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diff --git a/59287-0.txt b/59287-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a34b4be --- /dev/null +++ b/59287-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,686 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59287 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + FREEWAY + + BY BRYCE WALTON + + _The Morrisons didn't lose their freedom. + They were merely sentenced to the highways + for life, never stopping anywhere, going no + place, just driving, driving, driving...._ + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1955. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +Some people had disagreed with him. They were influential people. He +was put on the road. + + * * * * * + +Stan wanted to scream at the big sixteen-cylinder Special to go faster. +But Salt Lake City, where they would allow him to stop over for the +maximum eight hours, was a long way off. And anyway, he couldn't go +over a hundred. The Special had an automatic cut-off. + +He stared down the super ten-lane Freeway, down the glassy river, +plunging straight across the early desert morning--into nowhere. That +was Anna's trouble. His wife couldn't just keep travelling, knowing +there was no place to go. No one could do that. I can't do it much +longer either, Stan thought. The two of us with no place to go but back +and forth, across and over, retracing the same throughways, highways, +freeways, a thousand times round and round like mobile bugs caught in a +gigantic concrete net. + +He kept watching his wife's white face in the rear-view mirror. Now +there was this bitter veil of resignation painted on it. He didn't know +when the hysteria would scream through again, what she would try next, +or when. + +She had always been highly emotional, vital, active, a fighter. The +Special kept moving, but it was still a suffocating cage. She needed to +stop over somewhere, longer, much longer than the maximum eight hours. +She needed treatment, a good long rest, a doctor's care-- + +She might need more than that. Complete freedom perhaps. She had always +been an all-or-nothing gal. But he couldn't give her that. + +Shimmering up ahead he saw the shack about fifty feet off the Freeway, +saw the fluttering of colorful hand-woven rugs and blankets covered +with ancient Indian symbols. + +It wasn't an authorized stop, but he stopped. The car swayed slightly +as he pressed the hydraulic. + +From the bluish haze of the desert's tranquil breath a jackrabbit +hobbled onto the Freeway's fringe. It froze. Then with a squeal it +scrambled back into the dust to escape the thing hurtling toward it out +of the rising sun. + + * * * * * + +Stan jumped out. The dust burned. There was a flat heavy violence to +the blast of morning sun on his face. He looked in through the rear +window of the car. + +"You'll be okay, honey." Her face was feverish. Sweat stood out on her +forehead. She didn't look at him. + +"It's too late," she said. "We're dead, Stan. Moving all the time. But +not alive." + +He turned. The pressure, the suppression, the helpless anger was in him +meeting the heavy hand of the sun. An old Indian, wearing dirty levis +and a denim shirt and a beaded belt, was standing near him. His face +was angled, so dark it had a bluish tinge. "Blanket? Rugs? Hand-made. +Real Indian stuff." + +"My wife's sick," Stan said. "She needs a doctor. I want to use your +phone to call a doctor. I can't leave the Freeway--" + +This was the fourth unauthorized stop he had made since Anna had tried +to jump out of the car back there--when it was going a hundred miles an +hour. + +The Indian saw the Special's license. He shrugged, then shook his head. + +"For God's sake don't shake your head," Stan yelled. "Just let me use +your phone--" + +The Indian kept on shaking his head. There was no emotion, only a +fatalistic acceptance of the overly-complex world he and many of his +kind had rejected long ago. "You're a Crackpot." + +"But what's that to you when I just want to use your phone? If I can +get a doctor's affidavit--" + +"If I help you, then the Law come down on my neck." + +"But I only want to use the phone!" + +"I cannot risk it. You drive on now." + +He felt it, the thing that was slowly dying in Anna's eyes. This need +to strike out, strike out hard and murderously at something real. This +suppressed feeling had been growing in him now for too many miles to +remember. He started forward. But the Indian slid the knife from his +beaded belt. "I am sorry, and that is the honest truth," the Indian +said. "But you have to move on now." The Indian stepped back toward the +ancient symbols of his kind. "We have stopped moving. We stay here now +no matter what. Now, White Doctor, it is your turn to move on." + +He put his hand over his eyes as though to push something down. One act +of violence, and the questionable "freedom" would be ended. That would +be an admission of defeat. His hand still over his eyes, he backed +away. Then he turned, choking and half blinded with smoldering rage. + +Keep moving. Nothing else to do with them but put them on the road and +keep them moving, never letting them stop over long enough to cause +trouble, to stir up any wrong ideas. Hit the road, Crackpot. Head on +down the super ten-lane Freeway into the second Middle Ages lit with +neon. + +Then he was running, yelling at Anna. She was past the shack and +stumbling through sand toward the mountains. He coaxed her back and +into the car, sickness gorging his throat as she kicked and screamed at +him and he forced her into the corner of the back seat. + +"Stan, we could run to the mountains." + +"The Law wouldn't let us get very far. Remember, the Special's remotely +controlled. If we leave the Freeway, they'd be on us in no time. They +know when we stop, where we stop. They know if we leave the Freeway!" + +"But we would have _tried_!" + +"They're just waiting for us to do something legally wrong so they +can put us away, honey. We can't let ourselves be goaded into doing +anything legally wrong!" + +"Stan--" she was shaking her head, and her eyes were wet. "Can't you +see, can't you _see_? What they do to us doesn't matter now. It's what +we do, or don't do--" + +When she quieted down a little, he got back under the wheel. Within a +hundred feet, the Special was going eighty-five miles an hour. + + * * * * * + +The thing he had to hold on to hard, was the fact that they had never +really done anything wrong. Anna needed a good long rest so she could +regain the proper perspective. The Higher Court itself had said they +hadn't done anything wrong. There were thousands now on the Freeways, +none of them had any real criminal labels on them. They were risks. +They _might_ be dangerous. Attitudes not quite right. A little off +center one way or another at the wrong time. Some personal indiscretion +in the past. A thought not quite orthodox in the present. A possible +future threat. A threat to total security. + +Be careful, easy does it. Too many black marks on his road record and +the "freedom" of the road would go. Then he would be a criminal in +fact, instead of a vague criminal possibility, and put behind bars. Or +worse. + +The hell with them. The hell with them all. He pulled over onto an +emergency siding and stopped. Not authorized. A good long rest and talk +with Anna-- + +Then he saw it. Suddenly, frantically, he wanted to move on. But now he +couldn't. He kept seeing the light of defiance fading from Anna's eyes. + +The Patrolcar was there, the way it always was there, suddenly, +materializing out of the desert, or out of a mountain, a side street. +Sometimes it was a helio dropping out of the sky. Sometimes it was a +light flashing in darkness. + +Every official of the law: city, county, state, or federal, had a full +record on every Special. They could control them at will. Stop them, +start them, keep them moving down the line. + +Jails of the open road. Mobility lending to incarceration a mock +illusion of freedom. Open sky. Open prairie. The Freeway stretching +ahead. + +And the Patrolcar coming up behind. + +The Patrolcar stopped. The two Patrolmen in black and gold uniforms +looked in at Stan. "Well, egghead," the older, beefy one said. "It was +nice of you to stop without being asked. A fellow named Ferreti back at +Snappy Service No. 7 said you might be a trouble-maker. We thought we +ought to check up." + +Stan said, "I wanted to use his phone to try to get a doctor to examine +my wife. She's ill. She needs help and I've been trying--" + +Without turning, the older Patrolman interrupted, "Larry, what you got +on the philosopher here?" + +The younger Patrolman who had a shy, almost embarrassed air about +him looked into his black notebook. "He isn't a philosopher, not +officially, Leland. Every Crackpot we stop, you figure him to be a +philosopher. You just hate philosophers that's all." + +"Well, that's a fact, boy." When he took the cigar out of his mouth, +the corners of his mouth were stained brown. "My kid got loused up +plenty by a philosopher in High School last year. I raised a squawk and +got the Crackpot kicked out. I also got three others booted out for +hiring him in the first place. I found out he was a lousy atheist!" + +The Patrolman put the cigar back into his mouth. "What have you got on +him, Lieutenant?" + +"Stanley L. Morrison, B.A. Drake University, Class of '55. Doctor of +Philosophy, Drake University, 1957. Federal employee 1957-59. Dropped +from Federal employment, January, 1959--" + +"What for, Lieutenant?" + +"For excessive political enthusiasm for the preceding political party +in office." The Lieutenant looked up almost apologetically. "Looks like +he was unfortunate enough to have been on the wrong side of the fence +when the Independants were elected." + +"These guys are dangerous no matter what side they're on. A Crackpot +shouldn't be on either side. Well, Lieutenant, what else?" + +"Professor of Nuclear Physics, Drake University, 1960-62. Dismissed by +Board of Regents May 31, charged with 'private thought inconsistent +with the policies of the University'. Special inquiry August 5. +Dismissal sustained. Was put on the road as a permanent risk to +security February 3, 1963. He's been on the roads for a year and three +months." + +Stan forced quiet into his voice. "My wife's sick. If I could get +a doctor to examine her, I'm sure I could get a permit to lay over +somewhere so she can get rest and proper treatment." + +"Only eight hours," the beefy one said. "That's the limit. And you're +not supposed to have stopped here at all. Or back at the Indian's." + +"I know," Stan said. "But this is an emergency. If you could help me--" + +The beefy one grinned into the back seat. "That might be all that's +bothering the missus, egghead. She ain't getting the proper treatment +maybe." + +Easy, easy does it. In the rear-view mirror he could see that what the +Patrolman said had brought a flush of life to her face. She was rigid +now, and then suddenly she screamed. "Stan! For God's sake, Stan, don't +take any more from the simian!" + +"Let's go," the young Lieutenant said quickly. "We've got the report +and we'll forward it. There's no call to bait them." + +"Shut up," the beefy one said. + +"Don't tell me to shut up," the Lieutenant said. He put his notebook +away. "This man's never committed any crime. That's why he's on the +road. They didn't know what else to do with him. We're supposed to +keep them moving that's all. Not hold them up because of personal +vindictiveness." + +The beefy one's face was getting red. "Don't use your big words on me, +boy. I'll send you back to College." + +"He's getting punishment enough. You've got nothing against him, or the +woman." + +The beefy one took a deep breath. "Okay, Lieutenant. But I'm going +to drop a few words in the right place. I guess you know how the +Commissioner feels about Crackpots." + +"I don't give a damn. Come on, let's get out of here." The Lieutenant +looked at Stan a moment. "You'd better move on, Doctor." + +"Thanks," Stan said. + +"At the next Snappy Service maybe you can phone. That's an hour's +authorized stop for Specials. There's a Government Project in the hills +nearby. You might be able to contact a Doctor there." + + * * * * * + +The sage spread out to a blur. Heat wavered up from the Freeway. In +the rear-view mirror he saw Anna leaning back, her legs stretched out, +her arms limp at her sides. She wasn't thinking about this with an +historical perspective, that was the trouble. She had lost the saving +sense of continuity with generations gone, which stretched like a +lifeline across the frightening present. + +Keep the perspective. Wait it out. That was the only way. This was +an historical phase, part of a cycle. Stan couldn't blame any one. +Anxiety, suspicion of intellectuals and men of science--as though they +had been any more responsible really than any one else--suspicion and +fear. There always had to be whipping boys. In one form or another, he +knew, it had happened many times before. Another time of change and +danger. There was a quicksand of fear under men's reasoning. + +When things were better, they hadn't remained better. When they were +bad, they couldn't stay bad. Wait it out. One thing he knew--neither he +nor any other scientist could detach himself from life. The frightened +policemen of the public conscience had made the mistake of thinking +they could detach the scientist. + +_I'll not withdraw from it. All of it represents a necessary change. If +not for the immediate better, then I'll be here for the immediate worst +which will someday change into something better than ever._ + +But Anna's tired voice was whispering in his ear. "First of all, we're +individuals, men, women. We've got to fight, fight back!" + +"At what? Ourselves?" + +A sign said: HAL'S SNAPPY SERVICE. TWENTY-SEVEN MILES. + +She's right, he thought, and started slowing down. This is it. He +wasn't going any farther until Anna was examined, and he was given an +okay to stop somewhere so she could rest. + + * * * * * + +It was a dusty oasis, an arid anachronism on the desert's edge. Beyond +it, the mountains blundered up like giants from a purplish haze, +brooding and somehow threatening. Groves of cottonwoods could be seen +far ahead, and sprinklings of green reaching into the thinning sage. + +The old man shuffled out of the shade by the coke machine. Behind him, +through dusty glass, Stan saw the blurred faces staring with still +curiosity. + +The old man hesitated, then came around between the pumps to the +driver's side. He was all stooped bone and leathery skin. His face, +Stan thought beneath the rising desperation, resembled an African +ceremonial mask. + +To the left a '62 Fordster was cranked up for a grease job. But the +only life around it was a scrawny dog lying out flat to get all the air +possible on its ribby body, its tongue hanging out in the black grease. + +"The car's okay," Stan said. "I just want to use your telephone." + +"Doctor Morrison, you'd better go on to Salt Lake City. That's an +eight-hour stopover." + +"My wife needs a doctor's okay for a long rest. I can't take a chance +on going clear to Salt Lake City." + +"But this is only an hour stop." + +Stan got out and shoved past the old man. Heat waves shivered up out of +the concrete and through the soles of his shoes. The heat seared his +dry throat and burned his lungs. + +Anna wasn't even looking. She seemed to have forgotten him. Almost +everyone had forgotten him by now, he thought, forgotten Doctor Stanley +Morrison the man who had never been afraid to speak out and say what +he thought, and think what he wanted to think. Fifteen months with +never more than an eight hour stopover. Thought and self-regard frozen +by perpetual motion, and shriveled by consequent neglect. Only the old +man remembered. That was odd. + +A man stepped into the doorway. He was lean and powerful with a long +gaunt chewing jaw like that of a horse. His eyes were small and black, +and he was grinning with anticipation. Stan felt his stomach muscles +tighten. + +Behind the man, Stan saw the kid. Almost as tall as the man who was +obviously his father, but rail-thin, like an emaciated duplicate of the +man, a starved, frustrated shadow, grinning and feverishly picking at a +pimple under his left ear. He carried a grease-gun cradled in his left +arm as though it were a machine gun. + +"I'd like to use your phone, please," Stan said. "My wife's ill. I want +to phone the Government Project and see if I can get a doctor over here +to look at her." + +"What seems to be troubling the missus?" + +"I don't know!" + +"Then how do you know it's a serious sickness, Crackpot?" + +"Just let me use the phone? Will you do that?" + +"They phoned in ahead, Crackpot. Said you might be a trouble-maker." + +"I don't want to make any trouble. I just want to use the phone!" + +"Why? Even if the Doc came over, you wouldn't be here. He can't get +here inside an hour. And that's all the longer you can stay here. You +got to move on." + +"I'm coming in to use the phone," Stan heard himself saying. He fought +to keep the breathiness out of his voice, the trembling out of his +throat. + +"I don't guess I'd want to have it said I was coddling a Crackpot." + +"I never caused you any trouble." + +"You helped build hellbombs," the man said. He took the toothpick out +of his mouth. "You crazy bastards got to be kept moving along the road." + +"How do you know what I did or didn't do?" + +"You're a Crackpot." + +"I never helped build any kind of bomb," Stan whispered. "But even if I +did--" + +"You're one of them nuclear physicists." + +"I was an instructor at a University. I taught at a Government school +once too--for a while--" He stopped himself, realizing he was defending +himself as though somehow he suspected his own guilt. + +"You taught other guys how to build hellbombs. Who needs you and your +kind, Crackpot? We need your brains like we need a knife in the back." + +Stan lunged forward. The kid yelled something in a high cracked voice +as Stan lashed out again. He felt his knuckles scrape across hard +teeth. Blood leaped from the man's upper lip in a thin crimson slash. +His eyes widened with a grudging respect, then he snarled through the +blood as he stumbled backward and off balance. He fell against the +window and trying to regain his balance, reeled and went down in a +welter of empty gallon oil cans. + +He gathered himself for an upward lunge. Through the blood staining +his teeth, he muttered, "By gawd, Crackpot. I didn't think you had the +guts!" + +Stan glanced out the window and saw that Anna was gone from the car. + +Dimly, he heard the man saying he was going to beat hell out of the +Crackpot, going to beat the Crackpot over the head and then the +Crackpot wouldn't be able to cook up any more dangerous ideas in it for +a long, long time. + +Anna may die now, Stan thought as he stood there bent over a little, +feeling his wet fists tightening. She may die now, because of a +frustrated fool who doesn't know what else to do with himself on a hot +and dull and empty afternoon. + +Stan suddenly caught the flash of color out of the corner of his eye. +He twisted, not thinking at all, and felt his fist sink into the kid's +stomach. The kid fell, curled up among the empty oil cans. He writhed +and moaned and held his stomach. + +"Get up," Stan yelled into the man's face. "Get up--" + +The man came up all at once, and his weight hurled Stan clear across +the room. He felt the gum machine shatter under him, and the metal +grinding into his side as he rolled. Stan felt the grease-gun in his +hand as he saw the man lifting the tire tool, and then Stan swung the +grease gun into the face, seeing the terrible grin, the blood-stained +white smile. + +Unrecognizable as it was, the man's face wouldn't go away. Stan swung +at it again. Then he heard her voice, Anna's voice, intense and alive, +and there was a flash of Anna the way he remembered her a thousand +years ago, before they were put on the road. She was tearing at the +man's face with her fingernails and kicking him savagely. + +Stan had the man's shirt collar and it was ripping under his fingers as +he slammed the head against the concrete floor. The thudding rhythm was +coming up through his arm and throbbing behind his eyes. + +Like drums, he thought as a sickening light flashed on the dusty glass, +like primitive war drums beating out a dance of tribal doom. + +Suddenly feeling sick and weak, he stood up and walked stiffly out into +the sun. + +He leaned against the side of the building trying to keep from +retching. Anna touched his arm and he looked up, half blinded by the +glare of the sun. Her face was flushed and alive. She seemed ten years +younger. + +"Don't be sorry," she said. "Be glad, Stan." + +"They broke us," he whispered. "We've crawled into the cage." + +"It doesn't matter, Stan, it doesn't matter what they do to us now! +It's something to admit you're human, isn't it?" + +She was partly right at least. He felt both glad and sad. But in either +case, it was the end of the road. + +He saw the old man lowering the hood of the Special. He ran back +between the pumps carrying a metal tool box. "I've fixed it," he said, +breathing heavily. "Now get out of here. Push it to the limit. I broke +the cut-off too. Hurry it up!" + +"But what's the use?" Stan said. "They'll get us sooner or later--" + +"They're not going to get you now, not if you stop reasoning everything +out as though it were a problem in calculus! I've cut the remote +control off, and the radar and radio. They won't know where you are. +I've changed the license plate too. But hurry out of here before Hal or +his kid start phoning." + +"But being on the Freeway," Stan said, "they'll catch up with us! +What's the use--" + +"Stan!" Anna said sharply. "Can't you _see_? We're getting away!" + +"I don't want to run away from it," Stan said. + +"You're not running away from anything," the old man said. "You'll find +out. Follow my directions and you'll find out. You're not running away. +You can get out of the flood water for a while, sit on the bank, until +the water drops and clears a little." + +Stan looked into the old man's face a long moment. "Who the hell are +you anyway?" + +"That doesn't matter, Doctor Morrison. Now will you get out of here! +Move on down the road!" + +Stan finally nodded and took Anna's arm and they started toward the +Special. "All right, but what about you?" he asked the old man. + +"I'll make out. You just be concerned about yourself, Doctor Morrison. +This isn't the first time I've helped someone off the road. It won't be +the last time either, I hope." + +He waved to them as the Special, without any limit to its speed now +except the limitations of a driver's nerve, roared away toward the +mountains. + + * * * * * + +Now the special became anonymous on the Freeway, one of countless cars +hurtling down the super ten-lane Freeway, its license changed, its +controls and checkers cut off, its sovereignty returned to it by a +nameless old man, a box of wrenches, and a roll of wire. + +Three hundred miles farther on, the Freeway began a long banked curve; +a thick wall of cottonwoods, willows and smaller brush lined the side +where a creek rushed out of a cleft in the lower hills and ran along +the Freeway's edge. + +Stan started to slow down. + +"There, that's it!" Anna said, pointing excitedly. "The big rock, the +three tall trees. There, between the rock and the tree. Turn, Stan. +_Turn!_" + +"But there isn't any road. There isn't--" + +"_Turn!_" + +Stan turned. + +He blinked as the Special roared off the Freeway and smashed through a +solid wall of leaves, branches and brush. Then they were on a narrow +winding dirt road, dipping down into the stream where a foot of water +ran over stones to create a fiord. It twisted up the other side, +around the creek's edge, over stones and gravel, twisting tortuously +upward and out of sight like a coiled rope. + +"Go on, Stan, keep going!" + +Stan kept going. It demanded all his power of concentration just to +stay on the road which was hardly more than a pathway through the +rising mountains. He had no time to think, and had very little to say. + +Some hundred and fifty miles farther into the mountains, at an altitude +that bit into their lungs, they saw the marker almost buried in rocks +at the left of the road. The place where the old man had told them to +stop and wait. + +But they didn't have to wait. A man, lean and healthy for his +age--which must have been at least sixty, Stan thought--stepped from +behind a rock, and came toward the Special. He was smiling and he +extended his hand. + +"Doctor and Mrs. Morrison," he said. Anna was already out of the car, +shaking his hand. Stan got out. He took a second look, then whispered: +"Doctor Bergmann!" + +The man wore levis and a mackinaw, and he carried a rifle slung under +one arm. "I wasn't expecting you to recognize me," he said as they +shook hands. "I've lost about thirty-five pounds." He smiled again. +"It's healthier up here." + +He walked around to the driver's side and opened the door. The motor +was still running. Stan realized then what Bergmann was doing, and +for some reason without definition he started to protest. Bergmann +was setting the automatic clutch and releasing the brake. The Special +started moving up the road, but there was no one inside to turn the +wheel when it reached the hairpin turn about fifty feet ahead. + +Stan watched the car gaining speed, its left door swinging like the +door in a vacant house. He thought of stories he had heard about +convicts finally released after many years, stunned, frightened by +reality, begging to be returned to the restricted but understandable +cell. Then he smiled. Anna smiled. + +The Special, once you pushed the right button, could do almost +everything by itself, feed itself gas, gain speed, shift its gears; but +it didn't know when to turn to avoid self-destruction. + +Stan winced slightly as the car lurched a little and then leaped out +into space. He felt the black void opening under him as though he were +still in the Special. Fifteen months. + +His ears were filled with the sudden screeching whine of the wheels +against unresisting air, then the world seemed to burst with a +thundering series of solid smashing roars which were quickly dissipated +in the high mountain air. + +Doctor Bergmann went over to the edge and looked down. "That's the +tenth one," he said. "We're going to send a work party down there in a +few days to cover it all over with rocks. Still, I doubt if we have to +worry about them spotting the wreckage." + +He turned. "Well, let's start hiking. It's still a few miles." + +"Where," Stan asked. "I've gone along this far. I've had no choice. +But now what's it all about?" + +"Didn't the old man tell you?" + +"No." + +"Just remember, Morrison. We're not running away. This is an old Mormon +trail. A lot of the old pioneers took it. That marker says that the +Williams-Conner Party camped here and was massacred by Indians in +1867. There's an old Indian city at about three thousand feet. I guess +we're the first ones to use it for maybe a thousand years. We've got +an archeologist up there--Michael Hilliard--who's been going slightly +crazy. Anyway, we've got books up there, we raise most of our own food, +and we've plenty of time to study and try to figure out where we made +the big mistakes. We're really doing very well." + +"But what about the old man?" Anna asked. + +Bergmann chuckled. "Arch has turned into a regular man of a thousand +faces. He works along the Freeways and watches for those who are at the +breaking point and can't stay on the road any longer. Some of those +condemned to the Freeways are criminals, others are fools or misguided +zealots; and we've got to be careful not to wise those birds up by +mistake. Arch has an unerring instinct, and sending our people to us is +his job." + +The three of them started walking up the old pioneer trail. + +"We made a lot of mistakes," Bergmann said. "All of us, some more than +others. You can't blame people for being afraid, suspicious of us. We +_did_ unleash the potentialities for total destruction without ever +thinking about the social implications or ever bothering to wonder +about how our contributions would be used and controlled. + +"So we're off there waiting now. Waiting and studying. Someday they'll +need us again. And we'll be ready." + +"But who was the old man?" Anna asked. + +Bergmann laughed. "Only the greatest physicist of the age. Remember +Arch Hoffenstein?" + +Stan put his arm over Anna's shoulders and they walked on, and up. +He had almost forgotten. But now he never would. Somewhere, Arch +Hoffenstein was hitch-hiking along the Freeway with the ghost of +Galileo. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Freeway, by Bryce Walton + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59287 *** |