"Then I still don't know whether I could have traveled it solo?"

"No."

"So, supposing one of Lee's officers did know about it and could travel it? What then?"

"Those who know about it tend to keep it to themselves, as you will learn. But even so, supposing he could? Supposing you took the next exit, as I'd suggested, and kept heading south? Supposing you'd run over Stonewall Jackson?" :

"Okay, I'm supposing."

"... And then you had turned around and come back. You would have noticed a fork in the Road where there had been none before—off there somewhere in the hinterlands—another way merging with your own, to form the route back here. Thereafter, on re;

turning this way, you could take the branch to the place where that accident had occurred, or the other, to the place where it did not. The former would be a very bad road, however, and would probably disappear through disuse before too long. On the other hand, if

it became sufficiently well-traveled, then the other might fade. This is unlikely, but if it were to occur, you would find it increasingly difficult to locate various later routes—Cs back up the Road—and there would be new ones, somewhat different from those you had known. It would be possible to lose yourself down some byway and never get back to your point of departure."

"But traces of the other routes would still be there, fallen into disuse?"

"Theoretically, yes—rutted, weed-grown, cut by rivers, smothered by fallen rock—but the traces should remain. Finding them is the trick, though."

"It would seem easier to try to reopen them by un doing whatever had been done—or doing something

else." "Try it sometime. Go back to the place that is no

longer as you recall it and try to subtract everything that makes it different. Altering the single pivotal event may no longer be sufficient. The new alteration may have other effects also, depending on how you go about it You would probably simply establish another route —though, of course, it may be close enough to the original to suit your purposes. Then again, maybe not."

"Stop. Right there. Let me digest it. I'll ask you more later. Why did we stop here, anyway? We don't have to get gas yet."

"We stopped because this one is self-service. If you will open me to page 78 and place me face down in that box beside the pump, I will act as a credit card, drawing on my former employer's account. I will know in a moment whether the account is still active. I may also be able to discover where he last fueled, and we can head for that point."

"All right," Randy said, raising Leaves and opening the door. "Mind telling me what name that account would be under?"

"Dorakeen."

"What sort of name is that?"

"I don't really know."

He moved around the vehicle, inserted the volume into the unit. A light came on within.

"Go ahead and top it off," said Leaves's muffled voice. "The account is still active."

"Seems sort of like stealing."

"Hell, if he is your old man, the least he can do is buy you some gas."

He uncapped the tank, drew down the hose, raised a

lever.

"He last fueled at an early C Sixteen stop," Leaves said as he squeezed the trigger. "We'll go there from here, ask around. "

"Who runs these rest stops and gas stations, any how?"

"They are a strange breed. Exiles, refugees—people who can't go home and can't or won't adapt to a new land. Lost souls—people who can't find their ways home and are afraid to leave the Road. Jaded travelers —people who've been everywhere and now prefer a timeless, placeless place like this."

He chuckled.

"Is Ambrose Bierce writing a book near here?"

"As a matter of fact—"

The nozzle clicked. He squeezed in a little more and capped the tank.

"You said C Sixteen. I take it that means the sixteenth century?"

"Right Most people who travel the Road much beyond their own section pick up a kind of trading language called foretalk. It is sort of like Yoruba, Malinka or Hausa in Africa—kind of synthetic and used across wide areas. There are some variations, but I can always translate for you if the need arises."

He opened the unit, withdrew Leaves.

"I'd like you to teach me as we drive along," he said. "I've always been interested in languages, and this one seems particularly useful."

"Glad to."

They entered the car.

"Leaves," he said as he seated himself, "you must have some sort of optical scanning setup..."

"Yes."

"Well, there is a photo between your last page and the back cover. Can you see it?"

"No. It is facing in the wrong direction. Insert it almost anywhere else. Page 78 is particularly—"

He withdrew the photo, thrust it into the center of the volume, squeezed tight. Several seconds ticked by.

"Well?" he asked.

"Yes. I have scanned the photo."

"Is it him? Is that Dorakeen?"

"It— It appears to be. If it is not, the resemblance is very strong."

"Then let's go and find him.

He started the engine.

As he headed down the ramp, he asked, "What line of work is he in?"

There was a long pause; then, "I am not exactly certain. He transported all sorts of things for a long while. Made considerable sums of money. Much of that time he was in partnership with a man named Chadwick, who later transferred his operations a good distance up the Road. Chadwick became extremely powerful, apparently as a result of their activities, and they eventually had a falling-out. This occurred at about the time I was—forgotten—by him. He must have departed suddenly, as you say. So all I really know of his occupation is that it involved transportation."

Randy chuckled.

"... But I have always wondered," Leaves continued.

"What?" Randy asked.

"Whether he might not have been in one of those categories I mentioned earlier—the people who can't find their ways home. He always seemed to be looking for something—exploring, testing. And I never did know exactly where he came from. He spent a lot of time poking around sideroads. And after a while, I believe that he did try to—alter things—here and there. Only his memory of the exact set of circumstances he wanted to re-create did not seem quite complete—as though it might have been something from a very long time ago. Yes, he traveled a lot..."

"Made it to Cleveland, anyway," Randy said, "at least for a little while." Then, "What was he like? I mean, personally."

"That is a difficult question. Restless-if I had to choose one word."

"I mean-honest? Dishonest? A nice guy? A prick?"

"Yes, he was all of those things at various times. His personality was liable to change suddenly. But later... Later on he got—self-destructive..."

Randy shook his head.

"I guess I'll just have to wait, if he's still around. How about a language lesson?"

"Very well."

One

Red cut suddenly to the right, taking a narrow turnoff without slowing. "What," Flowers asked, "are you doing?" "Twelve hours of driving is plenty," he replied. "I

want to sleep now."

"Collapse the seat and I'll take over." He shook his head. "I want to get out of this damned car and get some

real rest."

"Then please use a phony name when you register." "No place to register. We're just going to camp. It's

a devastated area. No problem." "Mutants? Radiation? Booby traps?" "No, no and no. I've been here before. It's clean." After a time he slowed, found another turnoff—

narrow, poorly surfaced. The sky phased into a pink

and purple twilight. In the distance, a shattered city

appeared in the sunset glow. He turned again. " '... Et que lews grands piliers, droits et majestueux,

rendaient pareils. Ie soir, aux grottes bascdtiques,'"

Flowers observed. "You're going to camp in a death

museum."

"Not really," he replied. They were on a dirt road now. It ran across the face