Our tow truck operator did his duty, but just that: he brought us to the nearest garage, though it was a place a long way off the road even further in the middle of nowhere, a place whose name I cannot recall. Maybe it never had a name. I doubt if the place really existed anyway; I think it rose out of a heat mirage to bedevil us. It had a garage, but nothing else, a few houses swirling out of dust and grit. We find out quickly that the car is dead—dead dead and not to be otherwise anytime soon. Or so the guy told us. We still have sf to run to WorldCon, box after box of books loaded in the trunk and backseat. J asks about rental cars—nope. So, our Fearless Leader comes up with another “clever plan.” After talking with the guy who runs the garage—a guy named Fred—we find he has a friend—also named Fred—who for a little remuneration will run us in his big-ass car the wrong direction through the desert back to Odessa where we can rent a car which we can then use to drive to San Antonio. When the second guy shows up and introduces himself as Fred, I picture our bodies left in a shallow grave, buried under stacks of Tachyon books. I mean, this can’t be real, right? I wonder if I am suffering from heat stroke.

Anyway, Fred’s car is a big ass car—the trunk is huge, and so we load all the sf books in the trunk and back seat. We three sit across the front seat, me by the front window (this matters to the story). As we set off, Fred reaches behind his seat, flips open a cooler, and pops opens a beer that he drinks while driving us into the uncanny cool of a Texas night, from nowhere to nowhere. The million visible stars out there beyond any light pollution look down with a dim, forgiving light on two fools who have no idea where they are, moving through a profound and endless dark all around them; as the second beer opens, I picture a different end for us and J’s books. I wonder when someone will find the car. I wonder if they will like the books. I wonder again if I am suffering from heat stroke.

About the third beer, with empties rolling on the floor, we get pulled over by a Texas State Trooper. Yes, the eyes of Texas are upon us. As Fred rolls to a stop on the side of our two-land highway, he hands the beer across Jacob to me. I stick the half-drunk bottle down beside my seat out of sight. Surprising us all, the cop comes up on my side and—before I can roll down the window, which I am frantically trying to do—opens the door and the beer falls out at his black-booted feet, its contents chug-chugging into the sand under that star-filled Texas sky.

The cop asks Fred if he could get out of the car so they could have a chat.

Fred and the Texas Trooper have a conversation between our red backlights and the cop’s headlights. Leaving Fred there, the Trooper saunters up to us and leans down and in. He has a couple of questions.

“Where are you boys from?”

“What’s in the boxes?”

Fair enough. The two young men are from San Francisco. (Honestly, we’d already gotten some weird reactions to that.) The boxes? Those are full of science fiction books. We’re driving them from San Francisco to San Antonio…though we know we are not quite on the right road for that at the moment. The Trooper’s face remained, impressively, entirely impassive throughout our answers.

We had arrived, I sensed, at some sort of reckoning.

So…he let us go.

Apparently, it’s legal (or was?) to have open beer in the car in Texas….because Texas…as long as the driver is sober. As to the boxes: I think he figured our answer was too stupid, really, to be a cover story and so must be some version of the truth, however pitiful. He didn’t even look in the boxes to check.

We arrived in Odessa where Fred left us with hours to go before the car rental place opened. We sat with J’s books, dazed. Eventually, we got a car, loaded it with books, and got in. Unfortunately, we discovered the driver’s seat was stuck all the way back and there was no other car big enough to carry all of J’s books. I’m not sure that really makes sense, but I must remind you it had been a long time since we had slept. Anyway, there was a solution. J and I played basketball together in High School; we had a good rapport there  on the court, too. J played point guard; me, I played center. So…I, and only I, could drive us all the way back to San Antonio. No relief driver. Sure, I said. Let’s go. What could possibly go wrong?

As we pulled into San Antonio, many hours later, baked by the sun, tired, it is some measure of all we had been through that as we came across a big rig, tipped over on its side, on fire, I felt blasé about it. The world might be ending, sure, but we’d already been there, already retconned that. Bring it on. There were already emergency personnel there. It would all work out. And it did.

We pulled into WorldCon with a story to tell. We didn’t have to pay for many drinks that weekend, I can tell you. I like to think that J learned important lessons from our journey for his fledging enterprise. But I’m not quite sure what they are. Maybe: you can’t predict anything, but just keep going. Or perhaps: always check for your friends at the next rest stop, they might be waiting for you. Or finally: never, ever try to move sf books to Texas by car. I think J had a pretty good con selling his books. It’s been nothing but clear sailing ever since. I mean, here’s the lesson: even if the big rig is fallen over, and on fire. Just wait. It will all work out. Probably.

Long live Tachyon!