Alan Dean Foster To The Vanishing Point

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close, trying to see past her. "I'll bet whoever runs this place has rattler
skins on the walls and a stuffed deer head over the cash register. I
could do with a cold beer."
"We have a whole refrigerator full of beer," she reminded him.
He sat back, disappointed. "There you go, taking all the romance out of it.
Anyway, we do need the unleaded. Then it's a straight shot all the way across
the border and into Vegas. I promise. This is my last chance to show the kids
something different, the last time we'll stop."
"Not if we keep gulping gas at this rate," she pointed out as she moved her
legs so he could pass.
It was pretty run-down, he had to admit as he stepped out of the motor home
and into the heat. One of those ancient old gas stations that used to line the
state highways of the Southwest made redundant by the bypassing interstates.
This one had managed to hang on because it was fortunate enough to sit next to
an off ramp. Closer inspection confirmed his initial appraisal.
It was all dark volcanic rock and cement, the pitted round stones garish in
their setting of faded concrete. The twin gas pumps looked brand-new, though,
in striking contrast to the cracked cement island on which they sat. Whoever
owned the place had enough sense to maintain his equipment if not his home.
The neglect could be intentional. The thick stone walls probably stayed cooler
during the day than modern slat and steel. He didn't see an air conditioner.
Probably in the back.
Poised atop the station was one of those flame-red flying horses that had been
common in Frank's parents' day. Like the pumps, it looked new. It was also
probably worth more than the station. He sensed movement behind him, glimpsed
his children filling the doorway.
"Check it out, kids." Shading his eyes with one hand, he used the other to
indicate the flying horse. "Major-brand gas and a real antique."
Wendy had slipped off the earphones, proving anew they weren't rooted to the
bone. "Why are we stopping?"
"Because I thought this would be an interesting place to stop."
"Looks like trash to me."
Frank tried not to growl. "It's not trash. It's history. We're going to get
something cold to drink, and we need to get some gas."
"We just filled up in Barstow, Pops."
I don't even have to watch the gauge, he told himself sourly. The women in
this family monitor everything for me. "In case you haven't noticed, young
lady, this ain't exactly a compact wagon we're driving." He let out a sigh of
resignation. "If you don't want anything you don't have to get out. Steven,"
he asked, none too hopefully, "you coming?"
"Sure, Dad." To Frank's surprise his son hopped out and scuttled past him,
heading for a high chain-link fence that enclosed a small area between worn
house trailer and station.
"Hey, Dad! They got snakes in here, and I think I see a Gila monster, and a
chuckawalla, an' a...!"
The attendant or owner would probably want a dollar in payment for
Steven's looking. Frank would gladly fork it over. At last his son was showing
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some real interest in something besides billboards.
"Look all you want, kiddo, but don't touch. And keep your hands outside the
links, okay?"
"Okay, Dad." Steven quickly and guiltily withdrew his fingers from one gap.
Frank checked the pumps. Somewhat to his surprise he found premium unleaded.
Considering the location, the prices were quite reasonable. He unhitched one
of the pumps, glanced toward the station office. No one had appeared to greet
them. The door that secured the repair bay was closed.
Surely the place wasn't deserted, as Alicia had suggested. The door to the
office was ajar and there were no padlocks on the pumps.
"Anybody home?" he yelled.
There was no response. Not even wind to reply at midday. He shrugged and
turned to the motor home. No doubt as soon as he started pumping gas someone
would show up fast enough. He flipped the pump switch up, saw the digital
readout on the machine's flank flop to zero, and unlocked the motor home's
filler cap, setting it carefully aside. The nozzle rattled its way into the
tank. As he squeezed the trigger, gas began to flow. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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