To the Vanishing Point

6

An off ramp loomed just ahead. Frank wasn’t surprised when the police cruiser’s turn signal began flashing.

There were two lanes. The right one was backed up onto the highway with cars and trucks. The left was empty until the patrol car started up it. As they followed close behind, Frank saw that the land surrounding the highway was still barren but full of red buildings. The plethora of architectural styles was astonishing. There was no rhyme or reason to the town that he could see. Victoriana slumped next to early medieval, Islamic alongside Frank Lloyd Wright, Balinese beside early Russian.

There was a stop sign at the top of the off ramp. A crossroad ran right, through part of the town, and left via an overpass to the other side of the highway. Directly ahead lay an on ramp. Part of him desperately wanted to take it, to chance pursuit by the patrol car, which had already turned right onto the crossroad. They’d have a slight head start and the down ramp would let him build up speed quickly.

But not without his daughter. Not without Wendy. She might be something of a rebellious airhead, but no more so than many teenage girls her age. He loved her even when he yelled at her. No way was he leaving her in this place.

There was a big parking lot off to the left, fronting a squat, single-story building. Feathery antennas protruded from the roof, giving the edifice the appearance of a bloated caterpillar hugging the ground.

Frank had no trouble turning across the road since there was no oncoming traffic. It was all one way. The lot was full of police cruisers and vans, all the same color as the one carrying Wendy. Above the main entrance a sign unsurprisingly proclaimed:

HADES JUNCTION POLICE

The cruiser they’d been following parked. Its driver turned off the spinning red lights and exited. A moment later Wendy emerged in the firm grasp of the sergeant. Her headphones hung from her neck. Fear and confusion vied for dominance on her face.

The older officer held onto her as he beckoned toward the motor home.

Frank rose, unlatching his seatbelt. "You stay here."

"Not a chance, Frank. I’m coming, too."

"I think we’d all best go." They both looked at Mouse. She indicated the waiting police. "Their company offers official protection, at least until they find out more about us. I’d rather not stay out here alone."

Frank hesitated, then nodded. "All right. I’m taking your advice because I don’t know what else to do. Steven comes, too?"

"Especially Steven." She put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Alicia noted the gesture but said nothing.

After checking to make sure the doors and windows were locked, Frank followed them outside. He paused atop the steps, his attention caught by the long line of vehicles backed up in the lane they’d just exited. They crawled slowly toward an imposing gate a couple of hundred yards down the road, inland from the highway off ramp.

He couldn’t read the symbols atop the gate, but he had no trouble with the big steel sign just down the road from the police station parking lot. It was painted cherry red and only confirmed what he’d already guessed. The three words were a contradiction in terms.

WELCOME TO HELL

He hurried after Alicia and Mouse and Steven, not wanting to be left behind outside. As he hurried, he wiped sweat from his cheeks and forehead. It had been hot by the side of the road, but not this hot. The paved parking lot was a frying pan, Death Valley’s Furnace Creek in high summer. He fancied he could hear his sweat evaporating into the air.

If anything, it was hotter inside the station.

The sergeant was waiting for them. "If you’ll all just follow us we’ll get this business cleared up straight away." He turned and led them up a corridor, chatting with his taller, younger subordinate.

Frank went straight to his daughter. She wasn’t crying, but there was panic in her eyes and she was trembling visibly. He opened his arms and she sagged gratefully against him, her hair disheveled, her blouse torn from one shoulder.

The slimy-looking officer behind the front desk was staring at them and grinning. His teeth were filed to fine points. His desk, like the floor and walls, was fashioned of cut stone. There wasn’t a sliver of wood to be seen in the building.

Trembling a little himself, Frank started to step around his daughter. Her arms tightened against his.

"No! No. It’s okay, Dad. I’m all right." She glanced back over her shoulder to where the two officers had stopped to wait on them. "He didn’t do anything much. Just got me scared, that’s all."

"You sure?" He searched his daughter’s eyes, was immensely relieved not to find what he’d feared there.

She nodded. "Daddy, where are we?"

He remembered the sign, didn’t have the heart to quote it. "A bad place. Very bad. But we’ll be out of here soon, you’ll see. As long as we keep our cool and stick together we’ll get out all right. We have to keep our composure, though. Understand?" He gripped her shoulders hard.

"I understand."

"Okay. Now wipe your face. We don’t want to let these things think they’re getting to us, right?"

She nodded again, managed a feeble smile.

They followed the two officers up the corridor.

It might have been any office building in Los Angeles except for the intense heat and the fact that everything was made of stone or metal. No air-conditioning in Hell, he thought. Only heat and hotter. Officers and nonuniformed help passed them in the halls. Doors opened onto busy rooms full of clerks and technicians. Many of them were far less human than the two patrolmen who’d picked up Wendy. Steven stayed between Alicia and Mouse while Wendy hung close to her father. The station’s personnel ran the gamut from near-human to semihuman to utterly alien grotesqueries equipped with multiple tails and horns. Some had more than the usual complement of eyes and arms. Others sported fangs borrowed from saber-toothed cats. There were computer operators with forked tongues and filing clerks with long, narrow skulls that showed more bone than flesh.

They stopped outside a door while the sergeant vanished into the office beyond. The younger officer picked his teeth while something seven feet tall slumped down the hallway, long arms dragging the floor, knuckles turned inward. It did not turn to inspect them, for which Frank was grateful. He had no desire to encounter those vast yellow eyes with their tiny black pupils nor to see what might live inside that cavernous, bulging mouth. It held a sheet of plastic in one immense paw. Two red chevrons gleamed on the six-foot-long sleeve of its tunic.

Two more-modest monsters flanked a water cooler in the room opposite. The cooler jug contained an amber-colored liquid. Gasoline? he wondered. Or something equally volatile?

The sergeant emerged from the office he’d entered, took the younger patrol creature aside and whispered to it. Frank wanted to smash in both smug faces. He might’ve tried it in Los Angeles, but not here. Not in this place. A stupid, probably futile gesture that would do neither him nor his family any good. He wasn’t afraid of the younger officer who’d tormented his daughter, but he was damned afraid of the other things that lurked throughout the building. Besides which it wasn’t a smart idea to take a poke at a cop inside a police station, no matter what kind of things populated the place.

The sergeant turned back to them. "We’ve done some checking. The lieutenant wants to see you." He turned and they followed him inside. Frank kept a protective arm around his daughter. The younger officer kept staring at her and grinning. She avoided his gaze.

In the outer office they passed something like a shell-less tortoise. It had a uniform and a face like a demented wild boar. The sergeant spoke to it and it grunted a reply before waddling past.

They halted outside a door of frosted glass, except the design in the glass wasn’t frost but rather flames. It was very artistically done, even to the details of the human hearts that floated in the midst of the flames.

The lieutenant was waiting for them. He was four feet across at the shoulders and weighed in the neighborhood of a quarter ton. His oversized desk barely accommodated his enormous frame. It was dominated by piles of plastic sheets, which he was perusing as they entered.

Frank’s gaze rose to the pictures that filled the wall behind him. There were several framed certificates, including a crimson diploma. A miniature gold pitchfork was mounted on an engraved brass plate. Obviously symbolic rather than practical, it looked like the sort of thing you’d give a retiring judge, only he’d get a gavel.

He preferred not to study the actual photographs, would have given a lot to keep Steven and Wendy and Alicia from having to look at them at all. He could only hope that they were too stunned by what they’d encountered already to pay much attention to them. They’d ignore the long string of preserved human organs that hung above one filing cabinet, twisting slowly in the hot air of the office, only because their attention was drawn to the mounted, stuffed, perfectly preserved figure of a four-year-old boy that sat regarding them blankly out of glass eyes from its marble base atop another cabinet.

The lieutenant’s saucer-sized eyes were pink with red pupils, framed by towering bushy eyebrows that resembled dancing flames. His orange hair had recently undergone a severe crew cut. The uniform he wore could serve as a tent for any three normal men. Whether it was his natural body odor or some grisly cologne, Frank had no way of knowing, but the great body stank like the backside of a slaughterhouse.

The uniformed monster put aside his plastic sheets and regarded the arrivals with interest. His was not a pleasant stare and Frank would have given a lot to be out from under it.

"Well," a voice rumbled, as if from somewhere deep beneath the ground, "it’s clear you shouldn’t be here."

Frank hadn’t made it close to the top of the business world by being meek and deferential. This wouldn’t be the proper place to show weakness, he decided quickly.

"Of course we shouldn’t be here! We were just cruising along, observing all the local laws, minding our own business, not in the flow of traffic at all, when these two pulled us over and insisted we follow them." He indicated the sergeant and younger officer, who stood off to one side. "And that one," he added for good measure, "tried to take advantage of my daughter."

"Good," the lieutenant growled. "Glad to know my people are doing their job. As for pulling you over, what else would you expect them to do? I’ve read the transcript of their report and you’re right about not being in the regular traffic pattern. Around here that’s more than unusual: it’s exceptional. There is only the prescribed traffic. Casual travelers just don’t end up on that piece of highway. It’s reserved for the departed who’ve been assigned this as their final destination."

"We did our own determining," Frank insisted. "We must’ve taken a wrong exit somewhere. We were on our way to Vegas and — "

The lieutenant interrupted him, nodding to himself. "That could explain it. Las Vegas is as close to Hell as humans can get in the real world. I can see how there could’ve been a mix-up. An interchange under repair, some fool places a detour sign improperly — not impossible. You’re certain you were going to Vegas, not coming from there?"

"That’s right."

Great craggy eyebrows bunched together. "Damn peculiar. I knew when Joe described you to me we had a real problem here."

While he pondered the fate of those before him, the young officer had worked his way next to Wendy. He grinned down at her while she tried to move away from him. Frank wanted to shout in his inhumanly beautiful young face, to order him to stay away from his daughter, but he held on to his temper. The slightest wrong move might upset the lieutenant’s fragile objectivity. So far he’d been courteous, even polite. But not apologetic. Frank could not risk getting on his bad side, assuming he wasn’t all bad side already.

He kept his mouth shut until he heard Wendy whimper.

"Look, if this situation’s beyond your authority I’ll be glad to speak to your superior officer."

The demon’s face twisted into an unexpected, horrid smile. He leaned way back in his couch-sized chair and filled the room with his laughter. His elephantine bellowing bounced off the rock and shook the pictures and plaques on the walls. Steven clung to Mouse’s waist while Alicia turned away and tried to shield Wendy.

By the time he regained control of himself, the lieutenant had tears rolling down his cheeks. They didn’t roll very far, evaporating with tiny sizzling noises before they fell as far as his mouth.

"The Chief? You want to see the Chief? Now that’s really funny! Anybody would know you people don’t belong here or you’d never say anything like that." Abruptly he leaned forward across his desk. He seemed to take up the whole room that way, shoulders and chest and face of planetary dimensions, glowing pink eyes continents adrift in a sea of unwholesome flesh. His tone lowered and it sent shivers through Frank’s entire being.

"You don’t really want to talk to my boss, do you?" he growled softly.

"Not if we can solve this business without bothering him, I guess," Frank said bravely.

"I thought you might reconsider." The demon sat back in his chair, which creaked beneath his enormous weight. "I don’t like to have to deal with the Chief under any circumstances. The more you can avoid him, the more pleasant your sojourn in Eternity will be. I guarantee you wouldn’t enjoy the meeting."

Out of the corner of an eye Frank could see the tall young officer’s hands roaming over his daughter’s body. She stood motionless save for her trembling because she didn’t know what else to do. Frank didn’t know what to do, either.

Steven had left Mouse’s side and retreated to the far end of the room, as far from the two patrol-things as possible. Instantly three squat creatures popped into existence, surrounding him. They were smaller than adults but bigger than Steven. Each wore sneakers, jeans, dirty shirts. One had on a leather jacket. They began poking and kicking, trying to trip him. All had mean, narrow little faces, believably human save for the brightly glowing eyes. Three schoolyard bullies, a precocious, overweight youngster’s worst nightmare come to life.

So far Alicia had been ignored, and Mouse might be immune, but it was becoming clear that the longer they lingered in this place, the less reluctance the inhabitants felt about abusing them. Demonic inhibitions were breaking down while he and this officer argued. If they didn’t do something to get away soon, their presence here might become a fait accompli instead of a matter for debate.

"We don’t belong here because we haven’t died yet," he argued desperately. "It’s not our time, or whatever it is they call it. This is a big mistake."

"I tend to agree with you," the lieutenant rumbled. At that declaration the schoolyard trio paused in their bullying. The young patrol-thing stepped away from Wendy. "Yet it remains that however you got here, you are here, and must be dealt with. I don’t know what kind of leeway I have in a situation like this. I’m going to have the records checked for precedents. If there is one, it will guide me in the disposition of your case.

"Meanwhile" — he turned to the sergeant, who stiffened beneath that relentless glare — "put these people somewhere comfortable so I can find them when I want them."

"First Level?" The sergeant’s voice was eager.

"No," replied the lieutenant with obvious reluctance. "Can’t do that until it’s official. Someplace neutral but secure. Your enthusiasm for your work is commendable, Sergeant, but we have to follow correct procedure. Don’t worry. If this works out the way we all hope it does, I’ll see to it that you and your partner receive proper credit."

"Thank you, sir."

"Can I take charge of this one while we’re waiting, sir?" The younger officer had advanced to put both arms around Wendy. He held her easily in spite of her struggles. She moaned in his grasp. "She’s a squirmer. I like squirmers."

"Corporal, you’re a patrolman. You asking for a transfer to field operations?"

"No, sir. But it’d be nice to have something to play with between handing out tickets and keeping the traffic moving."

"Don’t count your bonus until it’s approved. But I’ll note your request." The lieutenant turned back to Frank, who clung to his remaining composure with great difficulty. "Sorry about this, but you’ve got to see my side of it."

"I’m sure you’ll do the right thing," Frank replied through clenched teeth.

"The right thing?" The demon found this amusing, though not as hilarious as Frank’s request to meet with his superior. "We never do the right thing here. That’s not my business. What I do is the appropriate thing, which isn’t the same at all."

"Yeah, right." Frank’s voice fell to a mumble. "That’s what I meant. Thanks."

The two patrolmen escorted them out of the office. Trailing the crying, battered Steven, the three young bullies kept up a relentless barrage of taunts and kicks, pinching and punching him hard enough to cause pain but not injury. Wendy’s patrolman devoted equal attention to her, easily warding off her rejecting blows. Possibly sensing a favorable forthcoming decision, the sergeant was eyeing Alicia with intense interest.

Frank suffered persistent visions of arteries tightening like cords around his brain, of little wiggly worm-things swarming into his eyes and nostrils like sentient cholesterol in search of his stroke center.

Only Mouse remained unaffected and aloof. Frank wondered how long her immunity might last. Not that it mattered what they did to her. All that mattered was that she would be trapped here along with them, prevented from reaching her Vanishing Point. It occurred to him that if the fabric of existence came apart completely, Hell might go to pieces along with everywhere else. Somehow that was no comfort at all.

With obvious reluctance they were shoved into an empty room. Frank heard the sergeant lock them in.

The room was identical to the sort you might find in any government building. A couch, several battered chairs, a couple of end tables boasting lamps fashioned from what looked like human bones, and a magazine rack next to the single coffee table. Frank glanced at the magazines, quietly scooped them up, and dumped them behind the couch so Alicia and Wendy wouldn’t see them. He couldn’t do anything to conceal the scratches on the walls and door or the gouges that had been dug in the floor.

Wendy sat down on the couch next to her mother, who tried to comfort her as best she could. Steven had stopped crying and was rubbing his eyes.

There were no windows and only the single doorway. A shadowy alcove suggested the presence of a bathroom. There was a drinking fountain bolted to the wall just inside.

Steven put his lips to the spigot and pressed the lever. Frank paid no attention to him until the boy screamed in pain. He jerked sharply away from the fountain, holding his mouth with both hands and bawling anew.

His parents were at his side in an instant. Forcing his hands down, they examined him. His reddened, burned lips were already beginning to blister.

"They let me bring my purse," Alicia murmured. "I’ve got some ChapStick." Frank nodded wordlessly, moving to examine the fountain. A flick of the lever brought forth a stream of clear water. As might have been suspected, though not by a ten-year-old, the liquid was boiling hot.

"All we can do is wait," said Mouse into the silence.

"Wait?" He turned away from the diabolic fountain. "Wait for what? Can’t you get us out of here? I wouldn’t want to bet that lieutenant or whatever he reports to is going to end up deciding anything in our favor."

Her expression turned sorrowful. "I have the ability to heal and to soothe, to regulate and relax, but I cannot work miracles. If I could do such things I would not have to stand by the side of strange highways begging for a ride. It may yet be that when they realize we do not belong here we shall be sent on our way."

"Sure. I know we can rely on that lieutenant’s inherent good nature." He watched while Alicia applied balm to their son’s seared lips. Wendy had found something to look at.

He’d missed one of the magazines. She was gazing at it transfixed by horror. Covering the distance between them in a single step, he wrenched it out of her hands and threw it across the room. She stared at him in shock, then let him take her in his arms. It had been a long time since she’d allowed that.

He held her for a long while. When he let her go she managed a slight, hopeful smile. But as she resumed her seat he saw she was staring worriedly at the hallway door, perhaps remembering the intentions of a certain uniformed demon.

An hour passed, then another. Somehow they endured the stifling heat. There was a metal cup in the bathroom. Frank filled it with boiling water from the tap, let it stand until it was cool enough to drink. Lukewarm water was better than none.

No one checked in on them. Whatever procedure the lieutenant was having to go through was evidently complex and time-consuming.

Of course, if they all perished of heat stroke in the interim it would solve all his problems.

He longed for the motor home’s well-stocked pantry, but all they had to eat was a package of crackers Alicia found in her purse. While providing some nourishment the crackers also intensified their thirst. Frank also had to go to the bathroom, but after his son’s experience with the water fountain he wasn’t sure he was ready to try the dark alcove’s facilities.

Fifteen minutes later the door clicked as it was unlocked from outside. Wendy and Steven retreated to their mother’s side. Frank took up a stance in front of them, ready to confront whatever entered.

It was only a man. Tall and powerfully built, he wore stained dungarees, flannel shirt, and battered cowboy boots. A red headband controlled his shoulder-length straight black hair. One hand pulled the handle of a galvanized metal cart that contained two mops, a wire broom, and a bucket of steaming, soapy water. The intruder silently soaked one mop in the bucket, ignored them as he began swabbing the bathroom floor.

Other than being the size of an NFL lineman, the janitor looked perfectly normal. Normal eyes and face and no more than the accepted number of appendages. He worked silently, moving the mop back and forth, pausing only to wring it out and resoak it.

"Hey, Dad," Steven whispered urgently, "he looks like a real Indian!"

"Be quiet. Nothing here’s what it appears to be." He kept his voice down, but not enough.

"Now that’s where you’re wrong, friend." The mop-wielder spoke with a soft, Southwestern drawl, his enunciation almost too precise. "Everything here’s exactly what it appears to be. No need for subterfuge."

Something in the man’s manner, in his tone, impelled Frank to take a chance. "You don’t look like one of them." He nodded toward the hallway beyond the door. "You don’t talk like one of them, either."

"Probably because I am not one of them." He smiled. Frank was immensely relieved to see that his teeth were not pointed. "Name is Burnfingers Begay. First thing now is you will ask yourselves how I come by such a name."

"Oh, no, we wouldn’t — " Alicia began.

He answered before she could finish. "When I was born, I came out so hot in the delivery that I burned the doctor’s hands." Still smiling, he turned back to his work.

Alicia wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. Wendy didn’t care. She just laughed, until her mother shushed her. What if the janitor didn’t find it amusing?

"Go ahead and laugh. It is pretty funny."

She gaped at him. "Can you read minds?"

"No. But after a while you get a pretty good idea how folks are thinking, even if you don’t know for sure what they’re thinking."

Frank was eyeing him dubiously. "I don’t get it. You seem normal to me."

"Oh, no. Not normal at all." He paused, leaning on his mop. "You see, I am crazy. Very much out of my head. Major wacko. Isn’t that obvious? What sane person would be working here?"

"But you’re not a devil, or a demon."

"Only to a few folks who’ve gotten in my way. Actually I am Navajo and Comanche. Begay is Navajo. Burnfingers is the Anglo translation of my Comanche name, which you could not pronounce. My mother was visiting the all-Indian powwow in Gallup one year, where my father was exhibiting. They begot yours truly." He laughed softly. "Half of me wants to settle down and make jewelry and the other half wants to go on the warpath. No wonder I am crazy."

"You don’t sound crazy to me," said Alicia hesitantly.

He raised a cautionary finger. "Ah: the sign of the truly mad."

"Is this your torment, your punishment?" Frank asked him curiously.

"Punishment? This isn’t punishment. I was on my way to L.A. when my pickup broke down. Going to meet a girl. The local police gave me a ride."

"Us, too," Frank told him dourly.

"Of course I was kinda surprised at first. I think I puzzled these locals. They used all kinds of creatures and critters and sights to try and upset me, but all it did was remind me of Disneyland, so I laughed. You see, we have no equivalent of your kind of Hell. That is when they decided I did not belong here in this place."

"That’s what they’re doing now, trying to decide what to do with us," Frank said eagerly. "What happened then?"

"There was a lot of talking going on. While they talked I saw how filthy this place was. Myself, I am a stickler for cleanliness. My father’s mother kept the cleanest hogan in the whole Four Corners area, until we all moved into the big house. So while they all talked I just started to clean things, to keep busy. When they saw what I was doing they offered me a job. They’re not very good at cleaning up after themselves and when they assign some of their own kind to do it they end up making a worse mess or pulling off one another’s arms and things like that."

"A job? Here?"

"Why not here? Have you ever been to the Four Corners area, friend?"

Frank shook his head, added absently, "Sonderberg. Frank Sonderberg." He proceeded to introduce the rest of the family, leaving Mouse for last.

Burnfigers nodded. "Four Corners boils in summertime, but in winter and fall it’s such a cold place you cannot imagine. Something in me could not tolerate the cold. My family thought it was funny, big fella like me always being cold. One thing about this place here: it never gets cold. The pay is good, too. They pay me in gold, any kind of gold I want. Spanish doubloons, Imperial Roman coinage, Persian ingots — I have quite a collection now."

"Where do they get all the gold?" Steven wondered, wide-eyed.

"I don’t know for sure, but I think a lot of it comes from some of the people who are given permanent residency here. Those kind of people always seem to acquire gold. Many are carrying it when they are brought in. Trying to take it with them, I guess. It doesn’t get any farther than the main gate."

"Don’t you worry about accepting that kind of gold?" Alicia asked him.

Burnfingers moved his mop across the marble floor. "Why should I? Metal is innocent of its makers." He gestured to the left. "I got a nice room here, private. So long as I do my job nobody messes with me. Also got a TV. I can get all the L.A. and Vegas stations. They must have a pretty good antenna around here somewhere. For keeping track of future guests, I guess. They even let me comfort some of the ladies who end up here."

"They let you do that?" said Frank.

"They think it’s pretty funny. Tears make them laugh hysterically. But I don’t deceive anybody and they’re glad for a little last human contact. Some of the people I have met would surprise you. Some probably would not. Fewer politicians than you would think. More artists than you would suspect. A lot of bankers."

"Doesn’t being stuck here worry you at all?" Alicia asked earnestly. "What if they changed their minds about you?"

"Got a contract."

"Well, what about your soul, then? Your immortal soul?"

"If I got a soul it’s not around here. Don’t have a shadow, either. Too hot for it, I think."

"Everyone has a soul." When she spoke like that, Frank thought admiringly, she looked like a suburban madonna.

Burnfingers shrugged. "Maybe so. Maybe I’ll run into it again one of these days. In the meantime, I’m getting along okay without it. Nobody’s asked me about it, so I guess they’re not interested in it. Or me. I’m kind of a neutral here, not part of this world or the other. One thing, they appreciate my work. That’s nice. I’ve worked plenty of places in the real world where people just yell at you and call you names behind your back." He smiled slightly. "Nobody’s ever called me a name to my face. Well, one fella. I think he’s around here now someplace."

"They don’t call you names here?" Frank wondered.

"Oh, sure, but that’s different. Part of their work. In a way it’s almost affectionate."

"You don’t sound mad to me."

Burnfingers’s smile faded and he turned to stare intently at Mouse. "Now you are one enigmatic little lady. You I haven’t got figured out yet. Of course I am crazy. If I was not, living here would have driven me mad by now. Since it hasn’t, I must already be. If you need confirmation, go down to any of the Levels and ask the people there for Eternity what their opinion is of the mental condition of someone who would remain here voluntarily."

While Burnfingers and Mouse appraised each other Frank had been thinking furiously. "Are you saying they let you go anywhere? That you’ve the run of this place?"

"More or less. I pretty much work around the station. Messy as your average imp and demon is, there’s enough to keep me busy here. And I don’t like going past the Gate, down to the Levels. Even though it’s pretty much an Anglo idea of Hell, it’s still not very pleasant to look upon. Besides which it’s an impossible place to clean. Take me centuries just to make a start on the brimstone stains. This place I can handle."

"I still don’t understand why they’d hire you in the first place," Alicia murmured.

Burnfingers smiled thinly. "Apparently admissions are way up. Personnel hasn’t been able to keep pace, even with a lot of the staff putting in extra overtime. Being so close to Las Vegas, this is one of their busiest checkpoints. The Gate here is open round the clock and the traffic never dries up entirely, though I’m told things slow down some around Christmas."

"How long have you been here?"

He moved his cart out of the bathroom. "Hard to say. Time never much interested me and I don’t own a watch. There are clocks all over the station, but they don’t have numbers on them. I have had to let my own biorhythms set my pace."

Frank relaxed enough with Begay to take a seat. "What did you do before you ended up here? You sound pretty sharp to me."

"They tested me once, back when I could stand school. My IQ is, I don’t know. Two hundred and ten, something like that. I was off their scale. Unfortunately, being crazy I can’t do much with it. Grandfather, now, he was smarter than me. They wanted him to run the Nation. The Navajo Nation, that is. But he would not have any part of it. He was only interested in sheep and corn and watching the weather.

"The schoolteachers kept trying to interest me in different subjects. When I was in high school I got interested in something they call amorphous silicon. I thought you could make high-efficiency solar cells from it. My teachers would not listen to me, so I forgot about it. Then for a while I thought I wanted to be a diesel truck mechanic. There was much talk of a football scholarship, too, until I found out I preferred avoiding people to running over them. That is not the kind of attitude that turns on college recruiters.

"Finally I just picked up and went my own way. Traveling suits me best." He winked. "This is not the only interesting place where I have worked."

"And you don’t find this kind of work, your situation here, degrading?" Frank asked interestedly.

"No hard work is degrading. Ask yourself sometime who you would rather have go on strike: the physicists or the garbage collectors? I have done both kinds of work. I spent much time in a plant in northwest Texas assembling nuclear weapons."

Steven’s eyes got real big. "Atom bombs?"

Burnfingers nodded. "My job was to help with the final assembly and checkout. When no one was looking I made improvements to each warhead I worked on."

Frank tried to envision a self-proclaimed crazy assembling nuclear devices. It made him sweat harder. "What kind of improvements?"

"On the ones that I helped prepare for shipment, I adjusted them so that if they were set off, all the radiation would be confined within a quarter-kilometer radius. The rest of the energy released would take the form of harmless fireworks, like big Fourth of July sparklers." He grinned.

"That’s sabotage!" Frank said angrily. "You’ve weakened our national security."

"Oh, I always even things out, Frank. I did the same work for a time in a Soviet assembly plant near Lake Baikal. The Russian bombs will make red and yellow sparklies, the American ones red, white, and blue." He allowed himself a chuckle. "If they are ever used there are going to be some very surprised generals on both sides."

"I love your bracelet." Alicia gracefully changed the subject. "Is it Navajo?"

Burnfingers raised his left arm. The flannel sleeve slid back from his wrist to expose a mass of worked silver and turquoise. "My father gave it to me. It is old pawn. Myself, I prefer to work in gold. That is why I am collecting so much of it. I have a mind to make something one day."

Abruptly, the hall door opened to admit the three demonic juveniles who had been tormenting Steven earlier. They entered laughing and cackling.

Steven saw them, let out a scream, and fled to the bathroom. One of the demons got an arm and leg between the closing door and the jamb and forced the door open. His companion resumed picking on the hapless ten-year-old.

"Hey, that’s about enough!" Frank moved to aid his son.

One of the juveniles whirled on him. "You keep out of this, blood bag!" He had pupilless red eyes and when he hissed, two narrow streams of flame shot from those inhuman orbs. Frank reeled back from the heat. The creature chortled nastily and turned to join in the fun.

Burnfingers Begay took a step toward the bathroom. "This is a holding area. You do not belong in here."

"You stay out of this, too." Eyeballed flame reached toward the tall Indian.

Begay ducked the fiery blast. One hand reached back to grab the water bucket, brought it around to smack the demonic bully square in the face. A noise like a big boiler letting off steam filled the room together with a ragged shriek. The other two demons stumbled clear of the evaporating puff of steam that had been their companion. All that remained of Steven’s principal tormentor was a small pile of red and black ashes.

Burnfingers tossed the empty bucket aside and picked up the wire broom. "Now you two both get out."

Watching him warily, the survivors edged rapidly around the far side of the room. Though they spoke threateningly, they were obviously frightened of the janitor.

"You’ll hear about this!" one of them squealed. "You’ll be sorry — ouch!" Burnfingers’s broom caught him across the seat of his jeans and lifted him a foot off the floor.

"We’re gonna tell, we’re gonna tell the supervisor!" its companion moaned as he retreated down the hall.

"Go right ahead. I’ll tell him you were operating in a restricted area." Burnfingers closed the door behind them. He put down the broom and entered the bathroom, smiling reassuringly. "It is okay now, little fella. You can come out. They are gone and will not come back soon."

A hesitant Steven peeked out, rubbing at one eye with a fist. "Thank you, Mr. Begay."

"Me, too," said Frank, holding out a hand to his son. "Thanks."

"You are welcome. They did not belong here doing what they were doing and they knew it."

Alicia was staring in amazement at the pile of ashes.

"Now maybe you folks ought to tell me what you are doing here," Burnfingers suggested.

"With pleasure." All suspicions gone, Frank proceeded to explain as best he was able.