Prequel

When the driver-side door of the Mustang opened, Jesus practically ran over to greet his good friend.  I hadn't seen her for years--not even a Uninet photo--and I had to admit she looked good.  She wore her straight, flaxen hair longer than before, barely brushing the tops of her shapely shoulders, and when she flashed her perfectly-even ivory-toothed smile at him the word that popped into my head was "genuine."  She didn't smile often, but when she did it was for real.

The smile disappeared as she looked over his shoulder during their hug and saw me.  "Lee," she said.

"Lenora."

As she turned back to the car to retrieve something she'd brought along for Jesus I couldn't help but notice her rear end.  The faded Sprayaint Jeans she wore left little to the imagination, and I marveled at the excellent physique she'd managed to maintain over the years.  It was the body which, on first sight decades ago, had kindled a passion within me, a passion that later flared into a bonfire of love when the fuel of her intellect was added to the conflagration.  We'd had some very good years together before the flame died, the embers grew cold, and the ashes scattered in the winds of time.

Jesus took what she gave him--a set of keys on a bracelet-sized ring--and hurried over to the largest rusty Quonset hut nearby.  He put a key into a lock, opened it, and rolled up the huge accordion door.  After he entered we soon heard an old internal-combustion engine being fired up, and a moment later a big tanker truck lumbered out of the space.  Jesus drove it over to the helicopter and parked right next to it, quickly jumping out of the truck and circling to its ass end to retrieve a hose.

While he was fueling the flying machine Lenora looked me up and down as if making an assessment.  She said, "I pretty much know how you've been, but I'm asking just to be polite.  How've you been?"

"I've been better," I said.  "And you?"

"I guess I'm all right."

I nodded at her then let my gaze wander around the property.  "This your spread?" I said.

"Yeah--an old ranch I bought a few years back."

"And how is it you have fuel for an ancient turbine helicopter?"

"The old-timer I bought the place from used to fly hunters around the desert in search of coyotes.  He left a lot of Jet A fuel behind."

I had no reason to doubt her, but the story seemed a little suspect.

"How do you know Jesus?"

"Former student of mine," she said.  "How do you know him?"

"Friend of a friend."

When he was finished topping the helicopter's tank off, Jesus drove the tanker truck back into the Quonset hut.  Then he returned, handing the keys over to Lenora.

He said, "I'd better make tracks.  I've got an appointment in Ojai early this afternoon."

"Ojai?" I said.

"You've been there?"

I looked at Lenora, and we both smiled.  I said, "Actually, she and I spent some time in Ojai when we were young."

"You wouldn't recognize it now," Jesus said.  "It's just a northern suburb of the massive L.A.--or what I call LeviathAngeles.  Thirty million people strong and still growing."

Lenora said, "People continue to flock there because of the desalinization plants along the coast."

Jesus approached and gave me a big hug.  "Lee, it's been a real pleasure, amigo.  Good luck with the rest of this zany enterprise."  To Lenora, he said, "Ciao, bella.  I really appreciate what you're doing for the hombre here."

After embracing her briefly he climbed into the helicopter.  She and I backed away when he started the flying machine.  We watched as it climbed about a hundred feet before arcing to the west.  When it had disappeared over the horizon we looked at each other.

I said, "While I truly appreciate your willingness to help, I'm not sure how wise it is for me to head back into a metropolis like Tucson."

"You'll be safe with me until you figure out what to do.  I've got a device to temporarily deactivate your neckrochip, and you can wear black glasses and a fake schnoz if you want to go out in public."

"Won't Dr. Fundt object to my presence?"

"Dr. Fundt is defunct," she said.

"Oh?--I hadn't heard."

"We lasted nearly six months before I stopped tolerating his lame theories regarding 'justified true belief' as it exists on the Uninet.  That's all he wanted to talk about--even in bed during bad sex."

"TMI," I said.

"What's that?"

"Too much information."

"Besides," she said, "it wouldn't be like I was just doing you a favor."

"What do you mean?"

"You can do me a favor, too."

"Which favor is that?"

"You can sit in on my writing class," she said.  "We've just begun discussing Utomepia."

When we climbed into her car a moment later I saw that the word "BumprV" was emblazoned in ebony letters across the mockhogany dashboard panel.

"What model of Mustang is this?" I said.

"It's the new rubber-armored one that has flight capability."

"Flight capability?"

"Well, it's ceiling is fifty feet, and you're only allowed to drive on existing roads and freeways, but if you need to get over traffic it's the best vehicle to have."

When she started it the engine was completely quiet, and it stayed that way while accelerating.

"Does it run on batteries?" I said.

"It's a BattTurb hybrid--battery and jet turbine."

As soon as we entered the ramp for the I-10 corridor it became clear just how superior the Mustang was to some of the other cars toddling along the heavily-congested freeway.  Lenora flipped a switch, the turbine instantly powered up, and we went sailing above the traffic.  Simultaneously there was a noise that sounded very much like the racket made by descending landing gear on an old commercial passenger jet.

"What was that?" I said.

"The car has detected bumper-to-bumper air traffic ahead and has automatically deployed the bumper armor."

"Bumper armor?"

No sooner had I asked the question than we were jostled forward by a vehicle that had rammed us from behind.  Amazingly, we were suddenly surrounded by other flying vehicles clad in rubber armor, all jockeying for position to get ahead.

"This is the fun part," Lenora said, pulling the shifting lever violently back into its first position.

Knowing her personality I had little doubt that the other drivers were now in serious jeopardy.

She smashed into the vehicle directly in front of us, and when it fishtailed ever so slightly she hammered it again, pushing the car out of our way.  She surged forward, wedging the Mustang between two vehicles that were sailing close together, almost touching.

"They're 'partnering,'" she said, "but they're too timid."  To prove it she ploughed between them, causing each car to spin out like a top.  "When you own one of these babies 'aggression' has to be your middle name," she said.

We seemed to be flying ahead unimpeded when we started dropping rapidly toward the surface pavement of the highway.  In the upper-view monitor on the dash we could see two BumprVWs flying side-by-side tyring to force the Mustang down.

"Teabaggers!" Lenora said, pulling the steering wheel back in order to force the compact vehicles off the roof.  The maneuver worked, and we were suddenly free again.

The ride was like that nearly all the way, until we exited the freeway onto Speedway Boulevard, the street running in front of the university.  By then we were on the ground again and rolling forward like any other normal car on the road.  She told me she had bought a home in the old Sam Hughes neighborhood, and when we stopped outside the driveway gate I wondered what kind of place it was.  I didn't have to wait long to find out.  When the automatic gate swung open I beheld a modestly-lavish house surrounded by meticulously cared for Xeriscaped desert gardens.

The driveway gate closed behind us as she piloted the Mustang into the two-car garage.  As the automatic door lowered shut, Lenora said, "Welcome to your new lair."