Impossible Places by Alan Dean Foster

the road crews, isolated in the Outback, believed that the music of the didgeridoo kept away the quinka, the evil spirits of the land that snatched men’s souls from the real world.
    He stared. The white roadworkers seemed to be enjoying the music as much as their darker colleagues. It was the kind of camaraderie he’d rarely observed in the cities, where the only aborigines he’d encountered were aimless groups of drunken men and women who spent their time arguing in city centers or sprawled tiredly in public parks. Here, out in the country, on the fringes of civilization, it was different.
    He’d seen that elsewhere. In rough country there was no time for such absurdities as racial prejudice. All of them were too dependent on one another, too busy trying to survive, to worry about inconsequentialities like the color of a neighbor’s skin. You were much more interested in what kind of a mechanic he was.
    The break stretched on. Several of the blonder workers had shed their shirts in defiance of the tropical sun. They wore shorts and shoes only. Their bodies, Harbison mused. If they wanted to burn, let them burn, so long as they kept working.
    He drove himself hard. He was the first one on site in the morning and the last to leave. He meant the two-kilometer section north of Rockhampton to be an example, a demonstration of what could be achieved with American know-how and determination. It would be a real highway: four lanes with divider and paved shoulders both directions. A proper piece of interstate.
    It took longer than he’d anticipated, but once the last asphalt had been laid and smoothed, he was able to content himself with the look of it. Beautiful it was, like reflective obsidian under the relentless sunshine, a straight dark path through the gum forest. Only a dead kangaroo, hit by a car the previous night after the new section had been opened to the public, marred the ebony perfection.
    Even Kent was impressed. He stared at the roadway and nodded. “Well, I have to admit, you did it. Didn’t think you could, but you did. She’s a beaut, that’s for sure.”
    “Three years.” Harbison surveyed his work with satisfaction. “Three years and the whole highway from Brisbane to Mossman can look like this. All it needs is money and the right attitude.”
    “Maybe so,” Kent agreed. He straightened. “Care for a beer?”
    Harbison almost, but not quite, smiled. “I told you when I got here and I’ve been telling you all along, I don’t drink. Especially not that stuff you call beer. Too strong.”
    “Suit yourself.” The foreman turned toward his car. “Need a ride?”
    “No. I want to run a final check here. Then I’m moving up to Cairns. They’re still having trouble with their section up there.”
    “So I heard. They need you, Harbison.” Kent smiled admiringly and climbed into his car.
    Harbison lingered, not wanting to leave, enjoying the looks on the faces of motorists as they shot past him at a hundred kph plus. For a little while, for the first time in hundreds of kilometers, they could actually relax and enjoy driving.
    The sun was going down. He slid behind the wheel of his big Holden, almost headed off down the right side of the road before remembering where he was and correcting. On the way south he passed the striping crew, knocking off early as usual. He shook his head. It was a wonder they ever finished anything. Without him driving them, they never would have.
    The onset of evening brought with it only a slight break in the heat. The gum trees closed in tightly around him, separated only by the four-lane roadway. A brush fire burned unattended to the very edges of the road. It would be ignored, he knew, left to burn itself out. Valuable wood and forage left to burn, as though nobody cared. No doubt the members of the local fire department were already gathering at their favorite pub, he knew, and wouldn’t wish to be disturbed. Social activity in every little Outback town centered