current

The Indefinable

by Don Stockard

Tension permeated Bill's body. It was like a cancer growing within, unabated and malevolent. He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. Tuesday, he thought. Today is Tuesday. Although the fact had no relevance, it was something for his mind to grasp. Any diversion, no matter how inane, was welcome.

He glanced out the window at the landscape speeding by. There was little to divert his mind. The scattered creosote bushes, sandy soil, and flat relief spelled monotony, broken only by a range of steep hills in the distance.

“Nervous?” Ellen pressed his land lightly. There was a dampness on her palm that matched the anxious tone in her voice. She was sitting beside him in the rear seat of the car.

Bill managed a weak smile. “Yeah. And you?”

“Of course I'm nervous.” She swallowed. “Or to be honest, I'm scared stiff.”

He shrugged. “We don't have any choice.”

“No, I guess not.”

She stared out the window at the fleeting landscape. “I suppose that's where it is. In those hills over there.”

“I would image.” He purposefully kept his eyes averted from the hills.

“No!” she said suddenly. “No! It's not worth it! Let's go back. It crazy to take a risk like this.”

“Calm down. Calm down. Everything we've dreamed and hoped for depends on this. We may or may not get what we want. But if we go back, we'll never have another chance.”

Ellen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You're right. There's nothing to be done.”

The driver, a short heavyset man with graying dark hair, stared at the road, paying no attention to the conversation in the rear seat.

The rest of the trip passed in silence. Half an hour later, the driver brought the car to a halt at a gate. An attendant stepped out of the guardhouse and approached the driver's side of the car. The driver lowered the window.

“Candidates?” the guard asked.

“Yeah.”

“Names?” The guard glanced at the couple and then back to the driver.

The driver fumbled with some papers. “Bill Atkins and Ellen Emerson.”

The guard scanned the sheet of paper on his clipboard. “Okay.” He crouched down and looked at Bill and Ellen.” You're scheduled for the grand slide. You have four hours of training before the ride. The training starts in one hour.”

“How much time to the training center?” Ellen asked.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes. Just straight down the road. It'll be the first building you'll see.”

Ellen nodded.

The guard stepped back, the gate opened, and the driver accelerated through.

Bill glanced at his watch and stared out the windshield. “That must be it.” He pointed at a silver streak on the hills, which were now quite close.

“That would be my guess, although I've never seen the slide.”

They again lapsed into silence. Fifteen minutes later, the driver brought the car to a halt in the parking lot outside a low, white building. There was an entrance facing the parking lot, but no sign of windows.

Ellen sighed. “Ready?”

He noticed a slight quivering at the corners of her mouth. “As ready as I'll ever be.” He tried, without success, to force a smile.

“Through the door,” the driver said.

As they exited the car, the heat dropped over them like a thick blanket. He opened the door for her.

A receptionist sat a metal desk in the small anteroom. The interior, like the exterior, was a simple bleached white.

“Bill Atkins, I presume,” the woman said. She was trim and middle-aged, her dark hair cut short and framing her face.

Bill nodded.

“And you must be Ellen Emerson.” She smiled for the first time.

“Yes.” Ellen did not try to return the smile.

“The guard probably told you there would be four hours of training.”

Ellen nodded

“You go through the door to the left.”

“And you go through the door to the right,” she said to Bill.

Ellen turned to Bill and gently squeezed his hand. “See you soon.”

Bill nodded and returned the squeeze.

They hurried toward their respective doors.

The receptionist returned to the book she had been reading when they had arrived.

Bill stepped through the door and into a small room. Rows of silver suits hung from racks. An elderly man nodded and without a word began to methodically measure Bill. Once he was done, he went into the rows of suits and returned with one and tossed it to Bill.

“Try it on,” he said. “It's got the fit just right. Too tight and it could restrict you movement or distract you with a pinch at the wrong time. Too loose and it'll thrash in the wind.

Bill took the suit and looked around for a changing room.

“Well, put it on. Take off your clothes and put it on. Hurry up. The more time you waste here, the less time you'll have on the simulator and the less chance you've have for survival.

Bill quickly stripped and put on the suit. It had full-length arms and legs with attached gloves and boots. The fitter poked at him for several minutes and shook his head.

“Nope.” He returned to the racks.

Bill tried on three suits before the man was satisfied. He then gave Bill a helmet with goggles.

“Through that door.” The man pointed to the rear of the room.

Bill exited the fitting room and entered a small room with four chairs facing a speaker's podium. A short man with a gray mustache and wearing an army uniform stood stiffly behind the podium. Bill recognized the insignia of a colonel on the officer's shoulders. His nametag read Jenkins. He motioned Bill to the chairs. Bill sat down and five minutes later Ellen joined him. She was clad is an identical silver suit.

The colonel picked up a file folder and thumbed through the papers.

“So you want to get married.”

Bill and Ellen nodded.

Colonel Jenkins shook his head. “You must really want to get married. As I'm sure you know, marriage is one of the few things in life that requires a trial.” He looked up from the folder. “You have been assigned by random to the slide. Surviving any trial, including the slide, requires, among other things, excellent vision and exceptional reflexes—qualities we want passed on to the next generation. We could, of course, test these qualities in a less dramatic fashion. They, and other qualities, were in fact tested in your qualification physicals. But one thing we can't test is that indefinable something that permits one to face a challenge, to take risks, to triumph against overwhelming odds. The fact that the odds are so overwhelming is why marriage is so rare. Few try and far fewer succeed.” The colonel paused for a moment, and Bill and Ellen shifted uneasily. “The slide is going to tell us if you have that indefinable something.”

He turned abruptly and strode out of the room. As he exited, a large baldheaded man wearing white coveralls entered.

“My name is Arnold. I'm your trainer.” He looked at them for a moment. “We put you on a simulator. This will get you familiar with the controls and, if you're a quick learner and work well together—other traits we test for—you'll pick up what you'll need to survive. Let's get started.”

Arnold walked to a door to the right, and Bill and Ellen followed.

They went directly to the simulator. It was an exact replica of the sled. Basically it was a metal slab about a foot thick and flat on top and bottom. There were straps on top for the drivers' legs and torsos. There were two sets of handlebars, one in the front and another halfway back. There were video screens on each set of handlebars.

Arnold halted in front of the sled. “Okay. You've got a choice to make. The person in front steers and the person in back controls the speed. Both are critical. A screw up in either one will spell disaster.” He looked from Bill to Ellen and back to Bill. “So who's in front?”

Bill and Ellen exchanged a glance.

“Which takes more strength?” Ellen asked.

“Steering.”

“You'd better do that,” Ellen said.

Bill nodded.

“Get on.” Arnold nodded to Bill.

Bill lay down on the sled and Arnold strapped him in.

“Your turn.” Ellen nodded and lay down behind Bill.

Once she was strapped in, Arnold adjusted the rear handlebars for Ellen. They were between Bill's knees.

“Okay. You steer the sled by turning the front bars. Sounds simple, but it's touchy. You over correct by a hair and you'll be sledding on thin air. Not enough and you'll miss the turn and sail off the other side of the track.”

He turned to Ellen. “The bars in the rear don't turn. Notice you've got two levers, one on the right and one on the left.” Ellen nodded and slipped her hands over the levers. “Pressing the one on the right, fires a rocket and you speed up. Pressing the one on the left, fires a retrorocket and you slow up. Right faster. Left slower. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“The levers are pretty touchy too. How much you speed up or slow down depends on how much you depress the lever.”

“The slide has some twists and turns. You're going to have to adjust your speed accordingly, so that he can steer through them. If you're going too fast, you can jump the slide. If you go too slow, it'll be all he can do to turn the bars, and he'll probably lose control. There are also some uphill sections on the slide. You have to balance the rocket and the retro to get over them. Too fast and you're airborne. Too slow and you can stall out. If that happens, you have to try to restart yourself. That's tricky. Real tricky. A hair too much and you become a rocket, right off the slide. A hair too little and you're still stalled.” He paused. “Any questions?”

Bill and Ellen remained silent. “Okay, let's get started. We'll simulate a slow speed until you get the hang of the controls. Then we'll work you up to course speed. You'll be hitting a hundred miles an hour at times. Keep your eyes on the video screens.”

Arnold stepped to a control panel. The video screens flashed to life. It showed the view from the top of the slide—a sickening drop to the desert far below. Bill's stomach lurched and he felt Ellen tense.

“Give yourself a little boost to get going. Not too much now.”

Ellen squeezed the lever in her right hand. The sled shot forward into space. Bill's stomach lurched again and Ellen screamed.

“Concentrate. I told you it's tricky. Just a tap.”

Ellen tried again. This time the sled jerked forward and started down the slide. A fan simulated wind.

“You're coming to a curve slow up!” Arnold shouted.

Ellen, remembering her overreaction on the start, gently squeezed the lever. Bill fought the handlebars to bring the sled into the curve. The speed, however, was too great. He gasped in terror as the sled flew into the turn and off the slide. Ellen was sobbing.

“Not enough retro, damn it! And you have to turn the bars, not jerk them! Try it again. Concentrate. If you want to get out of this alive, you've got to concentrate!”

Ellen, sweating and shaking, tried again. It took them four tries before they could synchronize the speed and handling of the sled to make the turn.

“When you're on the slide,” Arnold said dryly, “you have only one chance.”

“That's okay,” Bill said to Ellen. “We'll get the hang of it.” His words carried more conviction than his tone.

They worked their way down the simulated slide, braking, accelerating, and steering.

“When you're on the home stretch, you've go to decelerate and come to a stop, before you go off the end. And you have to steer perfectly straight ahead. Any variance and you're off the track. On the off chance that you do make it to the bottom, it would be a shame to go flying off the end of the slide.”

Through trial and error, Ellen managed to stop on her third try.

The training continued. Each time, the simulated speed and wind were increased. Slowly they became more comfortable with the controls. Even so, there were mistakes. Each one would have been fatal on the slide.

Finally the time came for the run. Ellen stood up shakily after Arnold unstrapped her. Bill was equally unsteady. She looked at him and forced a smile. He returned the smile. Hand in hand, they followed Arnold out the back of the training building and climbed into a jitney. A five minute ride took them to the bottom of the slide. Accustomed to seeing it from the top during the simulation runs, it looked odd from the bottom.

A gondola took them to the top of the mountain. Bill and Ellen stared at the slide, which was directly beside the gondola. Although the twists and turns were familiar from the simulator, they looked more sinister with the sun shining obliquely on them.

Bill recalled the first time he had suggested marriage. She had cried. They had talked it over many times. First she would waver and then he. It had been an agonizing year of vacillation before they made the commitment. Although neither Bill nor Ellen said a word during the ascent, they held hands in a tight grip.

The gondola halted fifty feet from the sled. Bill looked at the sled, took a deep breath, squeezed Ellen's hand, strode to the sled, and lay down. The coolness felt familiar. Arnold strapped him in. Ellen followed.

Arnold stepped back from the sled. “Start when you're ready.”

Bill stared at the desert far below for a few moments and then turned his attention to the silver streak of the slide.

“Ready?” he asked Ellen.

“Ready!” There was a firmness and determination in her voice.

Her tone steeled him and a strange calmness replaced his fear.

“Let's go!”

“Okay!” She squeezed the lever, the sled pitched forward, and his stomach lurched. The sled shot down the steep incline toward the first set of curves. Ellen squeezed the lever lightly three times. The sled slowed and Bill steered through the first s-curve.

“Perfect!” she shouted.

The slide dropped into a steep descent and shot toward a rise. Bill fought the handlebars, keeping the sled on the slide. Ellen slowed the sled just before the bottom. Too much. The sled began to stall halfway up the rise. She accelerated and then immediately hit the decelerator. It was a maneuver they had developed on the simulator. It worked as the sled barely crested the rise without stalling.

Another set of s-curves followed and then another. Ellen decelerated and Bill steered through, almost losing control in the last curve. Ellen accelerated slightly at the critical moment, stabilizing the sled. Several more dips, and another set of curves and they would be on the straightaway leading to the end of the slide. They went into the first set of curves too fast and barely escaped flying off the slide. The next set went smoothly. Ellen used the same technique on the two dips as she had on the first, a combination of forward and reverse. They barely made it over the second without flying off the slide. Only a gentle deceleration at the last moment saved them. A sharp curve followed immediately. Their speed low, Bill forced the sled through the curve by sheer strength.

Bill had no idea if he were gasping for breath, taking quick short breaths, or if he were even breathing. His mind and every faculty were focused on one thing: the slide.

The last set of curves was shooting toward them. Ellen decelerated, entering at just the right speed. Another deceleration and a quit turn the opposite way. A Squeeze with the right hand gave them the speed to glide over a flat stretch before entering the final curve. Emerging on the straightaway to the finish, Ellen squeezed the left lever to begin the deceleration.

“It's all yours!” Bill shouted.

Ellen did not reply as she kept a fist closed around his mind, barring elation and demanding concentration. Another squeeze. Too quick of a deceleration and they would loose control. Another squeeze. Another. One final light squeeze and the sled glided to a halt ten feet from the end.

The fear, the tension, and the tears broke. Their bodies shook with sobs. When the attendants unstrapped them from the sled, they had to help the two to their feet and support them as they fell, crying, into each other's arms. The attendants helped them down the stairs to where the jitney, the same one they had arrived on, was waiting.

The jitney took them to the training center. During the short trip, neither said a word as they stared into each other's tear-filled eyes. At the training center, they had recovered to the point that he could walk on their own. Inside they went into separate dressing rooms where they peeled off their suits, took showers, and changed into their clothes.

Once they were dressed, they were led into the room where they had received their indoctrination. Arnold stood by impassively, his arms folded across his chest.

Colonel Jenkins entered. He looked at Bill and Ellen, who turned to face him. He smiled.

“Is it true,” he asked Arnold, “that they have successfully completed the course?”

“It is true.”

Jenkins returned his attention to the couple. “So be it. I pronounce you man and wife.”

Bill and Ellen stared at each other for a moment, their eyes a mixture of joy and disbelief.

“I guess we made the right choice,” Bill said finally.

“Without question.”

Arm in arm they walked outside. The heat no longer seemed oppressive. They stepped into the car, which immediately departed. They sat close together, holding hands. Neither looked at the slide, shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Don's background includes growing up on a homestead and working as a commercial clam digger, a miner, and a geophysicist. He spent ten years in school studying math and science. He's also spent quite a bit of time bike touring in Europe, mountain climbing, and sailing. After working in industry for a while, he became a fulltime writer. Since then, he has accumulated over 240 credits, 200 of which are short stories. In addition, two of his novels have been published.