caught his attention at the far end of the junkyard. Two men walking in his direction, picking their way across the junk-strewn lot. Barney hugged the fence, tightening his legs against it, trying to make himself small as he huddled there. Which was ridiculous, of course. How can you hide sitting on top of a fence? To his relief he saw the men moving away, back toward the front of the place, too engrossed in their conversation to notice Barney. He was at least five hundred feet away, in any case.
The presence of the car was baffling to Barney. Why was it here? As he lifted his head, the world tilted slightly. Not the world but himself, assailed by sudden dizziness. Would the nightmare of the car slanting down the hill begin now? He should have stayed inside the Complex, shouldn’t have come out here, climbed this fence, vulnerable, unprotected. He closed his eyes—worse with his eyes closed—opened them and saw that the world was stationary once again. No nightmare. Here and now, Barney Snow in command.
But the MG. He had to get a closer look, touch the car, establish its reality. He felt a kinship with the car: It was like him, different from the other vehicles in the junkyard just as he was different from the other patients in the Complex. Both aliens.
He swung one leg over the top of the fence. Crazy, don’t do this. Did it anyway. Now he was sitting on the fence top, balancing delicately. Swung his body around, let his legs drop, used every bit of strength in his arms to secure a hold while his feet sought support on the fence. And found it somehow. Barney let himself down tentatively, carefully, proud of the way his body functioned, smoothly, easily, doing what he commanded it to do: Get down from the fence.
On the ground Barney tested the earth beneath his feet, heart pounding, breath coming fast. Felt the solidness of the ground and realized he trusted nothing these days, not even earth. He began to walk carefully toward the MG, picking his way through the yard’s debris, abandoned carburetors and batteries and other stuff he couldn’t identify. He felt as if he were making his way through a battlefield long after the bombs had exploded and the soldiers had fled, taking the dead and wounded with them.
The wind began to rise, whistling through the abandoned cars, a door banging hollowly nearby, its clangor like the sound of doom. Stop the dramatics, Barney, he told himself. He slipped in a puddle of grease, lost his balance and reached out to a sagging station wagon for support. A rat scurried out of the car, spurted between Barney’s legs and fled the scene.
Barney stopped short as he approached the car. Felt his jaw drop open, like in a comic book. The MG was a fake. Not a car at all but a mock-up, made of plywood, the doors and hood and the other parts held together by screws and hinges. He kicked at the phony car in anger, feeling tricked and betrayed. Up close, he saw that the paint was somewhat faded, although it looked fresh and new compared to the wrecks that surrounded it. The interior was unfinished, thin boards serving as the front seat and the floor. The steering wheel was fastened to an aluminum shaft, the wheel itself small and out of proportion to the rest of the car, probably taken from a child’s toy automobile. The dashboard was another piece of plywood, but someone had cleverly drawn a speedometer, gasoline gauge and other dials on it to give the dash the appearance of reality.
Grudgingly, Barney admired the handiwork that had gone into the making of the car, the care with which the various parts had been screwed together. He kicked one of the rear tires, the way people did in used-car lots. The tire was real but smaller than an ordinary one, maybe a tire from a motorbike.
Walking around the car, stroking the smooth wood, he wondered what the hell it was doing here. Who built it? And why? The front bumper was simulated silver, dull in spots, but still glinting in the sun. Barney noticed
The presence of the car was baffling to Barney. Why was it here? As he lifted his head, the world tilted slightly. Not the world but himself, assailed by sudden dizziness. Would the nightmare of the car slanting down the hill begin now? He should have stayed inside the Complex, shouldn’t have come out here, climbed this fence, vulnerable, unprotected. He closed his eyes—worse with his eyes closed—opened them and saw that the world was stationary once again. No nightmare. Here and now, Barney Snow in command.
But the MG. He had to get a closer look, touch the car, establish its reality. He felt a kinship with the car: It was like him, different from the other vehicles in the junkyard just as he was different from the other patients in the Complex. Both aliens.
He swung one leg over the top of the fence. Crazy, don’t do this. Did it anyway. Now he was sitting on the fence top, balancing delicately. Swung his body around, let his legs drop, used every bit of strength in his arms to secure a hold while his feet sought support on the fence. And found it somehow. Barney let himself down tentatively, carefully, proud of the way his body functioned, smoothly, easily, doing what he commanded it to do: Get down from the fence.
On the ground Barney tested the earth beneath his feet, heart pounding, breath coming fast. Felt the solidness of the ground and realized he trusted nothing these days, not even earth. He began to walk carefully toward the MG, picking his way through the yard’s debris, abandoned carburetors and batteries and other stuff he couldn’t identify. He felt as if he were making his way through a battlefield long after the bombs had exploded and the soldiers had fled, taking the dead and wounded with them.
The wind began to rise, whistling through the abandoned cars, a door banging hollowly nearby, its clangor like the sound of doom. Stop the dramatics, Barney, he told himself. He slipped in a puddle of grease, lost his balance and reached out to a sagging station wagon for support. A rat scurried out of the car, spurted between Barney’s legs and fled the scene.
Barney stopped short as he approached the car. Felt his jaw drop open, like in a comic book. The MG was a fake. Not a car at all but a mock-up, made of plywood, the doors and hood and the other parts held together by screws and hinges. He kicked at the phony car in anger, feeling tricked and betrayed. Up close, he saw that the paint was somewhat faded, although it looked fresh and new compared to the wrecks that surrounded it. The interior was unfinished, thin boards serving as the front seat and the floor. The steering wheel was fastened to an aluminum shaft, the wheel itself small and out of proportion to the rest of the car, probably taken from a child’s toy automobile. The dashboard was another piece of plywood, but someone had cleverly drawn a speedometer, gasoline gauge and other dials on it to give the dash the appearance of reality.
Grudgingly, Barney admired the handiwork that had gone into the making of the car, the care with which the various parts had been screwed together. He kicked one of the rear tires, the way people did in used-car lots. The tire was real but smaller than an ordinary one, maybe a tire from a motorbike.
Walking around the car, stroking the smooth wood, he wondered what the hell it was doing here. Who built it? And why? The front bumper was simulated silver, dull in spots, but still glinting in the sun. Barney noticed
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