"He'll sleep on the floor -- he'll insist on it," Ewing said. He shook his head, feeling a sentimental warmth for Platt -- so entirely himself, so unchanged after all these years.
"Good old Leroy!" he said. "Venus!"
Shortly before noon the house was in full sunlight. The sky was clear; the heat poured down in a breathless torrent, and the dry earth bounced it back. The air over the mountainside shimmered with heat, and the palms were dusty and brittle. Ewing picked up a clod of dirt in his hand; it crumbled into brown powder. "Hot," said Leroy Platt, fanning himself with a shapeless fedora, "sure is hot." The sunlight made his pale eyes look naked and mad, surprised like oysters in the white shell of his face. He put the hat back on.
Ewing enjoyed the heat. The sun beat down on his head and shoulders as if it wanted to cook him; but his limbs moved freely, well-oiled, and tiny drops of sweat, like a golden mist, sprang out all over his arms and body. He liked his sharp-edged shadow moving crisply underfoot in the strong light. He liked thinking about the cool shade inside the house, after the heat. "We're almost there," he said, scrambling up.
From the top of the little mountain they could look down on the residential area, the Adventist college and food factory, all laid out like a tabletop village. The streets were neatly drawn, the trees bright green, the housetops blue or red.
They turned. Down the opposite slope, it was another world: naked, burned-out mountain valleys, rolling away one behind another, looking as if a drop of water would hiss into steam anywhere it touched them. Straight to the horizon, there was no sign of man.
"Now there," said Platt breathlessly. "That's it. There you have it. Thousands of square miles, Dave, mostly up and down, but right next to our own back yards, and most of the time we forget it's here. Huh. You walk down a street with houses on both sides, and you say to yourself, look how we've civilized this continent in a lousy three hundred years. But, hell! We haven't scratched the surface! Dave, just think -- if you can make your own water supply, wherever you want it, what's to keep you from going out there, and planting grass all over those goddamn mountains, if you feel like it? Why, hell, there's room enough to make every man a king!"
"Uh-huh," said Ewing, abstractedly.
"Of course, people being the sons of bitches they are -- What's the matter?"
Ewing was staring off into the northern sky, shading his eyes. "I hear it, but I don't see it," he said.
"What?" Platt listened and stared. "A chopper," he said. A faint, distant rumble blurred over his words.
"What?" said Ewing. "Shut up a minute, Leroy."
The rumbling came rolling distantly down out of the sky. It was a voice speaking, but they could not make out the words, only a vast blurred echo.
"There it is," said Ewing, after a moment. The tiny speck was hanging over the valley floor to northward, slowly drift-nig closer. The rumbling words grew almost clear enough to be understood.
"Army copter," said Platt. He fell silent, and they both listened.
"Rrrr rrr rtnrm," said the brassy voice in the sky. It paused and began again: "Your attention please. (ease.) Your attention please, (ease.) This area has been placed under martial law. (law.) All citizens are ordered to remain in their homes, (omes) and refrain from causing disturbances, (urbances.) Stay in your homes, (in your homes.) Normal services will be restored shortly, (pred shortly.) Law-breakers will be severely punished, (verely punished.)" The voice grew to an ear-offending shout as the copter drifted leisurely closer. Now it was almost overhead, and Ewing could see the blades whirling shiny in the sunlight, and the transparent bubble with two dark figures in it. The drab-painted machine turned as it drifted, the long curved body like an insect's abdomen. The huge voice stopped and began again. "YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. (EASE.) YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. (EASE.) -- "
Ewing had his hands over his ears. Platt's jaws were working. He took his hands away for a moment and said, "What?"
Platt shouted, "Martial law!" He said something else, about "desertions", but Ewing couldn't make it out. The copter overhead, still shouting, drifted down toward the highway. Following it with his eyes, Ewing saw something strange. He saw what looked like a line of cars and trucks, spaced almost bumper to bumper, climbing the mountain road. There was a wrecker, followed by a red convertible, two moving vans with dusty red sides, three panel trucks, two late-model sedans with glossy aluminum trailers, and a small gasoline tank truck.
He grabbed Platt by the arm, pointed. Then he was buck-jumping down the mountainside, with his heart in his mouth, catching a glimpse of the lead car turning in at the top of the road.
A round man stood up in the back seat of the convertible and aimed a gun at him. "Hold it!"
Ewing skidded, arms flailing. The irrigation canal was coming up like a fast elevator; he could see the hard white cement border, and the half-transparent minnows darting in the shadow. He couldn't stop himself, he was going in. He plunged back with a violent effort, and the mountain hit him hard. His ears rang. Dust rose around him. He sneezed and struggled to his feet.
The man in the convertible looked up at him without speaking. The gun was a double-barreled shotgun, sawed off short. He held it with the stock tucked under his arm. His dusty blue polo shirt was dark with sweat; his face and his heavy arms were burnt brick-color, but he wore only a shabby polo cap against the sun. A deer rifle was propped against the seat near his hand, and the butts of two revolvers stuck out of his waistband. His round face, eyes slitted against the glare, was placid and expressionless. He was chewing the ... ragged cold stump of a cigar.
"Stay right where ya are," he said finally. Ewing glanced to
Ms left, and saw Platt standing there, hatless, with a bloody nose. "What was you guys running for?" the round man asked them.
Ewing said nothing. "The young Negro in the front seat of the convertible was staring straight ahead, not looking up or appearing to listen. He was manacled to the wheel. So were the drivers of the wrecker and the first moving van. All three of them had the same vacant, faintly surprised expression.
The round man blinked and shifted his cigar. He nodded at the battered Lincoln up ahead. "That your heap?"
"It's mine," said Platt, starting forward. "I'll get it out -- "
The shotgun came up sharply, and Platt stopped. "Just stand still," the round man said. "Okay, Percy."
The young Negro punched the drive button with his free hand, and the convertible inched ahead. Ahead of it, the links of a heavy chain rattled on the ground, while behind it a similar chain tightened with a clank and groan. After a moment, the other vehicles began to move. There were crashings and roaring engines as the motion transmitted itself down the line.
The wrecker crawled ahead. Its broad wooden bumper butted up against the rear of the Lincoln, and began to shove. The Lincoln budged, trembled and bucked nearer the side of the road. Its right front wheel ran off the edge. The wrecker pushed, grinding in low gear. The Lincoln tipped downward, toward the narrow canyon between the road and the house. It hung, swayed reluctantly, and then went over with a grand smash against the side of the house. There was a startled shriek from inside. A tile fell off the roof and slid down the exposed side of the Lincoln. The dust cloud rose. The wheels spun quietly to a halt.
The cavalcade stopped, a little at a time. The round man turned his full attention back to Ewing and Platt. He did it deliberately, as if massive gears were turning somewhere inside him. He blinked, shifted the cigar butt in his mouth, and spoke. "Why did ya park ya car inna road?"
Ewing thought he had seen a face at the bedroom window. He said unwillingly, "Nobody uses this road. It doesn't go anywhere, except a ranch around the other side. They don't use it any more, there's a barrier."