“It’s possible but not likely,” said the black and yellow. “Just looking at you I can tell you’re all too tightly bonded for that. Your request self will never assert itself. At least not right away.”
Frank was tempted to press a little harder on the accelerator but didn’t dare. The one thing they could not afford to do was lose control of the motor home. This was no place for reckless driving.
Flucca was keeping a wary eye on the floating fish as he spoke to Mouse. “Are you sure this isn’t Chaos?”
“Chaos?” The orange fish laughed, a bubbly, watery sound. “Goodness, no.”
“Well, you don’t seem very organized here.”
“Existence is wasteful without flexibility,” the black fish told him. It made an effort to smile. “This isn’t Chaos. There are the Free Lands. Freedom is not Chaos, though there are similarities.”
One of the orange floaters nodded. “Freedom is just Chaos with better lighting.”
“It’s all in how you perceive reality.” The black spun in a tight circle. “Best not to examine too closely the underlying truths. They can be upsetting. Speaking of which, you all are so nervous and uptight. Any stomach pains?”
“No,” Alicia responded. “Actually I feel fine. It’s just that we’re in a hurry to get somewhere and these detours are kind of trying.”
“No detours here, unless you want to take them.” The orange fish were swimming toward the open window. The black hurried to join them. The unlikely trio exited together.
“Machines,” one of them muttered disapprovingly.
“Wait, wait a second!” Frank waved anxiously. “How much farther does this road go?” There was no answer. The three angelfish were already falling behind as they swam in stately formation toward the floating mountains that dominated the distant horizon.
“Well,” Alicia observed after some time had passed, “at least the natives are friendly.”
“And maybe good to eat,” said Burnfingers undiplomatically.
“I wonder what they look like when they’re not being fish?” Wendy mused.
“I don’t know.” Frank kept his eyes resolutely on the road ahead. “But let’s not ask for any demonstrations. Uh-oh.” He braked, disconnecting the cruise control. The motor home began to slow. Mouse moved up for a better look.
“What’s the matter?”
“Maybe it isn’t Chaos, but there’s a little too much freedom ahead.”
They were coming to a split in the road. Not a fork or another off ramp. A hundred yards in front of the motor home, the pale pavement degenerated into a tangle of possible pathways. Some curved skyward at impossible angles. Others plunged into solid ground. A few curled round and round like endless corkscrews. If he drove onto one of those, Frank wondered, would he fall off when the road turned upside-down, or would they just keep on going?
In any case, he had no intention of plunging headlong into that mass of multidirectional spaghetti. There was no one in front of him, no one behind. He slowed, pulled off onto what he hoped was a paved shoulder, and stared.
“Did you ever see anything like that?”
“Sure. Lots of times,” said Burnfingers. “On the reservation. Sheep guts.” Behind him, Wendy made a face.
“How do I know which one to take? There aren’t any signs. Leastwise nothing I can read.”
There were a good three dozen possible routes, provided one took into account suspension of certain natural laws. Objects floated around, over, and through several of the roadways. Some were even recognizable.
“We could ask the fish,” Wendy suggested, “if they’d come back.”
Her father looked to the side. A school of silvery shapes glided through the air half a mile distant. They showed no sign of moving closer.
“Maybe if we just wait,” Alicia said hopefully, “someone will come along who can give us directions.”
“Sure, and maybe we’ll all come apart like toys.”
“Or turn into fish!” Only Steven was excited by the possibility. “I wanna be a tuna.”
“You like to eat tuna,” his mother reminded him gently, “but I don’t think you’d like to be one.”
“I would if I could fly.”
“Nobody’s flying anywhere,” his father said sternly, “least of all in this motor home. This is our anchor, the one stable thing in this whole crazy place. Nobody turns into anything unless we all do so together.” He looked at his wife. “I think you’re right, hon. I think we stay here until we can get or figure out directions, even if we have to ask an oak tree in Bermuda shorts.”
But nothing much came by, certainly nothing likely to offer directions. Once a school of large sardines swam over the top of the motor home. They giggled ceaselessly while ignoring the bipedal entities trapped inside.
“Wish we hadn’t used up all the propane,” Frank muttered as he nibbled on a sack of Doritos.
“We did not have much choice,” Burnfingers reminded him. “We could not make a partial bomb. As for myself, I am enjoying the cold snack food. For a long time all the food I had to eat was hot.”
“You think we’ll ever get out of here?” Flucca asked him.
“Of course we will.” Burnfingers chewed on a pepperoni stick. “We have gotten out of every other place we’ve been.”
“I wish I had your confidence.” Frank stared morosely at the impossible interchange frustrating their progress.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Alicia patted his arm. “We’ll make it. Hand me that box of raisins if you’re finished, will you?”
“Sure.” He complied, found she was eyeing him strangely. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what are you staring at?”
“Your arm.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, I guess. Except you used to have only two.”
He frowned at her, then down at himself. A third arm had grown from one shoulder. He raised it, watched the fingers respond to mental commands with a mix of fascination and horror.
“The fish.” Mouse was staring at him, too. “The fish said something about our ‘request’ selves.”
“That’s neat, Dad,” said Steven. “Can you grow another one?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know. I don’t want to.” As he finished, a fourth arm emerged, then two more. He tested them all, wiggling the fingers, the arms bending and moving gracefully. “This could be handy, except when you needed a new shirt.”
“You always were the grabby type,” Alicia told him.
