To the Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

  To Cele Patterson, the angel of Peter Cooper with love and affection

  1

  Desolation is magnified at seventy miles per hour. At that speed, colors that are normally separate and distinct tend to blend together like the test pattern on an old TV. Sharply defined objects melt into one another, precluding identification, forestalling recognition. Landscapes adopt the illusion of reality.

  It’s worse in the desert because there is so little to focus on. Those creatures that don’t hide usually spend the daylight hours sleeping. For most of the year the plant life is dressed in a blistered gray hue that seems designed to confuse the eye. Nothing moves except the tormented air that rises in waves from the frying-pan pavement in front of you.

  In summer, when the thermometer in the Mojave creeps past the 110 mark with threatening regularity, all activity ceases. Like the sidewinders and the kangaroo rats, the desert’s human inhabitants have gone to ground by eight A.M., embracing the protection of dark buildings and overstressed air conditioners.

  Once you get out past Barstow, driving east, civilization vanishes for hundreds of miles except for one tiny outpost called Baker. The map will insist you’re still in the United States of America, but if not for the nondescript ribbon of concrete known as Interstate 40 you might as well be crossing the Gobi, or the Sahara, or the Namib. Brothers in emptiness. Parts of the Great Southwest Desert are as deadly empty as Arabia’s Rub' al Khali.

  If anything stands out it’s the absence of black. Everything is painted light or white. In the Mojave black is the color of fools; sometimes dead ones. Now and again travelers convinced that living in the twentieth century has endowed them with immunity break down out in the desert. Travelers neglectful of water. Transient visitors who perish of dehydration despite aerial surveillance and thermos bottles and air-conditioning and CB radios.

  Dull the desert can be, but it slays the thoughtless and carefree as efficiently as any gilded Toledo blade. Indifference makes it no less lethal.

  The Sonderbergs had no thoughts of dying, though there were times since they’d left Los Angeles when Frank thought of doing some killing of his own, if only in the metaphorical sense. It was his own fault and he knew it. Normally they flew to Las Vegas. He’d decided they’d do it differently this time. Among the things that had inspired this changeling journey was the fact that Wendy was now old enough to appreciate the beauty of their unspoiled surroundings. That she had not the slightest intention of doing so was no fault of his. He ought to have known better.

  Straightening slightly in the captain’s chair enabled him to see her in the rearview mirror. Sixteen and pretty, she was convulsing on the couch that folded out to make a bed. Her head snapped from side to side, her torso twitched violently at the waist, and her feet massaged the floor. Eyes shut in private rapture, she was moving to the electrified rhythm of an unpronounceable group of heavy-metal leprechauns, delivered exclusively to her ears via the tiny wire that connected earphones and Walkman.

  Though he would never have said so among peers, Frank didn’t consider his daughter’s musical taste all that bad. It wasn’t so very different from what he’d been chastised for listening to when he was her age. But it was one thing to appreciate, another to be addicted. Wendy only removed the damn earphones to bathe and to sleep, and he wasn’t sure about the latter. Fascinating sights were whizzing past outside the motor home and the only time his daughter opened her eyes was to change tapes.

  Even when she paused briefly between concerts it was difficult to get her to pay attention to the country they were passing through. Worse, she was just old and smart enough to come up with a new word each week to describe her father. The current pejorative-of-the-month was "droll." As in his telling her plaintively, "Why don’t you watch some of this scenery? Why the hell do you think I took off the extra time and shelled out the extra bucks to rent this palace on wheels so we could drive and look and learn instead of flying?" And her rolling her eyes and replying, "Oh, Daddy. How droll."

  He would have welcomed the comment from Steven, who was ten. He would have welcomed anything from Steven, so long as it didn’t sound like a whine. His son was two years too old to still be a whiner. Overweight, unattractive, he only displayed enthusiasm when they drew near the next Burger King or McDonald’s or Carl’s Junior. Anything but a Wendy’s, because that was the name of his despised, contemptuous older sister.

  Frank settled back into the thickly padded seat. Two junkies he was raising. One addicted to indecipherable music, the other to junk food. He glanced to his right, and his expression softened. God knew Alicia tried her best. The children were just going through a phase, she would assure him. That was her favorite line and she clung to it like a talisman, reciting it like a prayer. Just going through a phase. No matter what the problem was, it was just a phase. Heavy metal, it’s just a phase. Overeating, a phase. Cats and dogs phasing out now. Scarred bass guitarists and Big Macs phasing in.

  He was being too hard on himself, he knew. His kids could be worse. Steven might grow out of his gluttony, and at least Wendy wasn’t into drugs. Not so far as he knew.

  Alicia still had that glow. She’d never been truly beautiful, but there was a serenity about her he’d always found attractive. The maid helped maintain that aura, as did the money. She’d been much more hyper when they’d met. Success bred in contentment, bred out her early nervousness and uncertainty. They enjoyed each other’s company, and that was more important than superficial physical attractiveness. Besides, he was no Cary Grant himself.

  She’d been ambivalent about this project all along, but she’d agreed to renting the motor home and driving to Vegas instead of flying as usual because he’d been so enthusiastic. He knew she’d done it for that reason and not because she thought it was the right way to go. The warm feeling prompted him to reach over with his right hand and pat her thigh. She looked back and smiled that familiar half-certain smile of hers.

  "Love you, too."

  He returned his attention to the empty highway ahead. The big engine sang to itself beneath the hood. The outside thermometer read ninety-eight and rising. Other vehicles, even eighteen-wheelers, were scarce this morning.

  "It’s not working out."

  She glanced back, then settled into her seat again. "You mean the kids? You can’t really blame them. They’d rather be lying by the pool. At their age there’s no vacation in getting there."

  "I know. It’s my fault."

  The kids enjoyed Vegas. Wendy was old enough to enjoy watching the young men at the pool and in the casino. Steven liked the pool, too, and freaked over the selection of video games, not to mention over being able to order room service. With the children occupied, Alicia spent the day soaking up the sun while Frank relaxed from the business. At night he and Alicia would take in a show or spend some time at the craps table while the kids relaxed in front of the TV, watching movies. They were pretty good about that, he had to admit.

  Now Steven was whining constantly and Wendy had withdrawn to her private metal nirvana, and it was all his fault. Just this once he’d determined to do something different. He hoped for enlightenment, but the result so far had been unrelenting discontent and alienation. Maybe he should have let Alicia stock the motor home’s larder with Steven’s requested cookies and chips and candy. At least he wouldn’t have had to put up with the boy’s continual whining ever since they’d left San Bernardino.

  Wendy didn’t whine. She just ignored him, as she ignored the barren landscape flashing past the windows while slipping fresh tapes in and out of her player as efficiently as any late-night DJ. Frank no longer tried to point out ocotillo or cholla, jumping cactus or paloverde. He could have counted on more response from
a stone.

  "You never thought much of this trip either, did you?"

  Alicia Sonderberg tried to frame a tactful reply. Truth to tell, she’d been startled when her husband had first broached the idea. It wasn’t like him. One of the traits she most loved him for was his predictability. She’d found him a welcome change from her own unsettled adolescence. Frank made her feel safe and secure right from the start, even during the early days when they’d lived in a cramped studio apartment in a run-down section of Santa Monica while he’d tried to start his business. He was dependable, reliable.

  Then out of nowhere came his declared intention to deviate from their vacation plans, from the pattern they’d followed for years. Instead of flying to Vegas, let’s rent a motor home and drive, he’d announced brightly.

  She smiled to herself. It wasn’t as if he’d proposed chartering a plane to fly to the North Pole so they could watch polar bears and walrus. Nevertheless, she’d quietly tried to change his mind, arguing that Steven wasn’t old enough to appreciate whatever they might encounter and that Wendy wouldn’t care. That she’d been proven correct so far was small comfort. She derived no pleasure from her husband’s disappointment.

  It was no way to begin a vacation. He’d always expected the truth from her and she’d always given it to him, but it was going to be hard to reply honestly. Oh sure, one or two things they’d seen had been of interest, but they had to consider the children. Frankly, Wendy and Steven were bored to tears. Wendy wanted boys to admire her new swimsuits and Steven wanted his snacks. Their idea of a vacation was not slowing down to watch a real, live rattlesnake cross the road. It wasn’t Alicia’s, either. The closest she wanted to get to creepy-crawlies was watching them on PBS. She was even more of a city person than Frank. Thank God they could afford a gardener.

  Seeing how genuinely distraught her husband was, she tried to work around the question. "Frank, you know how I always like to look my best for you."

  He frowned. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

  "Cosmetics don’t hold up too well in this kind of climate. That’s why I don’t go outside when we’re in Vegas, except to go to the pool."

  "You’re being evasive, hon."

  She smiled gently. "Maybe a little. Frank, you’ve got to admit this hasn’t been very exciting so far."

  "Did I promise excitement? Did I ever say it was going to be exciting? We’re going to spend a week in Vegas, for chrissake. Isn’t that excitement enough? Can’t we take a few days away from that to have an educational experience?"

  She looked toward the middle of the motor home. "I’m afraid the kids have had all the education they can take."

  He grunted and leaned over the wheel. "The kids! My kids. The zombie and the human garbage disposal. The Jacksons they ain’t."

  "Frank, their summer vacation just started. They’ve been nine months in school. The last thing in the world they’re interested in is an educational experience. Don’t you remember what it was like when you were their age?"

  "It should be fun for them, too." He was losing ground and knew it. "I mean, seeing that big diamondback cross the road. You know how many kids never get that close to a real, live rattler?"

  "Every kid in L.A. gets to the zoo."

  "That’s not the same thing as seeing it in its natural habitat," he protested.

  "I’m not sure I-40 qualifies as a natural habitat, Frank."

  He nodded to himself. "You’re gonna fight me on this one, aren’t you?" He swerved slightly to avoid a piece of broken crate littering the pavement, pulling into the fast lane to go around it. He barely bothered to glance at the sideview mirror. There’d been so little traffic since they’d left the outskirts of San Bernardino he felt they had the highway to themselves. In a sense they did.

  The Sonderberg children attended private school. The public schools didn’t let out for another two weeks. That was another reason why they always vacationed this time of year. The usual tourist destinations were still devoid of high school and college students and families traveling with kids. Only Wendy was upset, bemoaning the lack of boys her own age to chat with.

  Frank worried about his daughter’s preoccupation with members of the opposite sex, only to have Alicia reassure him that it was nothing but another phase. Wendy was no worse than any other pretty girl that age, and better than some. It was all part of growing up. Like her son’s admittedly regrettable overeating problem.

  Alicia had to admit that her son’s junk food binge was lasting longer than was healthy. His continued inactivity wouldn’t be so bad if he was, say, a computer genius or something. But he was quite average, well-meaning enough but in no way exceptional. In that regard he was much like his parents. Frank Sonderberg had risen above his station through sheer determination and hard work. Maybe when Steven was older he would begin to show some skill, or at least a little of his father’s drive. To date, however, the boy had proved himself relentlessly ordinary.

  Nobody appreciated what he was trying to do for them with this trip, Frank mused. Not Wendy and Steven, not even Alicia. They knew only city life, the big house, the private schools, vacations, and shopping sprees. It wasn’t right. He enjoyed all those things himself, having worked hard to gain them. But there ought to be some balance in a person’s life. Frank was big on balance.

  If you lived in the city then you should spend some time in the country, and if you were a country person you needed to experience the sophistication of the city. Balance. Television couldn’t compensate. Watching the creatures of the desert on Nova or Disney or Nature wasn’t the same as encountering them in the wild.

  Their brief sight of a family of javelinas in a gully just the other side of Barstow had been instructive. Alicia couldn’t get over how "cute" the two babies were. Wendy wondered why all the fuss over a bunch of hairy pigs, and Steven spent the whole evening at the RV park whining about bacon and pork chops. While there was something to be said for reducing an experience to its essential elements, his family had a way of doing it that transformed the extraordinary into the mundane.

  Maybe he was expecting too much of them. Especially the kids. He doubted they were all that different from their friends. Everything had been given to them. Alicia knew better, but his decision to drive instead of fly to Vegas was clearly baffling to her as well.

  Indifference and muted hostility. Those were his rewards for trying to act the responsible father. For trying to show his family something of the world beyond Los Angeles. Side trips to San Diego, San Francisco, and New York didn’t count. He’d sired an urban family, pure and simple. To Wendy and Steven a wildlife expedition consisted of going to the beach and fighting to avoid anything organic while playing in the surf.

  He looked up at the map secured by magnetic clips to the bare metal dash above the radio/cassette player. Fifty miles to go to Baker, the minuscule outpost of civilization that lay between Barstow and Vegas. This was one of the emptiest spots in California. Nothing to the south, Death Valley to the north.

  In point of fact, he reluctantly confessed to himself, it was pretty boring. Not like the Pacific Northwest or the bayous of the Deep South. Not that he was intimate with those regions, either. He was an armchair explorer, letting someone else’s camera be his eyes. Until this trip.

  He was ready to admit defeat, conquered by apathy. Already he’d discarded his original plan to take several days between San Bernardino and Vegas to explore side roads and beckoning arroyos. Not even the unblemished night sky had been sufficient to enthrall his offspring.

  "We saw it all at the planetarium, Daddy." So much for his daughter’s sense of wonder. As for Steven, he could only decry the absence of a laser show.

  "Right," he muttered to no one in particular. "I give in."

  Alicia glanced over curiously. "You give in to what, dear?"

  Instead of replying he turned his head to the right, shouted toward the back of the motor home. "Hey! You kids!"

  Steven looked up from his comic
book. "What’s up, Dad?"

  "We’re going to — Get that thing off your sister’s head, will you?"

  The boy shook his head violently. "Uh-uh. If I touch 'em she’ll hit me. Shes always hitting me."

  Alicia finally managed to catch her daughter’s eye. Wendy rolled her eyes and nudged the earphones back from her ears. Moetley Cruee drifted weakly through the motor home.

  "What is it now?"

  "You win." Frank kept one hand on the steering wheel.

  Wendy glanced at her little brother, who shrugged. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I give up. I try to introduce you to a new experience, try to show you something unique, and I’m just wasting my time. I know when I’m beaten."

  "Frank, watch the road," Alicia cautioned him.

  "I am watching the road. Not that there’s anything to watch." He waved his hand at the cream-gray concrete. "There’s nobody else out here. We’re the only ones stupid enough to drive this stretch of road in the middle of the day, right?"

  That wasn’t entirely true. Eager gamblers crammed into old Chevys and Toyotas occasionally rocketed past the motor home, exceeding the speed limit by a good twenty to thirty miles an hour in their haste to reach the neon lights and gaming tables just over the state line. They vanished rapidly over the shimmering, heat-struck horizon.

  "We’re not making any more stops," he explained tiredly. "We’re gonna drive straight through. When we get there we’ll check in to a big hotel, just like everybody wants. I’ll turn the motor home in to the rental agency and we’ll fly home when vacation’s up."

  "Wow, that’s great, Dad!"

  "Thanks, Pops." Wendy slid her headphones back into position, closed her eyes. "That’s really rad of you." Her upper body began to sway rhythmically.

  "You’re both welcome." His sarcasm was lost on them. He saw that Steven had abandoned his comic book in favor of a Transformer toy.

  When he’d been a boy he’d had cap pistols and a football and a train. Immutable diversions. Now they had toys that turned into other toys. What galled him was that he couldn’t figure out how they worked. He’d once spent a futile couple of hours fiddling with one of his son’s Transformers and had achieved only a fine sense of feeling daft. Steven’s pudgy fingers effortlessly turned the chunk of brightly colored plastic and metal into a succession of sleek gadgets.