The Collection

line of pon­derosas south of the water. 'You got yourself a small ridge that overlooks the National Forest and has a view clear to

Mormon Mountain.'

Alex nodded. He continued to nod as the real estate agent rambled, pretending to listen as the man led him through the high grass to the water.

Should he tell the corporation to buy the meadow? His meadow? Technically, his was only a preliminary recom­mendation, a decision that was neither binding nor final. His choice would then be carefully scrutinized by the board. The corporation's assessors, land use experts, and design techni­cians would go over everything with a fine- toothed comb.

Technically.

But the way it really worked was that he scouted loca­tions, the board rubber-stamped the go-ahead, and the cor­poration's legal eagles swooped down to see how they could pick apart the deals mapped out by the local realtors.

The fate of the meadow lay in his hands.

He stared at the reflection of the trees and the clouds, the green and white reproduced perfectly on the still, mirrored surface of the blue water.

He thought back to his POP years, and he realized, per­haps for the first time, that he had been a selfish environ­mentalist even in his most ecologically active days. There was no contradiction between his work now and his beliefs then. He had always wanted nature's beauty to remain un­spoiled not for its own sake-but so that he could enjoy it.

He had never been one to hike out to remote wilderness areas and enjoy the unspoiled beauty. He had been a couch potato nature lover, driving through national parks and pretty areas of the country and admiring the scenery from his car window. He had objected to the building of homes on forest land that was visible from the highway, but had not objected to the presence of the highway itself.

He'd seen nothing at all wrong with building a home in his dream meadow, though he would have fought to the death anyone else who'd tried to build there.

Now he was on the other side of the coin.

He tried to look at the situation objectively. He told him­self that at least the corporation would protect the lake and the meadow, would preserve the beauty of this spot. Some­one else might simply pave it over. He might not be able to build a house here and live in the wilderness with April, but he could rent a room at the resort, and the two of them could vacation here.

Along with hundreds of other people.

He glanced over at the real estate agent. 'Was this spot ever in Arizona Highways!' he asked.

The realtor laughed. 'If it wasn't, it should've been. This is one gorgeous spot. Hell, if I had enough money I'd buy the land and build my own house here.'

Alex nodded distractedly. They had reached the edge of the lake, and he crouched down, dipping his fingers in the water. The liquid felt uncomfortably warm to his touch. And slimy. Like melted Jell-O. He quickly withdrew his hand.

He stood, shaking the water from his fingers. There was a faint ringing in his ears. He looked around the meadow but found that his whole perspective had changed. The trees no longer seemed so beautiful. Rather than a miraculous exam­ple of the wonders of nature, the forest looked like a fake grove that had been inexpertly planted. The lake looked small and ill-formed, particularly in comparison with some of the pools and lagoons created for the newer resorts. The meadow, he saw now, would be perfect for either a golf course or an intra-resort park. Lighted walking paths or horse trails could be constructed through the grass and the trees. Landscaping could accentuate the meadow's natural beauty.

Accentuate natural beauty?

Something seemed wrong with that, but he could not put his finger on what it was.

'This sounds exactly like what you're looking for,' the realtor said.

Alex nodded noncommittally. His gaze swept the short shoreline of the lake. And stopped. In the weeds on the opposite side of the water was a rusted water pump.

A chill passed through him as he stared at the pump. It was nearly identical to the one in his dream, his mind hav­ing conjured correctly even the rounded organic contours of its shape. His heart was pounding crazily, a rap rhythm in­stead of its usual ballad beat. He swiveled toward the real­tor. The agent was staring at him and smiling. What was the expression on the man's face? Was that amusement he saw in those eyes? Was there a hint of malice in that smile?

Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? There was nothing unusual in the real estate agent's expression. He was being paranoid.

'Should I draw up the papers?' the realtor said jokingly.

Alex forced himself to remain calm, gave the man a cool smile, did not tip his hand. 'What other properties can you show me?'

While April was in the shower, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. For the first time he realized that he was middle aged. Really realized it. His gaze shifted from his thinning hair to his expanding waist to the increasing rigidity of his previously malleable features. His age was not something of which he'd been un­aware-each birthday had been a ritualized reminder of his loss of youth, each New Year's Eve a prompter of the pass­ing of time-but he now understood emotionally what be­fore he had comprehended only as an intellectual concept.

His best years were behind him.

He sucked in his gut, stood sideways in front of the mir­ror, but the effort was too much and he let it fall. That stom­ach was never going to go away. He would never again have the kind of body that females would look at admiringly. The women he found attractive would no longer find him attrac­tive.

He might die of a heart attack.

That's what had brought this on. His heart had been pounding so forcefully and for so long after he'd seen the water pump that he'd honestly been afraid it would burst. It did not seem possible that his unexercised and cholesterol-choked muscle could keep up that pace for so long a time without sustaining damage.

It had, though.

He walked across the carpeted floor of the hotel room and stared out the window at the black silhouette of the San Francisco Peaks. The mountains towered over the lights of Flagstaff but were dwarfed by the vastness of the Arizona night sky. He had two more days of scouting to do, two more days of meetings and sales pitches, but he knew that he had already made his decision.

He was going to recommend that the corporation buy the meadow. He didn't feel as bad about the decision as he thought he would, and that concerned him a little. He stared out the window at the stars, tried to imagine what it would have been like if he really had followed his dream, not allowed himself to be deterred by practicality. Would he have been with April or someone else? Would he still be living there in the meadow, by the lake, or would he have long since given up and, like most of those involved in the back-to-nature movement, joined mainstream society? Would he be where he was now anyway?

He didn't know, he wasn't sure, but he felt a vague sense of sadness and dissatisfaction as he looked into the night.

'Hon?' April called from the bathroom. 'Could you bring me my panties from the suitcase?'

'Sure,' he answered.

He turned away from the window and walked over to the suitcase on the floor near the bed.

He dreamed of the pond.

He walked down the narrowing, darkening path until he reached the blighted clearing, where the filthy water lay in a sickening pool. He stared at the pond and he was afraid. There were no monsters here, no evil spirits. This was not sacred Indian land that had been unthinkingly desecrated. There were no strange creatures swimming beneath the sur­face of the brackish liquid.

There was only the pond itself. And the pump.

These were the things that were scary. Against his will, he found himself moving across the dead ground to the edge of the water. He looked across the pond at the pump and the hose protruding from its side wig­gled