1269_UgliesFreeBook

342 Scott Westerfeld
the shifting sands and a near-total absence of rainfall. In
spots, they had broken or rusted through, so Tally and
David had to ride carefully, eyes glued to the boards’ metal
detectors. When they reached a gap they couldn’t jump,
they would unroll a long piece of cable David carried, then
walk the boards along it, guiding them like reluctant donkeys
across some narrow footbridge before rolling it up
again.
Tally had never seen a real desert before. She’d been
taught in school that they were full of life, but this one was
like the deserts she’d imagined as a littlie—featureless
humps stretching into the distance, one after another.
Nothing moved but slow snakes of sand borne by the
wind.
She only knew the name of one big desert on the continent.
“Is this the Mojave?”
David shook his head. “This isn’t nearly that big, and
it isn’t natural. We’re standing where the white weed
started.”
Tally whistled. The sand seemed to go forever. “What a
disaster.”
“Once the undergrowth was gone, replaced by the
orchids, there was nothing to hold the good soil down. It
blew away, and all that’s left is sand.”
“Will it ever be anything but desert?”
“Sure, in a thousand years or so. Maybe by then someone
will have found a way to stop the weed from coming