By the light of the moon

just in
reaction to some event that had transpired on Shepworld, the planet
of the high-functioning autistic, on which he had spent more of his
life than he had spent on their common Earth. 'Wow.'
    They had a great deal more to discuss, plans to make, but for
the time being, none of them was able to summon the nerve or energy
to continue. Shep couldn't even squeeze another wow out of
himself.
    The shade. The heat. The iron and silicate and ashy scents of
superheated rock and sand.
    Dylan imagined that the three of them might sit exactly where
they were now, dreaming contentedly of good deeds already done at
any cost, but never venturing forth to take new risks or to face
new terrors, dreaming on and on until they petrified upon this rock
bench like the trees in the Petrified Forest National Park in
neighboring Arizona, thereafter to spend eons as three peacefully
reclining stone figures here in the shade until discovered by
archaeologists in the next millennium.
    Eventually, Jilly said, 'What must I look like?'
    'Lovely,' he assured her, and meant what he said.
    'Yeah, right. My face feels stiff with dried blood.'
    'The cut on your forehead is crusted shut. Just some grisly
crusty stuff, some dried blood, but otherwise lovely. How's your
hand?'
    'Throbbing. But I'll live, which I guess is a plus.' She opened
her purse, withdrew a compact, and examined her face in the small
round mirror. 'Find me the Black Lagoon, I need to go home.'
    'Nonsense. A little washup is all you need, and you'll be ready
for the royal ball.'
    'Hose me down or run me through a car wash.'
    She searched her purse again and came up with a foil packet
containing a moist towelette. She extracted the lemon-scented paper
washcloth and carefully cleaned her face using the compact mirror
for guidance.
    Dylan settled back into his reverie of petrification.
    Judging by his stillness, silence, and unblinking stare, Shep
had a head start on this turning-into-stone business.
    Moist towelettes were designed for freshening your hands after
eating a Big Mac in the car. A single cloth proved insufficient to
swab up a significant amount of dried blood.
    'You should buy the extra-large, serial-killer-size towelettes,'
Dylan said.
    Jilly rummaged in her purse. 'I'm sure I have at least one
more.' She unzipped one small interior side compartment, poked
around, opened another side compartment. 'Oh. I forgot about
these.'
    She produced a bag of peanuts of the size dispensed by vending
machines.
    Dylan said, 'Shep would probably like some Cheez-Its if you have
any, and I'm a little-chocolate-doughnut sort of guy.'
    'These belonged to Proctor.'
    Dylan grimaced. 'Probably laced with cyanide.'
    'He dropped them in the parking lot outside my room. I picked
them up just before I met you and Shep.'
    Interrupting his effort at petrification, but continuing to
stare into the hard radiation of sun-nuked stone and sand, Shepherd
said, 'Cake?'
    'No cake,' Dylan said. 'Peanuts.'
    'Cake?'
    'Peanuts, buddy.'
    'Cake?'
    'We'll get cake soon.'
    'Cake?'
    'Peanuts, Shep, and you know what peanuts are like – all
round and shapey and disgusting. Here, look.' He took the bag of
nuts from Jilly, intending to hold them in front of Shepherd's
face, but the psychic spoor on the cellophane packet, under the
pleasant trace left by Jilly, was still fresh enough to bring into
his mind an image of Proctor's dreamy, evil smile. The smile came
to him, but much more: an electrical, crackling, pandemoniacal,
whirling shadow show of images and impressions.
    He didn't realize he'd gotten up from the rock bench until he
was on his feet and moving away from Jilly and Shep. He halted,
swung toward them, and said, 'Lake Tahoe.'
    'Nevada?' Jilly asked.
    'Yeah. No. That Lake Tahoe, yes, but the north shore, on the
California side.'
    'What about it?'
    Every nerve in his body seemed to be twitching. He had been
seized by an irresistible compulsion to get moving . 'We've
got to go there.'
    'Why?'
    'Right now.'
    'Why?'
    'I don't know. But it's the right thing to do.'
    'Damn, that makes me nervous.'
    He returned to Jilly, drew her to her feet, and placed her
uninjured hand over the hand in which he held the bag of peanuts.
'Can you feel it, what I feel, where it is?'
    'Where what is?'
    'The house. I see a house. This sort of Frank Lloyd Wright place
overlooking the lake. Dramatic floating roofs, stacked-stone walls,
lots of big windows. Nestled in among huge old pine trees. Do you
feel where it is?'
    'That's not