The
Roads, The Roads, The Beautiful Roads

 

by Avram
Davidson

 

 

The
rumor that the already controversial new double-speed thruway would be closed
to motorcycles was just that: a rumor: and it had already been officially
denied twice. Craig Burns thought now that perhaps it had been a mistake to
deny it at all. Gave the rumor dignity ... his mind absently sought a better
word as he slipped through the milling crowd (crowd? almost a mob) on
the steps and in the corridors of the new State Capital Building. Currency!
That was the word.

 

. . . gave the rumor currency . .
.

 

Because, besides the usual knots
of little old ladies with their Trees, Yes! Thruway, No! buttons,
besides the inevitable delegations of hayseeds from Nowhere Flats who were
either complaining that the thruway was scheduled to go too near their town or
complaining that it wasnłt scheduled to go near enough, besides the
representatives of the rival guildthe urban plannerswith their other ideas and
their briefcases and their indoor-pale skins (so different from the ruddy glow
or tan of a real out-in-all-weather man; besides all these (and including as
always some Hire More Minority protesters), today it seemed as though all the
motorcycle freaks in the state were on hand. On hand, and out for blood. Well,
well, what the hell. It added a little color to the scene. And wouldnłt make
any difference at all, in the end: Gypsy Jokers with long hair, Hellłs Angels
who were merely shaggy, Brave Bulls in their Viking-horned crash helmets, and
the Gentlemen of the Road, so super-groomed and

 

With the blank face and
absent-minded slouch he had learned to be the best thing for slipping through
angry crowds, Craig managed to get almost to the door of the Committee Room
without being recognized. And even then, with a pleasant smile, he succeeded in
getting inside before the reporters and cameramen got to him. With an
apologetic gesture. No point in antagonizing Media, generally so helpful in
picking out and publicizing the more outstanding of the anti-highways people
and thus showing them up for the nuts and oddballs that they really were. But
it made little sense to stop in the middle of them just to grant an on-the-spot
interview.

 

In fact, Burns thought, taking
one last look, head half-turned, it made no sense at all.

 

Horns on their crash helmets, for Godłs
sake!

 

* * * *

 

Just
as some composers never tire of playing their own music, so Craig Burns never
tired of driving over the beautiful highways he . . . well ... he and his
Department . . . had created. It had been a labor of love building them, seeing
each one through from the preliminary survey through actual construction to the
time he liked best of all. When the roads were ready to go but not yet open to
the public. When he could drive along and drive alone for miles . . . and miles
. . . sometimes for hundreds of miles. Just Highway Chief Craig Burns and his
car and his beautiful roads, with their lovely and intricate bypasses and
cloverleafs and underpasses, slow and steady when he felt like it, revving it
up and gauging the niceties of the straight stretches or the delightfully
calculated curves when he felt like it. Over and under and around and across
and back and under and nobody on the whole highway but him. It was
better than a woman. It was better even than the power of office. It was just
about the best thing there was.

 

Sometimes, smiling to himself, he
wondered if he really didnłt sometimes push through new road plans just for the
sheer pleasure of this, even if the new roads werenłt really needed. But the
smile was for the joke, the secret, private little joke, for there was really
no such thing as a new road which wasnłt needed. And as for the things which
werenłt so nice ... the stupid, stupid, jackass things which people did with
the beautiful roads . . . crowding and packing and jamming them with their cars
and trucks and motorcycles and station wagons . . . stupid people, stupid
jerks, jackasses!so that all kinds of things had to be done, afterwards, to
the sweet and clean and lovely new roads

 

As for that, Craig didnłt care to
think about that, much. It made him get that hot feeling in the skin of his
face, that surging, raging feeling around his heart. That sort of thing, he
left mostly to the others in the Department. And everybody else in the
Department was the others. Hełd created. Let them mar it, since it had to be
marred. Changing routes, adding, subtracting, closing down, chopping and
changinglet them do it. It wasnłt his fault.

 

* * * *

 

Probably
the hearing had taken more out of him than hełd realized. And so damned
unnecessary. Legislative hearings! After all, what did the legislature have to
do with it? The very state constitution granted the Highways Department all the
authority it needed. It could condemn property and pay what it knew to be right
and reasonable. It could say where the roads would go and where they wouldnłt
go. What shape theyłd take. How to design and how to build. The roads, the
roads were engineered beautifully. It was the stupid bastard people who
were engineered wrong. Tiring him out and confusing him with their hearings and
demonstrations. No wonder hełd missed the Hadley turnoff. That is, well, yeah,
sure, he must have missed it. This cloverleaf was after the Hadley
turnoff. Well, nothing to do but turn around and go back. The afternoon had
yeah, you bet, upset him. But what in hell did the rest of the people have to
be upset about? All that crap about highways dehumanizing, for Christłs
sake. Take this next turn.

 

No!

 

Well, had no choice, stupid jerk
back there zooming along and forcing him All that crap about highways
exhausting, hypnotizing, confusing ... All that crap. Look at this lovely
cloverleaf. And this neat tunnel, here. No, but it wasnłt the highway, for
Godłs sake, it was just that stupid

 

Okay, then, he just couldnłt
remember this tunnel. So what? All the highways in the state Okay, that
was that, out of the tunnel! Nothing hard about that! And back on the
cloverleaf again.

 

Cloverleaf? There wasnłt supposed
to be And hadnłt he had a clear glimpse, in the shadows and the blinking
lights (make mental note: report defective lights) of another tunnel branching
off back Hadley turnoff. Great. Just tired out after that damned hearing,
crowd, mob, reporters, motorcycle gangs, what the hell. What the hell! Cloverleaf!
Tunnel! Tunnel branching off, no he didnłt want it, well for Godłs sake!
Here he was. Lights bad, lights very bad, lights worse. No lights. No
traffic, either, for that matter. Must be, yes, certainly: was: a
discontinued branch tunnel. Vague recollection. Bad drainage. Turned out not to
fit in with new, unforeseen traffic pattern subsequently developed. Bad air.
Bad smell. Car gone dead! Flip on the radio, signal for the Departmentłs very
own high-speed tow-car and ever-ready private Departmental emergency limousine.
Radio dead. Of course. Tunnel. Okay. Okay. Okay. Get out, walk.

 

Seemed, it seemed to Craig that
it was, must, had to be shorter going ahead than going back. A car. Stopped. He
waited for the head to be stuck out of the window, the smashed and dusty
window. Motorcycle on its side. Station wagon almost a third of the way up the
ramp. What crazy Of course. Word had gotten around, sure. And those in the
know had taken their old hulks and abandoned them here. Oh boy. Thought theyłd
save money, avoid tickets, ah. Another think coming. Look at them all!
And what a stink, what

 

Definitely, someone, something,
was moving up ahead there. Half in the shadows cast by strange, dim light. A man,
sure enough. Black leather jacket, filthy jeans, obscene feet, and

 

Craig Burns turned and fled, his
screams echoing, echoing.

 

Behind him, unhurried, assured,
horns jutting from the helmet on his head, the newest minotaur followed upon
his newest victim.