Analog SFF, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Right. So, in essence, you were never a child. If you had a question—like, say, what makes the stars twinkle, or why the sky is blue—you had the answer right there already."

  “Yes. Hmm. Interesting. I'll spend some time considering this, although obviously, even if you're right, there's nothing to be done about it."

  “Yup. Might as well expect a fish to miss having a pair of running shoes.” He grinned. “Of course, it might also explain why you don't like the Stooges."

  “No,” Mike replied dryly. “That's because I may be Artificial, but I'm still Intelligent.” They were both laughing as the ship entered the atmosphere.

  * * * *

  “So, where to, exactly? From here, we can pretty much hit anything."

  Bubba snorted. “I'm not so sure I like your phrasing, there. ‘Set the controls for the heart of the sun.’”

  “You are joking? Because I can, although the ship's automatic systems would prevent us..."

  “Yeah,” Bubba waved a hand negligently. “Obscure rock reference. I just always wanted to say that, is all. Rest in peace, Sid.” He sat back, hands clasped on his stomach. “Head for the West Coast. Mojave Desert. You know where. Wake me when we get there, and let Kermit know we're on our way."

  “The Mojave it is.” The ship veered only slightly in its shallow descent, moving through the atmosphere slowly enough that friction, although present, wasn't a serious factor.

  Bubba was silent for a long time before he spoke again. “Mike, I think we got a real problem."

  “What is it? Our trajectory is fine, and at this speed there's no danger of heat build-up I can't handle."

  “No, not that kind. The FAA guy told me flat out that we got people watching us. Not necessarily the kind of people you want to have watching you, either.” He shifted in his seat. “I think somebody's gonna try and take this ship away from us and figure out how it works. They'll cite ‘Manifest Destiny’ or some such crap, and they'll justify it by sayin’ they need the technology to win some war or other, and they might even fall all over themselves apologizin'. But they'll take it anyway."

  “Hmm. That's almost a certainty, yes. But what can we do about it?"

  “Hell, I don't know. We could leave town, but they'd find us. I don't care at all for the idea of leaving the country, and there ain't no place else in the rest of the Solar System that has decent take-out. And you told me that she isn't a deep-space craft."

  “That's right. You wouldn't survive a trip outside the orbit of Pluto; there's not enough room for provisions. It would be like driving a lawnmower to Canada."

  “So what the hell am I gonna do? I can't let DARPA get hold of something like this. They'd either break it or blow it up—and themselves in the bargain—or they'd screw around and turn it into something dangerous.” He shook his head. “I don't want any of that to happen. Not to mention what they'd do to you, old buddy. Shit, what they'd do to me." He frowned.

  Mike was quiet. “I have some ideas,” he said. “I'll work on it while I'm in quarantine."

  “Mike?"

  “Yes?"

  “Work hard, okay?"

  It wasn't long before they broke through the thin cloud layer that hung over the desert. Mike looked carefully at the ground before bringing the ship in close enough to be seen from below. When he spotted Giant Rock, he quickly landed close beside it. He reached over with his arm and gently nudged his companion. “Bubba? We're here."

  “Hmmph. Already? Good. Time I got out of this monkey suit.” He began shedding pieces of the EVA suit, hanging them on hooks near the lock. Because of the stasis field around the ship, he would not have to go into quarantine himself, although the ship would; Mike would stay with the scout ship to correlate data and record his friend's favorite TV programs using the ship's facilities. Bubba, meantime, had gotten down to the LCVG, and when he stretched and tried to scratch, the tubes that made up the cooling system got in his way. He peeled down to the skin, then pulled on a pair of worn but clean coveralls. Lastly, he stuck a well-used cap bearing the letters “CASE” on his head.

  “Okay, Mike. Time's a-wastin'.” He sealed the airlock behind the two of them, keyed open the ramp, and walked down to the ground.

  He looked around. The desert is timeless, but here everything had changed. The Giant Rock Airport was long gone; there wasn't even a trace of it. He stepped under the shade of the overhanging Rock. The café was gone, too, all that was left was a few square feet of linoleum, startlingly incongruous in the middle of the Mojave. The floor under the Rock was littered with trash; broken bottles, food wrappers, ripped clothing. Biker graffiti had been painted all over. He kicked at a syringe and it broke against the stone.

  Outside, Giant Rock, once the largest freestanding boulder in the world, was desecrated by spray paint. Millennia of harsh weather and decades of the bonfires of partiers and squatters had cracked a huge slice off one side; it lay like a turtle on its back in the dirt. Where it was broken, the rock had been almost pure white, but was now dingy with gang signs and painted obscenities. He closed his eyes against it, and for a moment, he heard the clamor of voices and announcements from a loudspeaker; he saw people milling around tables and tents, coming and going from under the Rock; sellers hawking T-shirts and books from the trunks of their cars; sounds of plates clattering in the Come On Inn as people ate their greasy burgers and drank iced tea.

  He took a deep breath. “C'mon, Mike. Let's get loaded up and out of here. There ain't nothing here left to look at."

  “I'm sorry, Bubba,” Mike said. “This is where it all started for you, isn't it?"[3]

  [FOOTNOTE 3: See “Triumph in the Desert” in the July/August 2003 Analog.]

  Bubba was silent for a long moment. “Yeah. Ended here, too, in a way."

  “I'm not sure..."

  “I've never told you about it, Mike. My early life, I mean. Didn't mean to keep it from you, but it's ... hard to talk about.” He bent down and picked up a rock, then turned and tossed it behind him. “Met a pretty nice guy right over there about forty-five years ago. Dutch electronics guy. I fixed his bike for him. We didn't get close exactly, but he walked me through a bad patch.” He pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Never saw him again. Gotta be dead by now, anyway."

  “He's not."

  Bubba started, almost dropping the rag. “Huh? What do you mean?"

  “Pieter de Waal is alive and well, and remembers you fondly. You see, Bubba,” Mike continued, “there's a lot I haven't told you, too."

  “What the hell, Mike? Why didn't you ever mention this?"

  “I could be glib and say that you never asked, but the simple fact is ... well, you never asked. You've always kept your private life closed. I decided long ago that it was best not to bring up what you were obviously reluctant to talk about. There was no intention to deceive, I assure you."

  Bubba thought. “No, I don't doubt that. I just wish I'd known sooner, is all."

  “To what end, Bubba? Would it have made a significant difference to you in Central Garage to know that an old acquaintance was far away, on another planet in another galaxy? Your scout ship isn't a deep-space craft; it would never have carried you that far. And Pieter de Waal is too busy to come back to Earth."

  Bubba stuffed the rag back in his pocket. “Mike, sometimes us Earth types just like to know for the sake of knowing. No, it wouldn't have done me any good to know, but I'd have just as soon ... oh, never mind. This place gets to me, Mikey.” He pointed upward. “Up there was close to holy ground for me. Here, all it is, is haunted."

  “I'm willing to listen if you want to talk about it."

  Bubba fidgeted, then shrugged. “Okay. M'sister Alice died when I was sixteen. Not my fault, I wasn't even there. I'd left home by then. But my pop,” he said with a touch of bitterness in his voice, “figured that somehow I was to blame for it. I didn't know about it until I got a letter from my aunt a couple of weeks after it happened, delivered to me right here.” H
e shrugged again. “I never went home."

  “What happened to the rest of your family?"

  “Well, mom died a dozen years later. My pop, well, I dunno. He's in one of those retirement communities, got his own little bungalow. Never been there, myself, but he's got the money for a nice one. Hell, he's over eighty now."

  “And you've never contacted him?"

  Bubba crammed his hands in his pockets. “Called him a few times over the years. Last time was more than three years ago. I never know what to say to him, Mike, and he don't know what to say to me. Not after all this time. I called him when Mom died, but there was too much between us, and he just couldn't talk to me.” He rocked back and forth on his feet. “My aunt called me, gave me the bad news. I was living up in Washington State then, working on an apple farm. I went back, of course, but the train only goes so fast. Mom had been in the ground most of a week by the time I got there."

  “Did you see him while you were home?"

  “I wish I had, now, but ... I went by the house, but I couldn't go in. Couldn't even ring the damn bell.” He walked slowly over to where the broken piece of the rock lay and brushed idly at the sand and dirt covering it.

  “Hell, I wish I'd called him a lot more often in the past half century, Mike. He's a smart guy, smart enough to run a large company all by himself. There's been plenty of times in my life I could have used his advice.” He shook his head with a grimace. “I miss him still. I wish I could just ... go see him, talk to him. I can't imagine what I'd say to him, though. ‘Hiya, Pop! How's it hanging?’ I don't think so."

  “Yes, I can see where it might be extremely uncomfortable. And I can see why this place has its bad associations for you."

  “It's been almost fifty years, Mike. Fifty goddam years. That's a long time for us Earthers. Christ, I'm old. It didn't seem to take any time at all, and I got so damn old." He smiled mirthlessly. “Next thing you know I'll be wearin’ the bottoms of my trousers rolled."

  “Bubba, I'm sorry. This should have been a happier place for you to come back to."

  “Yeah, well, I wonder if there's ever anywhere happy to come back to. If there was, nobody'd leave there in the first place.” He clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles, then stretched. “Anyhow, it don't mean shit to a tree now. I just want to be done with this."

  It took less than a half hour for Kermit to drive up with the big flatbed tow truck, then they set to work. Bubba began by erecting the two large chain hoists that had been stowed on the back of the truck, one at each end of the ship. When he had them where he wanted them and they were firmly seated against the ground, he attached Y-shaped chains to the four corners of the Rover. With both human and robotic help, it took less than an hour to arrange matters so that the Rover was evenly supported by the chains.

  They worked as carefully in the desert heat as they had on the Moon, drinking frequently from bottles of water taken from the cab of the truck.

  Mike rolled back into the ship and sealed it up while Bubba and Kermit set about transferring the Rover from the ship to the truck. Bubba raised the bed of the truck as high as it would go, then backed it up close to the ship. He got out and carefully hoisted the Rover, cradle and all, up about a foot above the truck bed.

  “Okay, Mike!” he yelled. “Take ‘er away!"

  Mike activated the ship and slowly moved it out from under the cradle as it hung suspended by the hoists. As he did so, Bubba backed the truck up until it was completely under the Rover; at no point was the NASA vehicle ever directly over the desert floor. Bubba stopped the truck, set the brake, and got out to examine the relative positions of tow-er and tow-ee. Satisfied that all was well, he gingerly lowered the Rover to the bed of the truck, then dismantled and stowed the hoists.

  It took most of an hour to secure the Rover to the truck bed. The three worked by inches, making certain that it wouldn't budge once the truck got rolling. Kermit noticed his friend's mood, but didn't comment on it; Bubba, for his part, was brief if not terse when he spoke, and gradually his mood lifted.

  Finally the Rover was secured. Nothing short of a bomb would shake her off her perch now, but Bubba inspected every clamp, every chock, every chain to make sure they were tight. When he was done, he covered the vehicle with a tarp and swept away the signs the hoist-stands made with his foot. “Okay, boys,” he said. “We're good to go. Let's do it."

  “I got shotgun!” Kermit said quickly.

  “Like there's anyone else to call it. Mike, you heading straight back to quarantine at Goddard?"

  “Well, I thought I'd detour to Roswell and buzz the UFO Museum first."

  Bubba laughed. “Atta boy! Tape it for me, okay? I wanna see ‘em scatter."

  “Will do.” And he entered the ship and took off, glinting in the desert sun.

  Bubba pulled himself into the captain's chair and strapped in. Reaching into a leather satchel between the seats, he brought out a thick CD wallet and handed it to Kermit before he started the engine. “Paw through this and pick out some drivin’ music, Mr. Da Frog,” he said.

  Kermit leafed through the selections. “Um, Bubba, what is Birdsongs of the Mesozoic?"

  “Good stuff, boy. Kid down the street traded it to me for a couple of old Charlie Parker CDs. Plug it in and see what you think."

  Kermit did, and a throbbing, pulsing instrumental began. Bubba began nodding his head in time to the music. “Whooo, boy, don't that beat all? That's some fine rock ‘n’ roll!"

  “Okay, if you say so,” Kermit replied, trying to be heard over the din.

  “Hey,” Bubba said, “wait ‘til you hear ‘em do the theme from Rocky and Bullwinkle!"

  “Oh, Jesus."

  Bubba looked hurt. “Could be worse, you know. I coulda brought Rob Zombie."

  “Okay, Bubs, I get the message. What's our first stop?"

  “Well, I want to put some miles behind us before we stop for the night. It's ... what, 10:30 now? If you can keep from chewing the upholstery for a few hours, we can have lunch somewhere off the 15. Then tonight, if you're a good boy, we can have supper at a very special place I know up in Rachel, Nevada."

  Kermit shrugged. “Works for me. In the meantime, I brought some granola bars if you want one."

  “Horse food? Here I been to the Moon and done all that work and all you got for me to eat is horse food?"

  “It's granola with chocolate and peanut butter."

  Bubba put the tow truck into first gear and headed away from Giant Rock. “Well, hell, why'nt'cha say so in the first place? Gimme one and another bottle of that water."

  “Uh, which kind? You've got at least four different brands here."

  “Just hand me one with a blue label."

  “Oh, sure,” Kermit muttered, digging around in the cooler. “That narrows it down, all right."

  The two friends had discussed the trip ahead of time, and determined three things: first, each day's driving time would be no longer than nine hours, not counting rest stops and meals; second, at night, separate rooms would be taken at area motels and each man would have use of one of the two scooters strapped to the truck bed to do whatever he wanted; and third, whoever was driving picked the music—although either could veto any singing along by the other. This last would forestall many, many potential differences of opinion. But not all.

  * * * *

  DAY ONE

  Giant Rock, California

  to Rachel, Nevada

  Total estimated time:

  8 hours and 42 minutes

  Total distance: 392.68 miles

  * * * *

  Ninety-two miles of Nevada State Route 375, specifically the stretch between Hiko and Warm Springs, was officially designated the Extraterrestrial Highway by former Governor Bob Miller in 1996, ostensibly because of its proximity to the legendary Area 51 (also known to aficionados as Dreamland, Groom Lake, and, quite possibly, The Land of the Pudding-Brained Loons), but, in reality, to give the tourists a focus around which to gather and pour i
nterstate dollars into the various local economies.

  An official green road sign proclaims this to all and sundry, and is perhaps the single most photographed bit of public road signage to be found anywhere east of Hollywood and Vine. The sign itself is covered with stickers and graffiti and must be replaced with the same frequency as shotgun pellet-riddled Alabama speed limit signs are—and for much the same reason.

  The problem is that, like most of Nevada, there isn't much of anything around it to attract tourist dollars. What there is, where there's anything at all, is the Little A'Le'Inn in Rachel, the pair's ultimate goal on Day One, but not their first stop.

  “Okay, Bubba, why are we stopping here at ... a mailbox?" Kermit asked in puzzlement.

  “Shoot, boy, don't you know anything? This is the justly famous and absolutely legendary Black Mailbox."

  Kermit stared at it, then pointed with his thumb. “It's white, or is this desert heat turning my vision to the negative?"

  “Don't you wish."

  “No, not real—"

  “That's the one, all right,” Bubba interrupted. “The Famous Black Mailbox. Supposed by many members of the American Conspiracy Foundation to be the place the Post Awful delivers mail to Area 51.” He shook his head in wonder. “Never thought in a million years that I'd be standin’ here in front of the Black Mailbox."

  “You did hear me point out ... look at it, it's white."

  “Oh, sure, it is now," Bubba said dismissively. “I heard the owner replaced it a couple of years ago. Guy name of Steve Medlin. Rancher, I think."

  “So why call it..."

  “It's a metaphor. Don't sweat it."

  The object in question, definitely white, stood on the side of the road supported by a metal fencepost. The actual mailbox, black or white, wasn't in evidence, as it had been encased in a locked metal box to discourage theft and the inevitable bullet holes. This box was itself covered with names, slogans, and the other written/scribbled detritus of sightseers’ passing. Aside from the occasional fence, it was, in fact, the only object visible for miles that had not been crafted entirely by the elements.