Polaris

I

The Ruins of Rhyolite

Look over to your left, Robert, said the car. Those are amazing rock formations, aren’t they? You can see the effects of glaciation in those hills to the north.  Further down the ridge, there’s a darkened area. That is magma. Volcanic activity, long ago.  Do you see, Robert?

But the old man was asleep. Light flashed over a shimmering sea. He was rising slowly upwards, towards an infinite blue sky. Gossamer clouds hurried across, blown inland by ocean winds. Angels come from heaven to greet me, he thought.  My sufferings are over. But the rising stopped, and he sat there wonderingly, looking out over the sea’s great expanse. In the distance, freighters sailed west, bound for the orient, while smaller sailboats roamed the shore closer in.  He heard voices from below, and he knew there were people down there, milling about on the pier.  Beyond, along the beach, he saw them sunning themselves or running through the hot sand.  It was August. He remembered this place, this day. He looked down at his hands, the little fingers, still thick with babyfat.  He pushed himself back in the seat, aware of his smallness, overwhelmed by the light and distance.

It’s all right, Robert, a voice said. They stop it this way on purpose. It’s part of the fun. A hand took his own and squeezed it. I’m right here, his father said, and put his arm around him.  Isn’t it beautiful?  A seagull flew past, cawing, and his father cawed back raucously. Their chair was bright yellow, a happy color. His father laughed and shook his hat at the birds. Are you having fun, buddy? he asked, and ran his fingers through Robert’s hair.

Yeah, Daddy, he said, his eyes wide.  Can we do the bumper cars later?

His father smiled.  Of course. Anything you want. He looked far away, putting his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.  Japan, he said.  China. The South Seas. One day you’ll go to all those places. He pointed as he spoke.

Will you go with me, daddy? Robert asked.

His father looked at him wistfully.  You’ll be all grown up by then, buddy, he said.  You might not want your old man tagging along.

Robert didn’t like that.  I want you to come with me, he said.

His father smiled. Okay.  You talked me into it. The Ferris wheel chair gave a sudden lurch. The boy yelped in surprise. His father squeezed his hand. It’s okay, sweetie. We’re just going back down. The wheel began its slow descent. Back to the real world, his father said, and the joy seemed to leave him like air escaping from a balloon.  His shoulders sagged.  He looked at his son.  Remember this, Robert.  Robert?  Try to remember this.

I will, daddy, the boy said.

Robert, said the voice, and the scene was frozen now, his father, the beach, the Pacific wind. A bird hung suspended in midair, and his father’s voice had fallen forever silent.

I will, daddy, he said again.

Robert? Do you see the formations, Robert? the car asked. To the left. Robert?

The old man wearily opened his eyes and gazed sightlessly at the roof of the car.  He glanced out the window at the desert racing by. They were approaching Death Valley again, this time from the west. The long shadows of afternoon ran ahead of them. He rubbed his neck as he sat up.

Why did you wake me? he said.  I was having a lovely dream. Why must you pester me?

I’m sorry, said the car.  The scenery is so beautiful. Would you like to rest some more? Should I return to sleep mode?

No, forget it.  How long was I asleep?

One hour 14 minutes.

Felt longer. He sighed and pushed his thin white hair back. I can’t take this. Goddamn scenery. Who cares?  I wish I were dead.

There, there Robert. There, there.

Stupid machine.

As usual, you’re irritable when you awake. When we stop, I will prepare a lovely espresso drink for you. You’ll feel better.

Robert stared vacantly at the receding road in the rear view mirror.  I’m hungry, he said.  Where should we have dinner?

Where ever you wish, Robert. Scotty’s Castle is not far...

Nah, we were just there, weren’t we? Let’s go to Rhyolite.

Very well, said the car. We should arrive there in approximately an hour and a half, road conditions permitting.

Fine said Robert.  Put on some music.

What would you like to hear, Robert?

I don’t know. Robert frowned.

I have Classical, Rock, Mid Century fusion. I have Blues, Jazz...

I know what you have, car. Let me think...

Regarding Classical, I have Romantic era, Baroque, Twelve Tone...

Yes, yes, I know. Be quiet!

Certainly, Robert.

Robert took a deep breath, staring at the endless blue sky. Jazz, he said. How about Miles Davis? Kind of Blue.

An excellent choice, said the car.  Would you like some biographical information on the composer?  I’ve a wealth of information in my database regarding 20thCentury Jazz, as well as...

Robert scowled.  No, just play the goddamn music, he snapped, then, feeling remorseful, he added: Thank you, car.

You’re welcome, replied the car.  Kind of Blue, track one. The trumpet notes wafted through the car.  Robert lay back and gazed idly out the window.

They were coming over the pass now, high up on the crest of the Paniment Mountains, the range just west of Death Valley. He could see the road wind down the mountain side to spill into the arid floor below, a tiny ribbon, partially obscured by the remnants of sandstorms. He looked to the south, at the valley stretching far away, where, beyond lay another range of Desert Mountains, and another, and another still, until the blue of the land and sky merged into one. In spite of his irritation at the car, Robert had to admit the scenery was breathtaking. When he first came to the desert, it had seemed like an amorphous mass of stone, sand, and stunted rock, blasted by eternal heat.  Over time, though, his eyes had become attuned to the variety of this world.  The rocks here were different in size or coloration from the broad plains down at Badwater Basin, or the mesas and valleys southward near Tecopa.  Even the same place could seem completely different depending on the time of day, like Monet’s Cathedral paintings. Also, though at times unwillingly, Robert had learned a great deal from the car, which possessed an extensive database on geology, history, and climatology. It attempted to make its presentations more interesting, using the viewscreen, dramatic music, and the voice of Orson Welles as narrator. But Robert had long since wearied of these lectures. What difference did it make? As beautiful as it was, he was sick of it, sick of the tans and rust reds, the browns and grays. He remembered his dream, the lurid intense green of the California coast.  This land had not known such green for tens of thousands of years.

May I ask what you were dreaming about, Robert? asked the car.

Robert shivered slightly.  The car’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  He had never gotten used to it. I was dreaming about my father, he answered.  A day we spent together, a long time ago.

That sounds pleasant, said the car.

Robert was surprised to feel his throat constricting.  It was, he said tightly.

Does the memory make you sad, Robert? asked the car.

Robert sat up impatiently. Yes, it does.  What’s your point?

I have no point, Robert, answered the car. I’m simply curious.  In our conversations, I’ve noticed a wide range of feelings on your part concerning him.

Yes, said Robert. Well, feelings are complicated.

Did you love your father, Robert? asked the car.

Robert scratched at his beard. Very much. When he was there.

What do you mean?

I mean he wasn’t always there. He was wrapped up in a lot of things. Busy, I guess.

Ah, yes, said the car.  He was a salesman.  You mentioned this.

Robert grimaced.  Is that what I said? Hmm.

Yes, said the car. He was often away on business. That’s what you said.

Well, Robert said.  Yeah, he tried being a salesman. Lot’s of things. He was a limo driver for a long time. He stared sightlessly at the dashboard. And full time tortured artist. The creative type.

But he was not creative?

No, he was. He just never finished anything.  He tried music, writing, photography. He might have done pottery for all I know. Nothing ever came of it. The image of his father rose up again, looking out over the Pacific. I’ve missed the best part of this piece, he said.

I’m sorry, Robert, said the car.  I can start it over.

No.  This is all...pointless to talk about. It’s past.

Very well.  I’m sorry if I was intrusive.

Nah, it’s alright. He’s been dead a long time.

Were you still a child? When he died...

Not exactly. I was 16. We hadn’t talked in... he furrowed his brow. A while.

Why was that?

Robert grunted impatiently. Well, car, if you must know. He got a little out of his head. It was hard to talk to him. And that just got worse I guess.

Why do you say that, Robert? I can reference the standard texts on mental disorders if you wish.

No, please don’t. Just don’t.

I’ve upset you.

Robert stared up at the ceiling.  We lost touch. I never went to see him. I guess I should have. Things might have turned out differently.

The car was silent for a moment. They rounded the last curve of the mountain side and came down to a long straight section of road dotted with gravel and white billowing sand.

Differently how, Robert?

He was alone, that’s all, said Robert impatiently. Maybe that’s what killed him.

How could being alone kill someone?

Robert sighed. Drop it. You wouldn’t understand. The valley floor stretched endlessly around them. Robert looked up at the empty sky. No birds flew there.

I’m attempting to understand, said the car. I have my heuristic upgrades. They allow me to...

Yes, I know about your upgrades. Never mind that. He listened to the music for a few moments, gazing vacantly at the reflections of a distant mountain range, shimmering in the window. This is stupid, he said suddenly.

"What is stupid, Robert?’

This. He gestured tiredly. He picked at a spot on the passenger seat, then sat up abruptly. The hell with this. I want you to look for a signal.

"Really, Robert. I don’t believe that will be productive. You know I must conserve power.  I’ll have to shut down some of my functions. Besides, you are tormenting yourself needlessly.

Look for a signal. I order you to look for a signal. Obey me, car.

The car hesitated for a second.  Very well. Switching off environmental functions.  The dull hum of the air conditioner ceased, notable in its absence.  Immediately, the car’s interior began warming up. Robert reached for his handkerchief on the passenger seat. 

Adjusting frequency, intoned the car.

Roll down the window, said Robert.

That will be little help, said the car.  External temperature is 165 degrees Fahrenheit. If you would just wait an hour or two, after the sun sets...

No said Robert. Find a signal now.  There has to be one.  There has to be. Crack the goddamn window.  He mopped his brow.

Searching, said the car.

The window came down an inch and the desert wind poured in. The heat was profound.  It was smothering, crippling, this heat. It filled every corner; there was no escape. One could die easily, the body’s fluids evaporated in seconds, leaving a mummified shell, a mere variation on the dust and rock