Chapter Two

   ONCE on the open road, Chris gave the Mustang its head. It shot past two or three cross-roads before he nosed it into a roadside rest area next to a barley field. He rolled past the picnic tables to a quiet spot and turned the key. Now all was silent except for the muffled hum of traffic in the distance. He sat completely still for a while and stared at a starling that was eyeing him from a nearby fence. There was, he decided, something menacing about the bird. When it flew off it came directly over the Mustang.

   Chris turned on the radio and caught the start of a news broadcast: ''... threatened to attack all of North America with fifty nuclear-tipped ICBM's unless the United States guarantees within forty-eight hours to withdraw the Seventh Fleet from the Taiwan perimeter. The President is expected to issue a statement from the White House this morning rejecting the latest demand. . . .'' He turned off the station.

So we may have only a few hours to live Well I've come to my senses at last It took forty-three years but I know what I want In the short time left I'm going to start looking for God Don't know what it means Not sure anyone else does but what I read in the Bible sure rang a bell Maybe if I could even get

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a little while to think without anything else on my mind without having to fight somebody Haven't been to church Don't care to be told my life is a mess Been dragged to psychologists and family clinics till I feel like a piece of salami under a microscope This inflammation between my shoulder blades is driving me right over the edge Looks like the kid business turned out sour for us I wonder how they fix those monoxide hose things in the car No I'm going to give God a chance first If I only knew somebody. . . .

   A black Chevelle pulled into the rest area, and Chris saw through his rear-view mirror that the driver had got out and was coming toward him. He began to roll up the window, but there was something about the way the man approached with hand extended that made him pause—with three inches to go.

   ''It's all right,'' said the stranger. He was about thirty-five, with a tanned, friendly face.

   ''Lost your way?'' asked Chris.

   ''No—thanks. I just saw you parked here, and since I'm taking polls at random I thought I'd stop.''

   ''What kind of polls?''

   ''Just information about people, actually. Nothing personal. Here's my card. Mind if I ask you a few questions?'' He took a large envelope from his pocket.

   ''I suppose you heard the news this morning,'' said Chris.

   ''Yes, I did.'' No emotion showed on his face. Chris rolled the window back down.

   ''Go ahead.''

   ''Well, here's a list of people, and I would say that most of them are known to you. You're supposed to

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help me grade them from one to five. One means that you don't think much of them. You don't feel they're important, and they don't carry much weight as far as you're concerned. Five means they are very important to you. And you can pick any number in between. Get it?''

   ''I guess so.''

   ''OK. On this basis, how would you rate the Harlem Globe Trotters?''

   ''One.''

   ''Gregory Peck.''

   ''Two and a half.''

   ''Charlie Brown.''

   ''Four.''

   ''Dr. Christian Barnard.''

   ''Oh—two. Who wants to live that badly?''

   ''Sammy Davis Jr.''

   ''One.''

   ''Lucille Ball.''

   ''Two.''

   ''Maharishi Mahesh.''

   ''Zero.''

   ''Mohammed Ali.''

   ''You mean Cassius? Minus one.''

   ''Che Guevara.''

   ''Minus one.''

   ''Mao Tse-tung.''

   ''Ask me that one tomorrow.''

   ''Jesus of Nazareth.''

   Chris sucked his breath through his teeth and thought for a long moment. He glanced at the card

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in his hand. It read E. VAN GELST, RELIGIOUS CONSULTANT. There was no address. ''Five,'' he said at last.

   The man smiled and tucked the envelope back in his coat pocket. ''I didn't catch your name,'' he said.

   ''Anders. I sell computers—or I used to. Yours is van—''

   ''Ernie Van Gelst.''

   ''Tell me, is this quiz thing a gimmick? Do you use it to get people to talk about religion?''

   ''Sometimes.''

   ''Well, now. You say your name's Ernie?''

   ''It is to you.''

   ''Well, I'm in a kind of—the fact is, I just left—I mean, when I heard the network tell about—what do you do when the world seems to be falling apart, Ernie? Your own world too. How do you connect to something that makes sense?''

   ''It sounds to me as if you have been reading the Bible.''

   ''Some.''

   ''Got troubles at home?''

   ''Plenty. And then this thing on my—''

   A screech of brakes on the road made them turn their heads. A Pontiac had pulled on to the shoulder; the driver had evidently spotted them and was backing up to enter the turn-off to the rest area. Van Gelst turned back and patted Chris on the arm. ''Anders,'' he said, ''do you see that radio tower on the hill, with the red light blinking?''

   ''What about it?''

   ''That's the transmitter, of course. You head for it.

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It's right on the main road, and there's a small building connected to it. After you ring the bell, show the engineer this card. He'll answer your questions. Apparently these men want to talk to you, and I've got some more stops to make down the road before lunch. Don't forget, now. God in your heart!''

   And he was in his car and gone, just as a Bonneville drew alongside the Mustang. Chris recognized the driver as O.B. Stennett, an occasional golfing partner who lived across the street from him. He and the man with him were wearing sports shirts. They were evidently ready for a Saturday morning of eighteen holes.

   ''I told Warren I bet anything that was your Mustang,'' said O. B., whose closely cropped head protruded from his shoulders like a bullet. ''Meet Warren Clay—he works in our department.'' There was a pause. ''Like to make it a threesome?'' he asked after a moment.

   Chris shook his head. ''I didn't bring my clubs. You guys are playing it smart. Hear the news?''

   ''Yup,'' said O. B. There was silence. O. B. switched on a music station. ''Eileen was over,'' he said.

   Chris nodded.

   ''Anything we can do to help?''

   ''Not a thing.''

   ''You going somewhere?''

   ''Got a lead. I've got to get rid of this business in my back, for one thing.''

   ''What's the matter with Doc Fletcher?''

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   ''Hasn't helped.''

   ''OK.'' He looked into his rear-view mirror. ''You know what you're doing—I guess.''

   ''Wait a minute,'' said Clay, reaching for the door handle. He jumped out and came over to the Mustang. ''Who was that fellow you were talking to a minute ago? The one who drove off?''

   ''Name's van Gelst, I think,'' said Chris.

   ''That's the guy. I ran into him a couple of weeks ago. He's interesting.''

   ''Yes, he is.''

   ''Did he say something about that transmitter up there?''

   ''As a matter of fact, he did.''

   ''That where you're going now?''

   ''Might.''

   ''Do you mind company?''

   ''Get in.''

   Clay turned back to the other car and began lifting his clubs out of the back seat.

   ''What are you trying to pull, you silly ass?'' roared O. B.

   ''I didn't really feel like playing anyway,'' said Clay.

   ''He can't help you! Don't you know that? This guy's a mental case. Been one for months. His wife's been telling us all about him.''

   Clay paused, waiting for Chris to unlock the door.

   ''We're signed up to tee off in fifteen minutes,'' yelled O. B.

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   ''Sorry about that,'' said Clay. ''Give my regrets to the starter. Take care, now.''

   O. B. reached over, grabbed the door handle of the Bonneville and slammed it shut. ''Whatever it is you're looking for,'' he said, ''I hope you fall in.'' He started up, swung his car in front of Chris's Ford and stopped. ''I suppose you call this religion,'' he said. ''Ditch your wife and kids, run around telling the world the sky's going to fall, get your friends fouled up and take off on a wild goose chase. All because you've got a pain in your shoulder. I'll tell you where you give me a pain. I'll see you both in—''

   He drove off with a squealing clutch, leaving Chris and Warren in a cloud of exhaust fumes. They started up and moved down the road at a more moderate speed, watching the signs for a turn-off that would lead toward the transmitter away in the distance. Before long they came to a turning that peeled off in the right direction. By this time they were engaged in a frank reappraisal of the prospects that lay ahead of them and an evaluation of the good faith of Ernie van Gelst; and neither paid attention when a sign flashed past them reading WRONG WAY. DO NOT ENTER. Almost before they knew it the car was lurching over a pitted gravel stretch that led down toward a river bed. A sign appeared on the right saying simply DANGER. Rounding a bend, they found to their dismay that the road disappeared into the waters of what seemed a wide, shallow, muddy slough.

   ''Shall we try it?'' asked Chris.

   ''You're the boss, said Warren.

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   ''I don't think we have anything to worry about,'' Chris decided. ''That flash flood last night must have ripped out the old bridge after the work crews took off for the week-end. It isn't deep, really. And these eight cylinders will take us through just about anything.'' With that he put the lever into low and moved ahead. The little Ford zipped confidently into the current, which turned out to be somewhat stronger and faster than expected. Two-thirds of the way across, the Mustang struck a low spot with the right front wheel and the water came up partially over the radiator. A cloud of steam arose, accompanied by loud hissing and coughing noises. Chris rocked the car back and forth, but as it settled the gears became less responsive to his touch. The engine stalled, and he began furiously working the starter button. Though the fly-wheel made a few valiant efforts, it became apparent that the cylinders were hopelessly submerged.

   ''Your plugs are wet,'' said Clay. ''It's a waste of time.''

   ''I think we can start it,'' said Chris. He got out, sloshed to the front of the car, lifted the bonnet and watched the dirty water pouring through the engine.

   ''Don't be ridiculous,'' said Clay. ''It's not going to start. Are you sure you knew where you were going when you turned off?''

   ''Reasonably sure.''

   ''Any idea where we are now?''

   ''Frankly, no. I never took this road before."

   Clay sighed. ''How you'll get out of this, Anders, I don't know, but I think I've been had. Right now

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I wish I was on that course with O. B.'' He took off his shoes and socks and began rolling up his trousers.

   ''Where are you thinking of going?'' asked Chris.

   ''I'm not sure,'' said Clay, ''except that it's the opposite direction from yours. I leave you all your happy prospects, brother. I'm going to learn to live with my pains.''

   ''Wait, Warren,'' said Chris. ''This is supposed to be a main road. ''Someone will be coming along to help us.''

   ''Anders,'' said Clay, putting his feet distastefully into the chocolate-coloured water, ''this kid is not waiting for anybody.'' He waded back to where the car had entered the stream, put on his shoes and disappeared.

   For the first time the real import of what had happened came home to Chris. He got back in the car and sat for a few moments in dismal contemplation, while the water gurgled through the floorboards. He felt very alone and depressed. It was obvious that his attempt to escape from Doomsdale had turned into a fiasco.

What a stupid thing to do to a good car Anders old son This was a fizzle When Clay tells Stennett about this Ahh phooey on Stennett and phooey on Clay and phooey on this creek What a rotten mess I'm sick to death of trying anymore What were those lines "I am poured out like water and all my bones are out of joint my heart is like wax it is melted within my breast'' How about that After twenty years that Bible course keeps coming back to me Well why not That's

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where I met Eileen She used to help me out of jams like this Isn't there some way to stop this pain besides sticking my head in a waterhole and keeping it there. . . .

   Chris now faced the problem of extricating himself and his vehicle. As he looked around he saw bits of garbage floating past and realized that the stream was polluted with open sewage. Climbing out, he took a towrope from the boot and tried to secure it to the front end of the car. When he reached for the axle he floundered into the same hole that had trapped his Ford. The disgusting water rose almost to his neck and swirled so threateningly that he expected at any moment to be engulfed. His confidence in van Gelst began to ebb. He doubted whether he would ever find relief from the pain, or that the transmitter engineer or anyone else could help him. The Mustang was stuck, and he did not know where to turn.

   Something white came up out of the water and floated away. It was the newspaper from his pocket; as he watched it go he could still see a part of the giant headline, CHINA THREAT. He struggled to secure the lashing as stones rolled over his feet. The nauseating sewer smell almost overpowered him; and the thought went through his mind that not just he, Chris Anders, but the whole world was in that hole, struggling for survival and up to its neck in the muck of its endless predicaments.

   A sudden sweep of current tore his hands from the bumper to which he clung. Now he held only to the rope and was carried toward the centre of the stream. At this moment he heard faintly through plugged ears

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a voice calling from the nearer shore, and turning his head with an effort, saw that a jeep had appeared, and that a black highway worker with a metal hat and red flagman's shirt was getting out of it.

   ''Don't try to move,'' he shouted. ''I'll throw you a line.''

   Dimly, Chris was aware of the accuracy with which the man pitched the coiled rope within arm's reach. He seized it and quickly tied it to his own rope. Then he followed it ashore, stumbling and retching until he fell on the bank. For the next twenty minutes he lay doubled up, convulsively gasping for breath, while the road worker, after trying to make him comfortable, manoeuvred his jeep to bring the disabled vehicle ashore. At last the dirty, dripping little car emerged on the road, and after blocking its wheels the man came over to Chris as he sat against a tree, wringing out his socks.

   ''My name's Anders,'' Chris said weakly. ''Thanks a lot. You shouldn't have bothered.''

   ''Upman.'' They made a motion to shake hands, and laughed. ''What did you do, miss the road?''

   ''No,'' said Chris, ''I was actually on the road heading for the transmitter. I saw the bridge was out, so I tried to cross.''

   ''Man, the bridge isn't out. You didn't check your signs. The road goes up yonder,'' Upman pointed across the stream. ''There's a fork back there to a pontoon bridge just around the bend.''

   ''But isn't this the road?''

   ''No. It never was. Folks still try to come this way,

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though we've got it marked—perfectly clear—with a WRONG WAY sign.''

   ''Wasn't there a bridge here yesterday?''

   ''No, sir.''

   ''Then why don't they do something to fix the road instead of just letting it run into the mud like this?''

   ''It is fixed, I tell you. You just picked the wrong place to cross. Seems like lots of folks bound for the transmitter try to cross here. They're in such a hurry, they barge right ahead past the signs and get stuck. Of course you hit high water. . . .'' He looked at the Mustang. ''Your little car'll be needing a bath. Are those your clubs there?''

   ''No,'' said Chris. ''They belong to another guy. He was with me, but I guess he went back.''

   ''Lots do. Here, let me give you a hand up.''

   ''Thanks,'' said Chris. ''Tell me, what do you call this piece of water?''

   Upman grinned, took off his metal hat, and wiped his head with a rag. ''They call it Stuck Creek,'' he said. ''Now, you get in your car there and I'll tow you to the village—it's not far.''

   ''Wait a minute,'' said Chris. ''How come you're doing all this?''

   ''You're on your way to that transmitter over there, aren't you?''

   ''Well—''

   ''I got my orders to help you get there, that's all.''

   Chris thought about that. ''Who gave you the orders?''

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   ''They're right here.'' Upman pulled a New Testament from his pocket.

   Chris started to feel sick again. What was he getting into? Finally he managed, ''Have you been up to this transmitter place?''

   ''Been there? Man, I've been all the way to Life City!''

Chapter Three  ||  Table of Contents