Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

She nodded, furious at her muteness but terrified of saying the wrong thing. He was a lot older than she was and she didn’t want to start out with him thinking of her as some dumb kid.

He was clearly puzzled. "Fact is, I don’t recall ever seeing anyone break down right hereabouts."

"An old man sold us some bad gas," she explained, not knowing what else to say. At least it wasn’t dumb. "My dad’s trying to fix the fuel thingy right now." Twenty-three, she thought. She stood as straight as possible, wishing she was wearing something more flattering to her figure than a T-shirt and jeans, though the jeans were tight enough.

Looking past him she finally noticed the patrol car parked on the shoulder. She hadn’t heard or seen it drive up, but then she’d been poking around beneath the motor home in search of rat bodies. She turned down the Walkman and the rhythm in her head eased. Now she could hear him without straining.

"Jack’s already up there." He nodded toward the front of the motor home. "Helping your dad, I guess. He’ll fix whatever it is. Jack’s swift with mechanical things. Me, I’m still learning the route. Oh. My name’s Joe."

"At least it isn’t Jill." She put her hand to her mouth, giggling. "I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun of you."

"Hey, that’s hot. Important thing is you’ve got a sense of humor. Most of the folks we meet out here are pretty uptight about the heat and their destination." His smile was just this side of overpowering. "You’re a refreshing change."

"Thank you." She knew she was blushing but hoped he’d put it down to the effects of the sun. "I never saw a highway patrol car like that before."

He looked back at the parked cruiser. "Like it? It’s the latest model."

"Pretty sharp. What is it? A Camaro or Firebird?"

"Naw. Want to see? You’re going into town anyway."

She frowned slightly. "I don’t think so. I think my dad’s going to want to go straight through to Las Vegas once he gets the engine fixed."

The patrolman laughed uproariously, as though she’d just made the perfect joke. "That’s beautiful! You’re too much. Just meeting you has made my day."

Instantly she forgot her initial and obviously unwarranted suspicions. "I’m glad I was able to make somebody’s day. Ours hasn’t been exactly perfect."

"How could it be, headed the way you’re headed, on the road you’re on?" He put a gentle arm around her shoulders. "Come on, let me show you the car. We’ve got a communications system you won’t believe."

Wendy allowed herself to be nudged along. "My mom said I should stay near the motor home."

He stopped, took his arm away. "Hey, you’re not afraid of me or anything, are you?"

"Of course not. Why should I be?"

He nodded. "Somehow I knew you wouldn’t be. I’m looking forward to meeting your folks. You’re really a special family."

"We aren’t all that special."

She had to admit the patrol car intrigued her. It was low and sleek and looked like it was doing a hundred standing still. It wore a full complement of roof lights, the yellow ones rotating brightly as they approached. The emblems on the doors were kind of funny, but if it was a local sheriff’s car, it wouldn’t wear the familiar California Highway Patrol symbol.

The paint job made up for the odd insignia. Yellow on crimson, she decided, was much cooler than white on black.

"Fuel filter."

The resonant voice brought Frank’s head around fast. He breathed easily when he caught sight of the uniform, badge, and the smiling, clean-shaven face of someone his own age looking concernedly back into his own.

"Didn’t hear you drive up."

The sergeant jerked a thumb backward. "Parked behind you. Don’t like backing up when I don’t have to."

"Neither do I. Especially in this sucker." Frank indicated the motor home.

The other man chuckled appreciatively, nodded at the filter Frank had removed. "Why don’t you let me do that?"

"It’s all right. I can handle it."

"Please? As a favor. Playing with combustion’s a hobby of mine. Don’t get much of a chance to get my hands dirty, working patrol."

Frank shrugged, stepped aside. "Suit yourself." He handed the sergeant the plastic cylinder. "Get many breakdowns hereabouts?" he inquired conversationally.

"Not a lot." Sunlight flashed from his mirrored sunglasses.

His smile was bright as the sunshine, which surprised Frank. You’d think a cop forced to work this featureless, miserable stretch of interstate would be in a bad mood most of the time, especially with summer coming on fast. But this one appeared downright ebullient.

"What trouble we do have is with folks who try turning around once they get this far. They pull out into the median and get themselves stuck. Then we have to call a tow to pull 'em out. You should hear the wails and screams when they get the bill."

"You mean they get this far and then they try going back to Barstow?"

For some reason this struck the sergeant as insanely funny. When he finally stopped laughing he could only shake his head weakly at the memory of it. After wiping his eyes he held the filter up to the sun. He kept it there, studying it intently, until Frank started to worry for him.

"Better watch it."

"No sweat. Light doesn’t bother me." He lowered the cylinder, rolled it between his fingers. "This is your problem, all right. Clogged."

Frank nodded. "Thought it might be. Old fart down the road apiece sold me some bad gas."

"Tall, skinny, ugly son of a bitch?"

"You know him?" That was a stupid question, Frank thought. Of course he’d know him. Anyone working this piece of highway would know every full-time and semipermanent inhabitant within a dozen miles, probably by name.

He wondered if the sergeant would know anything about intelligent rat-things.

"Tell me something. How’d he ever get an off ramp put in out there? It doesn’t show on the map." He took back the fuel filter, examined it himself.

"Guess he’s got some pull," the sergeant theorized.

Frank put the filter to his mouth and blew. A few bits of road grime flew out the other end. Embarrassed, he took a deep breath and blew harder. More grime was expelled, but the filter was far from cleared.

"Really bad gas," he murmured, breathing hard.

"We’ve had plenty of complaints about that guy. I guess you can’t blame him. Most of the business goes straight into town. He has to work for everything he gets. Here, let me have a go." Frank passed the cylinder over, curious to see what the patrolman could do. He wasn’t particularly big, and if he possessed unusual reserves of lung power they weren’t visible from the outside.

Lung power didn’t enter into it. To Frank’s shock the sergeant put the cylinder to his lips and inhaled. He kept sucking until a stunned Frank thought the man’s face was going to collapse in on itself. Only then did he remove the cylinder from his mouth and smile hugely.

Even then Frank didn’t suspect something was seriously wrong until the sergeant sniffed appreciatively — and swallowed.

"Here." The patrolman extended the hand holding the now perfectly transparent filter. When Frank made no move to take it, the man added, "You’ll need this back."

"Yeah. Yeah, right." Not knowing what else to do, his thoughts churning furiously, Frank gingerly took the cylinder and moved to reinsert it on the fuel line. "What — what did you do with all that gunk? You didn’t really swallow it, did you?"

"Sure! You don’t think I’m going to waste it, do you? That old stuff may not be so good for your engine’s digestion, but when it’s aged like that it acquires a real tang." He licked his lips approvingly. "Premium unleaded. Wasn’t sure I’d like the stuff when they started switching everything over. Turned out to be an improvement. Taking out the lead changed the flavor, but this way you get more of the original hydrocarbon essence. Not to mention the additional distilling it’s undergone." He threw back his head and roared anew, this time producing not only rich, deep laughter but a gout of blue flame pure enough to have issued from the nozzle of an acetylene torch. It shot four feet into the air. Frank felt the heat of it keenly.