don't even ask Donald if he wants to go.

She felt better than she had in months. She'd made a decision.

“You okay?” Amy was eyeing her fellow, operator uncertainly. “You look funny.”

“Just preoccupied.” She reached under her table, recovered her purse. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Amy rose. “You'resure you're okay?”

Merry joined her and the two women headed for the exit. “Fine. I just had a great idea.”

“Going to tell me about it?”

“Later.” They were in the cloakroom now, checking out their raincoats and umbrellas preparatory to

making the usual mad dash through the rain to their cars. This close to the parking lot you could hear the

water drumming on the asphalt. It was coming down hard and steady outside and had been doing so off

and on for over a week, with no clearing in sight. The delights of living in Seattle.

Amy popped her umbrella open. “Maybe it's let up a little.” She opened the back door.

Sky full of lightning, night full of thunder: black steady rain falling straight down. No wind, no nonsense,

no surprises: just water.

“Terrific,” Amy groused. “You know, I worry about you living so far out of town and having to drive

through stuff like this all the time. You ought to move into the city. Matt and I could put you up until you

found a place.”

“The rain doesn't bother me since I got the Wagoneer. I just throw it into four-wheel drive, set the cruise

control, and mosey on home. Besides, all the traffic's going the other way and I've got both eastbound

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lanes to myself. Now what you guys ought to do is move out next to me. I spend my free time with deer

and birds and squirrels instead of junkies and bums.”

“That's it, put me in my place, no quarter given.” Amy assumed a fencer's pose and jabbed the sky with

her umbrella. “And as she ends the refrain—thrust home!” She charged out into the storm with Merry

close on her heels.

“You haven't got the nose for that line.”

“Thank God. See ya tomorrow.” Amy veered off toward a solitary Subaru while Merry struggled to

unlock her Jeep. Once inside the dry steel cocoon she was able to relax. The pungent odor of spruce

filled the car. The back end was full of firewood.

It started up instantly. She put it into four-wheel drive, honked twice at Amy, and turned right out of the

parking lot. Thanks to the dense cloud cover it was black as midnight. She cruised up empty Stockton

Road, heading for the I-90 onramp. Despite what she'd told Amy, she was tired and not looking forward

to the long drive ahead.

But she loved her little house in the forest. The privacy and greenery made the commute well worth

while. The house was just big enough for her, and for Donald when he could make the time to come out

for a visit. She had two acres instead of two bedrooms and liked it that way. She didn't see how Matt

and Amy managed to sleep in the city in the early evening and late afternoon. Peace and quiet was worth

a little driving.

The muscles surrounding her left eye itched and she rubbed at it with her left hand. Have to wash it out

when I get home, she told herself. The wipers threw water left and right, keeping the road ahead halfway

visible. The fog lights stayed off. Because of the dearth of traffic in the oncoming lanes due to the storm

she could make the drive with her high beams on.

After pushing the Wagoneer up to fifty-five she set the cruise control and crossed her legs. The

all-weather tires and four-wheel drive would keep her going straight. The lights of metropolitan Seattle

vanished from the rear-view mirror.

Busy night. She thought back to her last order on which she'd spent nearly fifteen minutes of phone time.

Perhaps she could have closed the sale sooner, been a little more formal and less chatty with the nice

man from Missoula, but she'd enjoyed talking to him. Merry appreciated nice voices. The sleeping bag

buyer's had been particularly rich and resonant.

Wonder how old he was? You could never tell just from the sound of someone's voice. He could've

been anything from eighteen to fifty. If she'd had to hazard a guess, she would've bet he was in his thirties.

Early thirties, close to her age. She wondered what he looked like. A voice was no key. Someone could

sound like Burt Reynolds over the phone and look like W. C. Fields in person. Same thing held true for

women.

She knew she had a fine speaking voice or she wouldn't have been hired. Was the man from Missoula

on his way to work wondering what she looked like? She glanced up at her reflection in the rear-view

mirror. Amy had called her pretty, but Amy was prejudiced in favor of anything that would help to hype

her best friend's self-confidence.

Her skin was white, chinalike, and she hated that. Nothing she could do about it except curse her

ancestors. “Tan” was not a word that existed in the Sharrow family vocabulary, though “sunburn” loomed

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Alan Dean Foster - Into the Out Of

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