"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?"
"No. 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