in the living room and on her front porch last night. It explained just about everything—except what they were doing together driving a souped-up ’77 Mustang south toward Arizona.
She looked from the radio to him and back again, hoping he—it, whatever—at least had enough sense to make the connection. “That was about you, wasn’t it? That flash, that meteor, that was you coming down. You really are some kind of Martian or something, aren’t you?”
Silence and indifference.
“What do you want here?” The questions came pouring out of her. “What are you doing? What do you want with me? Where did you learn to speak English?” A car was coming toward them. She ignored it. “Come on, damn you. Say something! I know you can talk a little bit, anyway. Where’d you learn English?”
Now he did look at her, but when he opened his mouth it was a different voice from the one that had spoken to her before which emerged. Not that it was unfamiliar, and the words were understandable. It wasn’t Russian or Chinese, and it wasn’t the old man’s voice.
It was Mick Jagger’s, or a remarkable facsimile. “I can’t get no, satisfaction,” the man sang to her. He was as straight-faced as if he were serenading a high-school sweetheart.
“That does it,” she muttered grimly. She closed her eyes, hit the brakes with both feet, and threw the wheel hard left, sending the Mustang skidding crazily toward the approaching vehicle. Caught off guard, her passenger went tumbling into the dashboard.
The driver of the van locked up his own brakes, sending the bigger vehicle into a wild skid as he fought to miss the oncoming Mustang. The end result was that both of them ended up sliding sideways toward each other. There was a metallic bang as doors contacted, slid apart, and caught again on rear fenders. The van’s left taillight exploded in a shower of red plastic. Metal crumpled. The Mustang skewed around in a full three-sixty before coming to a stop on the shoulder.
The van was owned by a young and presently extremely upset man named Heinmuller. As soon as he managed to get both his breath and his bus under control he locked the parking brake. Then he reached under the front seat and brought out a big lug wrench. Piling out of the van, he paused to check his custom paint job. His blood pressure rose steadily as he noted the gouges in the lacquer, the marks on one mag wheel, and the missing curb indicator. That much he could have lived with, but the twisted rear fender and busted taillight were something else again. It wasn’t just the broken red plastic cover, either. The metal had been punched in and wires were showing. Between that and the fender he had a major project on his hands.
One thing for sure: he wasn’t going to pay for it.
He turned and shouted angrily toward the Mustang, which still rested where it had skidded to a halt on the shoulder behind him.
“You crazy sons of bitches! What’s the matter with you? Look what you did to my van. You want to play chicken on the highway, why don’t you find somebody else to pick on?” He gestured at the damaged fender. “You see this? Who’s gonna pay for this?” When no response was forthcoming from his assailant, he picked up a rock lying by the side of the road and threw it at the other car. “Come on, own up to it, and you damn well better have insurance!”
The explorer blinked, shook his head. He’d been stunned by the collision with the dash. Now he turned to see Jenny trying to scramble out the door. The gun had tumbled to the floor and lay somewhere out of sight beneath the seat. There was no time to go hunting for it. He grabbed at her, still unbalanced by the concussion he’d suffered.
Heinmuller had started toward the Mustang, holding the big lug wrench tightly in his right hand. If they wouldn’t come to him, he’d sure as hell go to them. He could understand the reason for their continued silence, but if they thought he was going to shine
She looked from the radio to him and back again, hoping he—it, whatever—at least had enough sense to make the connection. “That was about you, wasn’t it? That flash, that meteor, that was you coming down. You really are some kind of Martian or something, aren’t you?”
Silence and indifference.
“What do you want here?” The questions came pouring out of her. “What are you doing? What do you want with me? Where did you learn to speak English?” A car was coming toward them. She ignored it. “Come on, damn you. Say something! I know you can talk a little bit, anyway. Where’d you learn English?”
Now he did look at her, but when he opened his mouth it was a different voice from the one that had spoken to her before which emerged. Not that it was unfamiliar, and the words were understandable. It wasn’t Russian or Chinese, and it wasn’t the old man’s voice.
It was Mick Jagger’s, or a remarkable facsimile. “I can’t get no, satisfaction,” the man sang to her. He was as straight-faced as if he were serenading a high-school sweetheart.
“That does it,” she muttered grimly. She closed her eyes, hit the brakes with both feet, and threw the wheel hard left, sending the Mustang skidding crazily toward the approaching vehicle. Caught off guard, her passenger went tumbling into the dashboard.
The driver of the van locked up his own brakes, sending the bigger vehicle into a wild skid as he fought to miss the oncoming Mustang. The end result was that both of them ended up sliding sideways toward each other. There was a metallic bang as doors contacted, slid apart, and caught again on rear fenders. The van’s left taillight exploded in a shower of red plastic. Metal crumpled. The Mustang skewed around in a full three-sixty before coming to a stop on the shoulder.
The van was owned by a young and presently extremely upset man named Heinmuller. As soon as he managed to get both his breath and his bus under control he locked the parking brake. Then he reached under the front seat and brought out a big lug wrench. Piling out of the van, he paused to check his custom paint job. His blood pressure rose steadily as he noted the gouges in the lacquer, the marks on one mag wheel, and the missing curb indicator. That much he could have lived with, but the twisted rear fender and busted taillight were something else again. It wasn’t just the broken red plastic cover, either. The metal had been punched in and wires were showing. Between that and the fender he had a major project on his hands.
One thing for sure: he wasn’t going to pay for it.
He turned and shouted angrily toward the Mustang, which still rested where it had skidded to a halt on the shoulder behind him.
“You crazy sons of bitches! What’s the matter with you? Look what you did to my van. You want to play chicken on the highway, why don’t you find somebody else to pick on?” He gestured at the damaged fender. “You see this? Who’s gonna pay for this?” When no response was forthcoming from his assailant, he picked up a rock lying by the side of the road and threw it at the other car. “Come on, own up to it, and you damn well better have insurance!”
The explorer blinked, shook his head. He’d been stunned by the collision with the dash. Now he turned to see Jenny trying to scramble out the door. The gun had tumbled to the floor and lay somewhere out of sight beneath the seat. There was no time to go hunting for it. He grabbed at her, still unbalanced by the concussion he’d suffered.
Heinmuller had started toward the Mustang, holding the big lug wrench tightly in his right hand. If they wouldn’t come to him, he’d sure as hell go to them. He could understand the reason for their continued silence, but if they thought he was going to shine
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