Roadmarks

by Roger Zelazny

  "Do either of you have any idea where you are headed in your strange course of growth?"

  "She seems to think that this is only a phase in a larger life cycle."

  "And you do not?"

  "Maybe it is. I just don't know."

  "Does Chadwick know all this about you?"

  "Yes."

  "Could he possibly know more about it than you do?"

  Red shook his head.

  "No way to tell. I suppose anything is possible."

  "What is his reason for being so down on you?"

  "When we parted company, he was upset that I was destroying a good business arrangement"

  "Were you?"

  "I suppose so. But he'd changed the nature of the business and it wasn't so much fun anymore. I messed up the operations and left."

  ''But he is still a rich man?"

  "Very wealthy."

  "Then I suspect the possibility of a motive other than the economic. Jealousy, perhaps, at your improving well-being."

  Possibly, but nothing turns on it. It is his objective rather than his motive that concerns me."

  "I am just trying to understand the enemy, Red." "I know. But there isn't much else to tell."

  •'^

  He swung through the underpass and turned left up

  the access ramp. A shadow which fell upon the vehicle

  did not depart when he entered the light, "Your room was quite a mess this morning," Monda may observed. ^ "Yes, it was. That always happens."

  "What about that design that looked like a Chinese

  character burned into the door? Is that a customary

  accompaniment?" "No. It was just—a Chinese character. It meant

  'good fortune.'" "How do you explain it?" "Don't. Can't. Strange." Mondamay made a high-pitched, broken whistling

  noise. "What's funny?" "I was thinking of some books you once left—with

  pictures you had to explain to me." "I'm afraid..." "Cartoons, with captions." Red relit his cigar. "Not funny," he said. The strange shadow clung to the truck's bed, Monda may whistled again. Flowers began to sing.

  Two

  Randy watched the day pulse on and off, each beat growing longer, until a chill, drizzling morning hung about them as they entered the service plaza. Golden and red-leafed maples dripped beside the frost-paned buildings. They drew up beside a fuel pump.

  "This is crazy," he said. "It's summer, not autumn."

  "It is autumn here. Randy, and if you wanted to take the next exit and keep heading south, you could get yourself shot at by the Army of the Confederacy—or the Union Army, depending of course on just where you wind up."

  "You are not joking?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so. Unfortunately, I'm beginning to believe you. But what's to prevent Lee's men from marching along the shoulder there and taking Washington—say, Coolidge's Washington? Or Elsenhower's? Or Jackson's?"

  "Did you ever come upon the Road by yourself, or even hear of it?"

  "No."

  "Only certain people or machines can find it and travel it. I do not know why. The Road is an organic thing. This is a part of its nature, and of its travelers'."

  "What if I hadn't been one of them?"

  "I might have been able to bring you, anyhow. Much can depend on the guide."

  "Then I still don't know whether I could have traveled it solo?"

  "No."

  "So, supposing one of Lee's officers did know about it and could travel it? What then?"

  "Those who know about it tend to keep it to themselves, as you will learn. But even so, supposing he could? Supposing you took the next exit, as I'd suggested, and kept heading south? Supposing you'd run over Stonewall Jackson?" :

  "Okay, I'm supposing."

  "... And then you had turned around and come back. You would have noticed a fork in the Road where there had been none before—off there somewhere in the hinterlands—another way merging with your own, to form the route back here. Thereafter, on re;

  turning this way, you could take the branch to the place where that accident had occurred, or the other, to the place where it did not. The former would be a very bad road, however, and would probably disappear through disuse before too long. On the other hand, if

  it became sufficiently well-traveled, then the other might fade. This is unlikely, but if it were to occur, you would find it increasingly difficult to locate various later routes—Cs back up the Road—and there would be new ones, somewhat different from those you had known. It would be possible to lose yourself down some byway and never get back to your point of departure."

  "But traces of the other routes would still be there, fallen into disuse?"

  "Theoretically, yes—rutted, weed-grown, cut by rivers, smothered by fallen rock—but the traces should remain. Finding them is the trick, though."

  "It would seem easier to try to reopen them by un doing whatever had been done—or doing something

  else." "Try it sometime. Go back to the place that is no

  longer as you recall it and try to subtract everything that makes it different. Altering the single pivotal event may no longer be sufficient. The new alteration may have other effects also, depending on how you go about it You would probably simply establish another route —though, of course, it may be close enough to the original to suit your purposes. Then again, maybe not."

  "Stop. Right there. Let me digest it. I'll ask you more later. Why did we stop here, anyway? We don't have to get gas yet."

  "We stopped because this one is self-service. If you will open me to page 78 and place me face down in that box beside the pump, I will act as a credit card, drawing on my former employer's account. I will know in a moment whether the account is still active. I may also be able to discover where he last fueled, and we can head for that point."

  "All right," Randy said, raising Leaves and opening the door. "Mind telling me what name that account would be under?"

  "Dorakeen."

  "What sort of name is that?"

  "I don't really know."

  He moved around the vehicle, inserted the volume into the unit. A light came on within.

  "Go ahead and top it off," said Leaves's muffled voice. "The account is still active."

  "Seems sort of like stealing."

  "Hell, if he is your old man, the least he can do is buy you some gas."

  He uncapped the tank, drew down the hose, raised a

  lever.

  "He last fueled at an early C Sixteen stop," Leaves said as he squeezed the trigger. "We'll go there from here, ask around. "

  "Who runs these rest stops and gas stations, any how?"

  "They are a strange breed. Exiles, refugees—people who can't go home and can't or won't adapt to a new land. Lost souls—people who can't find their ways home and are afraid to leave the Road. Jaded travelers —people who've been everywhere and now prefer a timeless, placeless place like this."

  He chuckled.

  "Is Ambrose Bierce writing a book near here?"

  "As a matter of fact—"

  The nozzle clicked. He squeezed in a little more and capped the tank.

  "You said C Sixteen. I take it that means the sixteenth century?"

  "Right Most people who travel the Road much beyond their own section pick up a kind of trading language called foretalk. It is sort of like Yoruba, Malinka or Hausa in Africa—kind of synthetic and used across wide areas. There are some variations, but I can always translate for you if the need arises."

  He opened the unit, withdrew Leaves.

  "I'd like you to teach me as we drive along," he said. "I've always been interested in languages, and this one seems particularly useful."

  "Glad to."

  They entered the car.

  "Leaves," he said as he seated himself, "you must have some sort of optical scanning setup..."

  "Yes."

  "Well, there is a photo between your last page and the back cover. Can you see it?"

  "N
o. It is facing in the wrong direction. Insert it almost anywhere else. Page 78 is particularly—"

  He withdrew the photo, thrust it into the center of the volume, squeezed tight. Several seconds ticked by.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "Yes. I have scanned the photo."

  "Is it him? Is that Dorakeen?"

  "It— It appears to be. If it is not, the resemblance is very strong."

  "Then let's go and find him.

  He started the engine.

  As he headed down the ramp, he asked, "What line of work is he in?"

  There was a long pause; then, "I am not exactly certain. He transported all sorts of things for a long while. Made considerable sums of money. Much of that time he was in partnership with a man named Chadwick, who later transferred his operations a good distance up the Road. Chadwick became extremely powerful, apparently as a result of their activities, and they eventually had a falling-out. This occurred at about the time I was—forgotten—by him. He must have departed suddenly, as you say. So all I really know of his occupation is that it involved transportation."

  Randy chuckled.

  "... But I have always wondered," Leaves continued.

  "What?" Randy asked.

  "Whether he might not have been in one of those categories I mentioned earlier—the people who can't find their ways home. He always seemed to be looking for something—exploring, testing. And I never did know exactly where he came from. He spent a lot of time poking around sideroads. And after a while, I believe that he did try to—alter things—here and there. Only his memory of the exact set of circumstances he wanted to re-create did not seem quite complete—as though it might have been something from a very long time ago. Yes, he traveled a lot..."

  "Made it to Cleveland, anyway," Randy said, "at least for a little while." Then, "What was he like? I mean, personally."

  "That is a difficult question. Restless-if I had to choose one word."

  "I mean-honest? Dishonest? A nice guy? A prick?"

  "Yes, he was all of those things at various times. His personality was liable to change suddenly. But later... Later on he got—self-destructive..."

  Randy shook his head.

  "I guess I'll just have to wait, if he's still around. How about a language lesson?"

  "Very well."

  One

  Red cut suddenly to the right, taking a narrow turnoff without slowing. "What," Flowers asked, "are you doing?" "Twelve hours of driving is plenty," he replied. "I

  want to sleep now."

  "Collapse the seat and I'll take over." He shook his head. "I want to get out of this damned car and get some

  real rest."

  "Then please use a phony name when you register." "No place to register. We're just going to camp. It's

  a devastated area. No problem." "Mutants? Radiation? Booby traps?" "No, no and no. I've been here before. It's clean." After a time he slowed, found another turnoff—

  narrow, poorly surfaced. The sky phased into a pink

  and purple twilight. In the distance, a shattered city

  appeared in the sunset glow. He turned again. " '... Et que lews grands piliers, droits et majestueux,

  rendaient pareils. Ie soir, aux grottes bascdtiques,'"

  Flowers observed. "You're going to camp in a death

  museum."

  "Not really," he replied. They were on a dirt road now. It ran across the face

  of a mountain for a time, crossed a creaking bridge over a narrow gorge, rounded a bluff, and reached a plain within sight of the city again. Red pulled off into a field, dotted here and there, amid its craters, with rusting equipment—mostly damaged vehicles, surface and air. He braked to a stop in a clear area.

  The curiously shaped shadow which now lay across the vehicle's roof took on a reptilian outline, darkening thickening...

  "Alter the truck's appearance to resemble one of these wrecks," Red instructed.

  "Occasionally you have a decent idea," Flowers observed. "It will take about five or six minutes to do a really fine decadent job. Leave the engine running."

  When the alteration began, the shadow contracted suddenly into a circle, dropped from the vehicle and slid off quickly across the ground in the direction of a crashed aircar. Red and Mondamay climbed out and began stringing a barrier. The air stirred sluggishly about them, dry, with a faint hint of coolness to come. A bank of clouds was building in the east. Somewhere, an insect began buzzing.

  In the meantime, warped areas appeared in the truck's body, deepening, twisting. Random dents appeared. Rust-colored spots flashed across the vehicle's surface, slowed, settled. The machine tilted to one side. Red returned to it and unloaded a parcel of rations and a sleeping bag. The engine stopped.

  "That's it," Flowers said. "How's it look?"

  "Hopeless," Red replied, sprawling on the bag and

  opening a food container. "Thanks."

  Mondamay approached, halted and said softly, "I detect nothing of an overtly hostile nature within ten kilometers."

  "What do you mean 'overtly'?"

  "There are a number of undetonated bombs and | unfired weapons amid the wreckage."

  "Any of them underfoot?"

  "No."

  "Radioactivity? Poison gases? Bacteria?"

  "Safe."

  "Then I guess we can live with the situation."

  Red began to eat.

  "You say you have been working for a long while," Mondamay asked, "trying to alter things back to some situation you remember from long ago?"

  "That's right."

  "From some of the things you'd said earlier about your memory, are you certain that you would even recognize it if you were to find it?"

  "More certain than ever. I remember more now."

  "And if you locate the road you seek, you will take it and go home?"

  "Yes."

  "What is it like there?"

  "I couldn't tell you."

  "Then what is it you hope to find?" "Myself."

  "Yourself? I am afraid I do not understand." "Neither do I, entirely. But it is getting clearer." The sky blackened, came down with a case of stars. A piece of moon drifted rudderless, low in the east. Red lit no lights other than his cigar. He drank Greek wine from an earthen flask. The wind rose, cool now. Flowers was doing something barely audible which might have been Debussy. Blackness within blackness, a coil of shadow slid near to Red's extended foot

  "Bel'kwinith," he said softly, and the wind seemed to pause, the shadow froze, an impurity in the cigar caused it to hiss and flare for a moment.

  "The hell with it," he said then.

  "What do you mean?" Mondamay asked him. "The hell with what?"

  "Getting Chadwick."

  "I thought we had been through all this. None of the alternatives struck you as sufficiently attractive."

  "It's not worth it," he said. "The fat fool is just not worth it. Won't even do his own fighting."

  "Fool? You once said he was a very clever man."

  Red snorted.

  "Humans! I suppose he's clever enough, as far as that goes. It still comes to nothing."

  "Then what are you going to do?"

  "Find him. And make him tell me some things. I believe he knows more about me than he ever let on. Things I may not even know."

  "Because of things you are remembering?"

  "Yes. And you may be right I—"

  "I have detected something."

  Red was on his feet

  "Nearby?"

  The shadow retreated about the rear of the vehicle.

  "No. But it is moving in this direction."

  "Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

  "There is a machine involved. It is approaching cautiously... Get into the truck!"

  The engine started as Red leaped into the vehicle. The doors slammed. A window began closing. Another shape-change commenced.

  Flowers suddenly broadcast Mondamay's words to him.

  "What a beautiful killing mach
ine!" he said. "Spoiled in many ways by the organic adjunct. Nevertheless^ :

  quite artfully designed."

  "Mondamay!" he shouted as the truck shuddered. "Can you hear me?"

  "Of course. Red. I wouldn't neglect you at a time like this. My, it's coming on fast!"

  The truck creaked and twisted. The engine sputtered twice. A door opened, then slammed.

  "What the hell is it?"

  "A large, tanklike device packed with an amazing array of weapons and guided by a disembodied human brain which is, I believe, somewhat mad. I don't know

  whether it really hails from around here or was shipped here to await your coming. Are you familiar with it?"

  "I think I've heard of battle wagons like that somewhere along the line. I'm not certain where, though."

  The sky caught fire like a sudden dawn, and a wave of flame rolled toward them. Mondamay raised an arm and it halted as if it had encountered an invisible wall, boiling for half a minute before it finally subsided.

  "He's got atomics, all right Neatly done, that," he commented.

  "Why are we still alive?"

  "I blocked him."

  Mondamay's arm flared for a moment and a distant hilltop took fire.

  "Right in front of him," he observed. "That crater will slow him. You had better be going now, Red. Flowers, take him away."

  "Right."

  The truck turned and headed back across the field, still changing shape as it bounced along.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Red shouted.

  The sky blazed again, but the small fireball was blocked, filtered, dimmed, forced back.

  "I have to cover your retreat properly," came Mondamay's voice, "before I'll be free to deal with him. Flowers will get you back to the Road."

  "Deal with him? How do you propose doing that? You can't even—"

  There came an enormous explosion, followed by a burst of static. The truck shook, but continued on toward the dirt road. Dust swirled about them.

  "—fully operational again," came Mondamay's voice. "Flowers was able to analyze my circuits and direct me in repairing myself—"

  There came another explosion. Red was looking back, but their camping area was filled with smoke and dust. He was momentarily deafened, and when his hearing

  returned, he realized it was Flowers's voice that was now addressing him.

  "—are going? Where did you say we are going?"

  "Huh? Out of here, I hope."