To the Vanishing Point

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by Alan Dean Foster


  Frank was learning that when reality was dissolving around you like a pat of butter in a baked potato it was best not to try to define anything too precisely.

  "So what do we do? Grab the first ship to Pluto or someplace close? What the hell am I supposed to do?" He was too tired to raise his voice.

  "We must keep close to the road," declared Mouse. "It is the nearest thing that remains to a constant. Like all roads, this one is a thread of sorts."

  Alicia turned to her. "What do you think we should do? Should we try and drive back to Los Angeles?"

  "No. It is more important than ever for me to move quickly to the Vanishing Point. Reality is degenerating ever more rapidly. It is regrettable," she concluded apologetically, "that the Anarchis has chosen to concentrate its efforts on me, but that only proves how close I am to reaching my goal of soothing the Spinner. My fellow singers must be in even more difficulty than I am."

  "Aren’t we just lucky we happened to pick you up," said Frank sarcastically.

  "It is a grand thing you are doing in helping me."

  "Let me guess. You said this Vanishing Point was near Vegas. Am I right in assuming it isn’t actually in Vegas, after all? Or this Pass Regulus place, either?"

  "No. I said it lay in this direction. This is true. It lies onward. That is the way we must go. If we retreat now we run the risk of encountering the same twisted thread that nearly destroyed us before."

  He nodded resignedly. "I thought it might be like that. So we can’t go back, either. Unless we want to pay another visit to Hell."

  "We must go on."

  "To where?" He shifted in his seat. "To this Vanishing Point? Next big town is Salt Lake City. I suppose you’re going to tell me it lies beyond that, too. Then what? Cheyenne?"

  "No." She concentrated, closing her eyes. "Not that far. Surely not that far."

  "I suppose I should be relieved, right?"

  "So what you’re saying," said Alicia, "is that if we can get you as far as this Vanishing Point, you’ll be able to make everything right again."

  "If I can soothe the Spinner, yes. If it is not already too late."

  Alicia turned to her husband. "We have to go on, Frank. I thought maybe we could walk away from this, but we can’t. Not if everything’s going to keep changing. I thought it would be all right when we got to Las Vegas. Now we aren’t even going to be able to do that. We don’t have any choice."

  "The hell we don’t! I’m not heading out into nowhere again tonight. I can’t drive anymore, and you shouldn’t, either."

  "I could drive, Dad," said Wendy.

  He smiled at her. "Thanks, sweetheart, but I think I’d rather be behind the wheel myself in case we run into any new surprises. This boat’s a little harder to handle than your XR-7."

  "Then what are we going to do, dear?" Alicia asked him.

  He sighed. "A city’s a city."

  "Perhaps it would be best for us to rest awhile," said Mouse.

  "Frank’s right." Burnfingers nodded back toward town. "Maybe Pass Regulus is not Las Vegas, but it looks to be a close facsimile. They should welcome us at one of the hotels."

  "What about money?" Frank asked him. "They may not take credit cards here."

  "What they take might surprise you. If nothing else we always have my gold."

  "But you’ve been saving that for something special," said Alicia. "To make your jewelry, or whatever it is you intend to make."

  "I can always get more gold. When we are safely back in our reality you can pay me back."

  "You’d do that for us?" said Frank.

  "It will be a cold day in Hell when Burnfingers Begay shies from helping his friends. I am looking forward to seeing what kind of entertainment this city offers."

  Mouse eyed him. "There’s no guarantee gold is worth anything on this reality line. It might be quite common."

  "Not my gold. Mine is uncommon gold. Though I cannot dispute what you say."

  "It’s worth a try, anyway." Frank checked the road behind them. Both lanes were empty. He swung the big motor home around, kicking sand from the opposite shoulder, and headed back toward town. Momentarily he found himself wondering at the difference between common and uncommon gold. Then it was forgotten as he concentrated afresh on the traffic that began to gather around them.

  9

  Not far beyond the Hulton he pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be the biggest hotel around. Four metal and glass wings protruded from the crown of the immense cylindrical tower. Each wing contained a huge glass-bottomed pool in which guests were invited to swim. Their distance from the ground eliminated any temptation anyone in the motor home might have felt to do so.

  The reservations manager was as human as they were, especially when it came to his attitude toward money. As he’d feared, Frank found that his credit cards and cash were utterly useless.

  Or as the manager put it, "If you’re trying to pull some kind of gag, my friend, this is the wrong place to do it." He wore a one-piece powder-blue jumpsuit with an exotic white and black flower sprouting from the buttonhole. His shaven skull was elaborately painted. The composition continued down both sides of his neck to vanish beneath the jumpsuit’s shoulder straps.

  "What about this?" Burnfingers fumbled inside his leather pouch and extracted a Spanish piece of eight. Frank didn’t get a good look at it, but it gleamed like new.

  The manager held it up to the light. "Pretty, but malleable. Not worth much, I’m afraid."

  A discouraged Frank turned away from the desk. "So we’re stuck. We’ll have to sleep in the motor home after all."

  "Wait." The manager’s eyes narrowed. "What’s that noise?"

  Since the lobby fronting the desk was active with people and other creatures coming and going, not to mention the din rising from the nearby casino, his query could have stimulated several different answers. Except that he was looking straight at Wendy, who was standing behind her parents rocking to the sounds from her Walkman. Evidently the manager’s hearing was more than acute.

  Sometimes, Frank thought, it helps to be experienced in commerce.

  "Just some of my daughter’s music."

  The manager listened a moment longer, licking his lips. "Could I hear closer?" he finally asked hesitantly.

  "Sure." Frank turned to yell at his daughter. "Wendy!"

  She made a face, slipped off the earphones. "What’s up, Pops?"

  "Let our friend here have a listen."

  She looked dubious but passed over the Walkman and phones. The manager slipped them on carefully. A look of pure bliss transformed his face. Frank was becoming impatient when the man finally removed the phones. He looked around to make sure none of his fellow employees was near, leaned over the counter. He wore avarice like a cheap cologne.

  "How much do you want for this?"

  "Now wait a minute, Pops. That’s my Walkman," Wendy protested.

  The two men ignored her as Frank showed the manager how the little machine operated. He nudged the eject tape and the cover popped open.

  "The music is recorded on this strip of plastic material?" The manager ran a finger over an inch of tape.

  "That’s right."

  "This is wonderful. The archaic melodies, the astonishingly primitive rhythmic arrangements, the pure tone-deafness of the singers, not to mention the exquisite inanity of the vocals. Where did you buy it?" He looked up from the Walkman, studying their appearance, their attire. "Where are you people from, anyway? Canatolia? Marsecap? Notil?"

  "Just tell me what it’s worth to you."

  "I don’t know. This is just a hobby of mine." He swallowed. "Do you have more tapes like this one?"

  "Yeah. There’s a whole bunch out in the mot — out in our vehicle."

  "How many is a whole bunch?"

  "Beats me." He turned. "Wendy?"

  "C’mon, Pops," she protested. "You can’t."

  "Never mind. I’ll buy you a whole new setup when we get home. Anything you want. The
n you can spend a whole day shopping at Tower Records. All the tapes you can carry."

  She still sounded reluctant. "Well — okay. But only if we have to."

  "We have to."

  "I guess," she mumbled, not looking at the desk manager, "I brought a couple dozen."

  "A couple of dozen?" The man’s eyes widened. Sensing he was overreacting, he tried to appear disinterested. "I guess we could trade. I could let you stay for a little while, maybe throw in a meal or two if you’re hungry."

  Frank hadn’t become a major player in the sporting goods business by selling himself short. "Forget it." He reached for the Walkman. "We’ll try somewhere else."

  The manager’s hand jerked forward to stay him. "Okay, okay. I just wanted to see if you knew what you had here." He glanced uncertainly at Wendy. "Several dozen, you say? All different?"

  "All different," Wendy admitted.

  "I’ll give you a suite." The man was whispering now. "One of the best in the house. Not the best. I just can’t. Those are strictly for the high rollers who come in from the major worlds. But you’ll be comfortable, I guarantee it. And I’ll give you an open line of credit to in-house services. Food and miscellaneous."

  "What about shows?"

  "Included. Anything at the hotel."

  "And gambling," said Alicia suddenly, "we’ll want to do some gambling."

  The manager winced. "All right," he muttered after a moment’s hesitation. He eyed Frank calculatingly. His subject managed to appear bored and indifferent. "I’ll give you a ten-thousand credit line. No more. You aren’t professionals, are you?"

  "Professionals? Professional what?" asked Alicia.

  "Gamblers."

  "Heavens, no."

  That satisfied him. "Fine. You’ll lose it all back by morning, then. It’s all I can do. I have a lot of discretion where food and board is concerned, but not actual credit. You understand?"

  Frank didn’t know how much ten thousand credits was, but he wasn’t going to argue about it. "Deal. I don’t think we’ll be staying here more than a day or so anyway."

  "Then we are agreed." The man looked relieved, as though he’d just pulled off a grand coup but was trying to conceal his elation. "Give me a minute and we’ll register you. I’ll do it myself." He winked. "Can’t have you formally signing in, now can we?" He wore the smile of someone who’d just bought the Hope diamond for twenty bucks and a handful of subway tokens.

  Let him celebrate, Frank thought. They’d had the better end of the deal. Tonight — today, rather — they’d sleep in a real bed and eat well. They’d have their vacation, if only for a day. Much longer than that and Mouse would be nagging at them to move on.

  As soon as their surreptitious registration had been completed, the manager turned his duties over to an assistant and took them up to the room himself. The elevator they entered was cylindrical instead of rectangular. There was no sense of motion as it ascended, only unattached numbers crawling through the air where the door had been a moment earlier. As they rose, the manager enthusiastically recited a list of celebrities currently appearing at the hotel. Frank and Alicia recognized none of them.

  Wendy continuously bemoaned the loss of her Walkman. "I said I’d buy you a new one," her father reminded her. "Soon as we get back to L.A."

  "Yeah. If we ever get back to L.A."

  Alicia put an arm around her daughter. "Of course we’re going to get home. Aren’t we, Frank?"

  He nodded as their eyes met, and he could see the concern there.

  Both of them felt better the instant they entered the expansive room.

  "This is more like it," he murmured. "Maybe we ought to stay on this thread for a while."

  "Frank!"

  He grinned at his wife. "Just kiddin', hon."

  "I am going to lie down for a while." Mouse’s voice was wispier than usual. "I must conserve my strength for singing."

  "Sure, go ahead," Frank told her magnanimously.

  A quick survey revealed two sleeping rooms located off the main sitting area. Mouse crawled onto the first bed she encountered and was instantly asleep.

  As for the rest of them, they could have spent the whole morning learning about the remarkable room, but Frank planned on seeing as much of Pass Regulus and their hotel as possible. So after several hours' sleep he roused his family and prepared to go exploring.

  Controls on a round table in the center of the sitting room generated three-dimensional images a yard above the polished, mirrorlike surface. By late afternoon Steven and Wendy were fighting over the buttons as naturally as they would over those of a television set.

  "What about you, Burnfingers?" Frank inquired of their tall companion. "What are you going to do?"

  "Guess I’ll go downstairs and have a look around. No telling when I might find my way back to this part of wherever it is we happen to be."

  "My feelings exactly. You kids watch it, you hear me?"

  Neither bothered to look up. An eagle and a girl were dancing in the air above the center table. They moved in response to the children’s commands.

  Frank shrugged, went through the door with Alicia in tow. Burnfingers Begay followed close behind.

  The hall was a tube lined with zigzagging neon lights. No, not neon. Closer inspection revealed that the lights hung by themselves in the air, dark as wine and quite tubeless. Frank passed his hand through one, certain no hotel would place dangerous lasers where a careless guest could stumble into them. He felt nothing, not even a tingling. The amazingly intense light was perfectly harmless.

  The elevator took them back to the ground floor, deposited them in the casino. They found themselves surrounded by alien sights, smells, and sounds. None of the games being played was recognizable, though a couple came close. At one table, guests were playing something like craps with half a dozen dice suspended in midair. Nearby were intersecting wheels that juggled tiny arrowheads and fragments of script. As they looked on, one of the arrowheads collided with a drifting letter. There was a flash of light followed by a cheer from the spectators down front.

  "This might not be as much fun as I’d hoped." Frank tried to find something they could play. "We’ve got credit, but we don’t know how any of these games operate."

  Alicia put her arm through his. "We don’t have to gamble. Let’s find a show." Reluctantly, he followed her lead.

  A hotel employee directed them to an auditorium. It was tastelessly decorated in velour and crushed velvet, but considering its proximity to the casino it was astonishingly quiet inside. An assortment of nearly nude creatures was cavorting on the distant stage. Some of them were human. Frank found the display of alien anatomy less intriguing than the acrobatics the troupe was performing. Since several of the aliens possessed more than feet and hands to work with, some of the results were spectacular, especially when they interacted with their human counterparts. Frank and Alicia were properly enthralled.

  "You were right to come down here." Alicia’s eyes were shining. "It’s wonderful! What a shame no one will believe any of it."

  "Maybe they’d believe Burnfingers. What about that, Burnfingers?" Frank turned, frowning. There was no sign of their friend. He’d been standing close behind them only a moment earlier.

  Straining on tiptoes, Frank barely caught a glimpse of him over the top of the crowd. He was being led away by three huge aliens in dark attire. Frank couldn’t be sure, but he thought Begay was resisting the convoy.

  "Hey, somebody’s taking Burnfingers."

  "Taking? He’s probably just going to talk with some people he met."

  "I don’t think so."

  "Well, it isn’t our problem," she said determinedly.

  He eyed her in surprise, "What do you mean it isn’t our problem, sweets? If it wasn’t for him we’d still be stuck back in Hell. Permanently, maybe."

  She looked up at him. "This isn’t Hell, and we’re free to leave anytime."

  Frank hesitated, tried for another glimpse of Burnfi
ngers. A door opened in the side of the auditorium and the trio of aliens hustled him through. The Indian was definitely putting up a fight. He started toward the doorway.

  Alicia tugged on his arm. "Frank, he can take care of himself."

  "Sorry, hon. I have to check it out."

  She was pleading now. "Please, Frank. Don’t risk your life, don’t risk all our lives, for a crazy man."

  Burnfingers was no longer in view. If he didn’t go after him immediately, Frank knew, he probably wouldn’t be able to locate him again. Would that matter so much? Would it matter even to Burnfingers Begay? If he was half as crazy as he claimed to be, by tomorrow he might well have forgotten the Sonderbergs. Trouble was, Frank wouldn’t forget him.

  Though not a particularly brave man, and certainly not a foolhardy one, Frank had never shied from a fight. As much as anything, he was curious why anyone in this place would want to talk to Burnfingers, why they would single out a stranger in a crowd. Of course, Begay confessed to having been around some. Had he been here before, too, wherever here was? Or had he been truthful up in the room when he’d claimed he didn’t know where they were?

  What it came down to was not where they were, but what kind of people they were.

  "I’ve got to see what’s going on, sweets. Got to see if I can help."

  "No, you don’t. It’s probably friends of his, or some kind of minor misunderstanding."

  He gently disengaged himself. "You wait here. Or go back to the room and check on the kids. I’ll be back in a minute. I just want to find out what’s going on. I’m not going to do anything stupid. You know me better than that."

  She nodded slowly. "I know that tone. But I’m not staying here and I’m not going upstairs. I’m coming with you. If there’s no danger then there’s no harm in it."

  He didn’t want to waste any more time arguing. "Come on, then." He turned and led the way through the crowd, oblivious to the fact that more than half of them weren’t remotely human.

  They left the raucous cheering of the auditorium for the comparative quiet of a circular lobby. Frank just managed to glimpse one alien and black hair turning, up another hallway. Several corridors connected with the lobby like the spokes of a wheel.

 

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