He smiled at her. “Thanks, sweetheart, but I think I’d rather be behind the wheel myself in case we run into any new surprises. This boat’s a little harder to handle than your XR-7.”
“Then what are we going to do, dear?” Alicia asked him.
He sighed. “A city’s a city.”
“Perhaps it would be best for us to rest awhile,” said Mouse.
“Frank’s right.” Burnfingers nodded back toward town. “Maybe Pass Regulus is not Las Vegas, but it looks to be a close facsimile. They should welcome us at one of the hotels.”
“What about money?” Frank asked him. “They may not take credit cards here.”
“What they take might surprise you. If nothing else we always have my gold.”
“But you’ve been saving that for something special,” said Alicia. “To make your jewelry, or whatever it is you intend to make.”
“I can always get more gold. When we are safely back in our reality you can pay me back.”
“You’d do that for us?” said Frank.
“It will be a cold day in Hell when Burnfingers Begay shies from helping his friends. I am looking forward to seeing what kind of entertainment this city offers.”
Mouse eyed him. “There’s no guarantee gold is worth anything on this reality line. It might be quite common.”
“Not my gold. Mine is uncommon gold. Though I cannot dispute what you say.”
“It’s worth a try, anyway.” Frank checked the road behind them. Both lanes were empty. He swung the big motor home around, kicking sand from the opposite shoulder, and headed back toward town. Momentarily he found himself wondering at the difference between common and uncommon gold. Then it was forgotten as he concentrated afresh on the traffic that began to gather around them.
9
NOT FAR BEYOND THE Hulton he pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be the biggest hotel around. Four metal and glass wings protruded from the crown of the immense cylindrical tower. Each wing contained a huge glass-bottomed pool in which guests were invited to swim. Their distance from the ground eliminated any temptation anyone in the motor home might have felt to do so.
The reservations manager was as human as they were, especially when it came to his attitude toward money. As he’d feared, Frank found that his credit cards and cash were utterly useless.
Or as the manager put it, “If you’re trying to pull some kind of gag, my friend, this is the wrong place to do it.” He wore a one-piece powder-blue jumpsuit with an exotic white and black flower sprouting from the buttonhole. His shaven skull was elaborately painted. The composition continued down both sides of his neck to vanish beneath the jumpsuit’s shoulder straps.
“What about this?” Burnfingers fumbled inside his leather pouch and extracted a Spanish piece of eight. Frank didn’t get a good look at it, but it gleamed like new.
The manager held it up to the light. “Pretty, but malleable. Not worth much, I’m afraid.”
A discouraged Frank turned away from the desk. “So we’re stuck. We’ll have to sleep in the motor home after all.”
“Wait.” The manager’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that noise?”
Since the lobby fronting the desk was active with people and other creatures coming and going, not to mention the din rising from the nearby casino, his query could have stimulated several different answers. Except that he was looking straight at Wendy, who was standing behind her parents rocking to the sounds from her Walkman. Evidently the manager’s hearing was more than acute.
Sometimes, Frank thought, it helps to be experienced in commerce.
“Just some of my daughter’s music.”
The manager listened a moment longer, licking his lips. “Could I hear closer?” he finally asked hesitantly.
“Sure.” Frank turned to yell at his daughter. “Wendy!”
She made a face, slipped off the earphones. “What’s up, Pops?”
“Let our friend here have a listen.”
She looked dubious but passed over the Walkman and phones. The manager slipped them on carefully. A look of pure bliss transformed his face. Frank was becoming impatient when the man finally removed the phones. He looked around to make sure none of his fellow employees was near, leaned over the counter. He wore avarice like a cheap cologne.
“How much do you want for this?”
“Now wait a minute, Pops. That’s my Walkman,” Wendy protested.
The two men ignored her as Frank showed the manager how the little machine operated. He nudged the eject tape and the cover popped open.
“The music is recorded on this strip of plastic material?” The manager ran a finger over an inch of tape.
“That’s right.”
“This is wonderful. The archaic melodies, the astonishingly primitive rhythmic arrangements, the pure tone-deafness of the singers, not to mention the exquisite inanity of the vocals. Where did you buy it?” He looked up from the Walkman, studying their appearance, their attire. “Where are you people from, anyway? Canatolia? Marsecap? Notil?”
“Just tell me what it’s worth to you.”
“I don’t know. This is just a hobby of mine.” He swallowed. “Do you have more tapes like this one?”
“Yeah. There’s a whole bunch out in the mot—out in our vehicle.”
“How many is a ‘whole bunch’?”
