The Last Starfighter by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online

fist, and read through it a second time. There was nothing personal in it. It was a standard printed rejection form. Even the signature had the look of a stamp. Nothing personal. He let it drop to the road.
    Nothing personal, he thought, as an evening breeze carried his hopes for the future toward the ditch that bordered the parking area.
    It didn’t matter. Just like Mom said, he could still go to City College with his friends. But he didn’t want to go to City College with his friends. He wanted to go to the University. He wanted out ; out of the county, out of the state, out of Starlight Starbright and all it stood for.
    He could go to City College and collect his A.B., then move on. Two years of junior college and then the University would have to accept him, would have to. But that also meant two more years of rusty pipes and blackened electrical outlets. Two more years of “gonna be a hot one today,” every day for the whole summer. Two more years of nothing to do in nowhere. He couldn’t take it.
    Behind him, something went spizzit . Frowning, he turned back toward the general store. At first he was sure it was the big neon sign, finally determined to give up the neon ghost. The buzzing noise came again, but the sign never flickered or dimmed. The sound and the flashing light came from beyond. He headed for the porch.
    It was the videogame, come alive with color and light, practically vibrating with energy. But no one was playing it and there was no one in sight. His first thought was that someone had tried to break into the machine’s coin box, but a close look showed no signs of attempted break-in, no denting of the hard steel that protected the collection containers.
    Funny too those lights and that buzzing noise. Not like the game responses at all. Abstract yet organized. He decided a power surge was the cause. Sure, that would explain it. Somewhere up the line between the park and the generators at Hoover a big surge had shot through the grid and had thrown the game’s delicate microprocessor out of whack.
    All he could do was unplug it until the company that serviced it could be notified. If he left it alone it might burn itself out, and he didn’t want to chance his mom being held liable for damages due to negligence. They couldn’t raise a fuss if he just pulled the plug.
    He reached for the back of the console . . . and it stopped. Just went dead, almost as if it were afraid of being turned off and had decided to be good.
    Or maybe he’d debated too long and it already had burnt itself out, he thought.
    A dark shape suddenly loomed on the road in front of the store, just inside the glow from the store’s lights. It caught Alex’s attention immediately, large and boxy and unusually long. A rich man’s toy, some kind of customized cut-down van. Funny-sounding engine, too.
    “Hello,” said a voice. “Excuse me, son?” A gullwing door whirred open, piqueing Alex’s curiosity further. He was torn between his duty to check out the suddenly silent game and his desire to see inside that peculiar vehicle. It was an uneven battle.
    He walked toward the car, trying to get a good look at the interior without seeming to stare. “That’s a neat car, Mister.”
    “Thanks. I try to keep it in shape.”
    “Foreign job?”
    “It is an import, yes.” The man smiled at nothing in particular.
    Alex gave it a last, envious once-over before announcing officially, “Store’s closed now.” He pointed toward the highway. “It’s not far into town. There’s a 7-Eleven on Main that’s open twenty-four hours. You can probably get what you need there.”
    “I doubt it, son.”
    Alex tried to see down the road. “You don’t have a trailer broke down somewhere, do you?”
    Something inside the car moved and he saw a dimly illuminated face. It was an elderly face, male, lined but without the deep creases of true old age. The owner might have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His white sideburns were bushy.