To the Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

  "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 eye
sight 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.