Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [55]
—and something slammed against his back. The cold and pressure were gone, as though they had never been. O'Leary gasped, coughed, spat salt water, rolled over and coughed some more. After a while his breathing was easier. He sat up, looked around at an expanse of twilit sand—lots of it, stretching away to a line of jagged peaks black against the blaze of sunset.
Apparently he was back in Artesia. He looked up at the stars coming into view now in the darkening sky. The best bet would be to get a few hours of sleep and then start on. But he was too chilled to sleep. Perhaps if he walked a bit first, he'd warm up and his clothes would dry.
Wearily O'Leary put one foot in front of another—hay foot, straw foot, hay foot—He stumbled over a bundle half buried in the sand. Clothes, dry clothes—pants, shirt, boots, a jacket; probably left behind by some picnicker. He knew he'd been too tired to think of them, and besides he hadn't had that universe-slipping feeling. Hastily, O'Leary put on the dry clothes. There that was better. He felt in the pockets. Miraculously, if that was the word, they were filled with Taffy kisses. He was too bushed to figure this one out now. He scraped a hollow in the sand, building the sand up on one side as a windbreak, and went to sleep.
By midmorning, O'Leary estimated, he had covered no more than five miles of loose sand, in which his feet floundered and slipped with the maddening sense of frustrated progress so familiar in dreams. At each step his boots sank in to the ankle, and when he thrust forward, they slid back. Every time he lifted his blistered feet, it was like hauling a cast-iron anchor out of soft mud. At this rate, he'd never reach the mountains.
He sat down heavily. He pulled loose the bandanna he had tied over his head as an ineffective shield against the increasingly hot sun and mopped his forehead. He wouldn't sweat much more today; there was no moisture left in his body. No hope of a drink in sight, either. He shaded his eyes, scanning the stretch of rippled sand ahead. There was a slight rise to a wind-sculptured crest three hundred yards distant. What if there should happen to be water on the far side of the hill . . . And why shouldn't there be? He envisioned the scene, marshaling what was left of his Psychic Energies. There—had he felt the slight jar that signaled success?
With a sudden sense of urgency, he scrambled up, made for the ridge, stumbling and falling. He was getting weak, he realized, as he rested on all fours before getting up and plowing on. But just over the rise would be an oasis, green palms, a pool of clear, cool water, blessed shade.
Only a few yards now; he lay flat, catching his breath. He was a little reluctant to top the rise; suppose the oasis wasn't there after all? But that was negative thinking, not the sort of thing Professor Schimmerkopf would approve of at all. He got up, tottered on, reached the hilltop and looked down across a gentle slope of sun-glared sand at the square bulk of a big red Coke machine.
It stood fifty feet away, slightly tilted, a small drift of sand against one side, all alone in the vast wasteland. O'Leary broke into an unsteady run, stumbled to a halt beside the monster and noted approvingly the soft hum of the compressor. But where did the power come from? The heavy-duty electric cable trailed off a few yards and disappeared into the sand. But never mind the nitpicking details!
O'Leary tried his left pants pocket, brought out a dime and dropped it with trembling fingers into the slot. There was a heart-stopping pause after the coin clattered down; then a deep interior rumble, a clank and the frosted end of a bottle banged into view in the delivery chute. O'Leary snatched it up, levered the cap off in the socket provided, and took a long, thirsty drag. It was real Coke, all right, just like uptown. Funny; it was a long way to the nearest bottling plant. Lafayette lifted the bottle, peered at its underside. Dade City, Florida, said the raised letters in the glass. Amazing!