The Collection

out of the corner of his eye the corrosion on the old metal, the algae-covered tube snaking into the water.

More than anything else, more than the dark and twisted path, more than the horrid pond or the blighted land sur­rounding it, it was the pump that frightened him, its very presence causing goose bumps to ripple down the skin of his arms. There was something in the cold insistence of its po­sition at the head of the pond, in the unnaturally biological contours of its form and the defiantly mechanical nature of its function, that terrified him. He looked up at the sky, around at the trees, then forced himself to face the water pump.

The handle of the pump began to turn slowly, the squeak­ing sound of its movement echoing in the still air.

And he woke up screaming.

The corporation put him up at Little America in Flagstaff. The accommodations were nice, the rooms clean and well furnished, the view beautiful. It was late May, not yet sum­mer and not warm enough to swim, but the temperature was fair, the sky clear and cloudless, and he and April spent the better part of that first day by the pool, she reading a novel, he going over the specs.

The quiet was disturbed shortly after noon by the loud and laughing conversation of a man and a woman. Alex looked up from his papers to see a bearded, ponytailed young man opening the iron gate to the pool area. The young man was wearing torn cut-off jeans, and the blond giggling girl with him had on a skimpy string bikini. The young man saw him staring and waved. 'Hey, bud! How's the water?'

The girl hit his shoulder, laughing.

Alex turned back to his papers. 'Asshole,' he said.

April frowned. 'Shhh. They'll hear you.'

'I don't care.'

Yelling in tandem, the couple leaped into the pool.

'Leave them alone. They're just young. You were young once, weren't you?'

That shut him up. He had been young once. And, now that he thought about it, he had at one time looked very sim­ilar to the sixties throwback now cavorting in the pool.

He'd had a beard and ponytail when he'd marched in the

Earth Day parade.

What the hell had happened to him since then?

He 'd sold out.

He placed the specs on the small table next to his lounge chair, took off his glasses and laid them on top of the papers. He watched the young man grab his girlfriend's breast from behind as she squealed and swam away from him toward the deep end of the pool.

Alex leaned back, looking up into the sea blue sky. Sold out? He was a successful scout for a chain of major resorts. He hadn't sold out. He had merely taken advantage of a for­tunate series of career opportunities. He told himself that he was where he wanted to be, where he should be, that he had a good life and a good job and was happy, but he was uncomfortably aware that the end result of his series of lucky breaks and career opportunities had been to provide him with a job that he would have found the height of hypocrisy in his younger, more idealistic days.

He was not the person he had been.

He found himself wondering whether, if he had been this age then, he would have supported the Vietnam War.

He had supported the war in the Persian Gulf.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind. He was just being stupid. Life was neither as simple nor as morally black and white as he had believed in his college days. That was all there was to it. He was grown up now. He was an adult. He could no longer afford the arrogant idealism of youth.

He watched the couple in the pool kiss, the lower halves of their bodies undulating in the refracted reflection of the chlorinated water, and he realized that, from their perspec­tive, he was probably one walking cliche. A traitor to the six­ties. Yet another amoral baby boomer with fatally skewed priorities.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, turned his head to see April staring worriedly at him from her adjacent lounge chair. 'Are you okay?'

'Sure,' he said nodding.

'It is because of what I said?'

'I'm fine.' Annoyed, he turned away from her. He put on his glasses, picked up his spec sheets, and started reading.

He met with the realtors early the next morning, seeing them not one by one but all at the same time in one of Little America's conference rooms. He'd found from past experi­ence that dealing with real estate salespeople en masse gave him a distinct advantage, firmly establishing him as the dominant partner in the relationship, saving him from the sort of high-pressure sales talk that realtors usually used on prospective clients and putting the salespeople in clear com­petition with one another. It worked every time.

After his prepared talk and slide show, he fielded a few quick questions, then scheduled times over the next three days during which he could go with the realtors individually to look at property. This time, the corporation was looking for land outside the confines of the city. Flagstaff already had plenty of hotels and motels, and Little America itself of­fered resort quality accommodations. To compete in this market, they had to offer something different, and it had been decided that a state-of-the-art complex in a heavily forested area outside the city would provide just the edge that they would need.

They would also be allowed more freedom in design and latitude in construction under county rather than city build­ing regulations.

There were more sites to scout than he'd thought, more property available in the Flagstaff area than he'd been led to believe due to a recent land swap between the Forest Service and a consortium of logging and mining companies, and he realized as he penciled in times on his calendar that he and April would probably have to skip their side trip to Oak Creek Canyon this time.

It was just as well, he supposed. Sedona and the Canyon had been awfully overcrowded and touristy the last time they'd been through.

The white Jeep bounced over the twin ruts that posed as a road through this section of forest, and Alex held on to his briefcase with one hand, the dashboard with the other. There were no seat belts or shoulder harnesses in the vehicle, and the damned real estate agent was driving like a maniac.

The realtor yelled something at him, but over the wind and the roar of the engine he could only make out every third word or so: 'We're ... southern ... almost...' He as­sumed that they were nearing the property.

Already he had a good impression of this site. Unlike some of the others, which were either too remote-with the cost of water, sewer, and electrical hookups prohibitive-or too close to town, this location was secluded and easily ac­cessible. A paved road over this dirt track would provide a beautiful scenic drive for tourists and guests.

They rounded a curve, and they were there.

At the meadow.

Alex blinked dumbly as the Jeep pulled to a stop, not sure if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. They were at one end of a huge meadow bordered by giant ponderosas. There was a small lake toward the opposite end, a lake so blue that it made the sky pale by comparison.

It was the meadow whose picture he'd cut out of Arizona Highways.

No, that was not possible.

Was it?

He glanced around. This certainly looked like the same meadow. He thought he even recognized an old lightning-struck tree on a raised section of ground near the shore of the lake.

But the odds against something like this happening were ... astronomical. Thirty years ago, an Arizona High­ways photographer had chanced upon this spot, taken a photo which had been published in the magazine; he himself had seen the photo, cut it out, saved it. And now he was in a position to buy the property for a resort chain? It was too bizarre, too coincidental, too ... Twilight Zone. He had to be mistaken.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' The realtor got out of the Jeep, stretched. 'This open space here, this clearing's some thirty acres, but the entire property's eighty acres, mostly that area there beyond those trees.' He pointed to the