ONE

Red Dorakeen was on a quiet section of the Road, straight and still as death and faintly sparkling. A pair of futuristic vehicles had passed him several hours earlier, moving at fantastic speeds, and he had later overtaken a coach-and-four and then a solitary horseman. He kept his blue Dodge pickup in the right-hand lane and maintained a steady 65 mph. He chewed his cigar and hummed.

The sky was a very pale blue with a heavy bright line running from east to west across it. There was no noticeable dust, and no insects splattered against the windshield.

He drove with the window down, his left hand clasping the top of the doorframe. He wore a faded baseball cap, its bill drawn low over his forehead; his head was tilted slightly back to accommodate it, his green eyes half-lidded in its shadow. His ruddy beard might have been slightly darker than his hair.

A tiny spot appeared far ahead. It grew rapidly, resolving into a battered black Volkswagen. As they passed, the other vehicle's horn began to sound. It drew off onto the shoulder of the Road and came to a halt.

Red glanced into his side mirror, hit his brakes and drifted to his right. As he slowed, the sky began to pulse—blue, gray, blue, gray—its bright stripe vanishing with each fading stroke.

When he came to a complete stop, a clear evening hung about him. Crickets sounded somewhere in the distance, and a cool breeze passed. He opened the door and climbed down from the cab, yanking his ignition keys and pocketing them as he descended. He wore Levi's and combat boots, a brown ski vest over his khaki work shirt, and a wide belt with an elaborate buckle. He reversed his cap and paused to light his cigar before he turned and hiked back along the shoulder.