Mel Hotchkiss was sitting in the kitchen of his home on the outskirts of Walhalla half-listening to the Snowhawk and enjoying his customary bedtime snack, which on this occasion was cherry pie. He was just pouring a second cup of coffee when she conducted her exchange with the unfamiliar voice. Something untoward was obviously happening. He put the pot down, intending to walk over to the window and look out toward Johnson’s Ridge, when Little Ghost delivered the remark that galvanized the area: Son of a bitch, I hope it’s not radioactive.
An eerie green glow did hang over the top of the promontory.
Ten minutes later, having paused only to call his brother and a friend, Mel, his wife, his three daughters, and their dog were in their pickup with a couple of suitcases, headed west out of town.
Within an hour the population was in full flight. Beneath the baleful light atop the escarpment, they loaded kids, pets, jewelry, and computers and took off. Those few who, out of principle, refused to believe in anything having to do with astrology, numerology, crop circles, or UFOs were nevertheless bullied into leaving their warm homes by frightened spouses and well-meaning teenagers. They headed southwest toward Langdon, east to Fort Moxie, and north to the border, where the closed port was defended only by warning signs and highway cones. But nobody planned on stopping for international niceties, and the flood rolled into Canada.
State police flew in a Geiger counter and by about one-thirty in the morning pronounced the area safe. Radio and TV stations broadcast the news, but by then it was too late. The town lay effectively deserted, and its roads were littered with wrecked and abandoned vehicles.
April, John Little Ghost, and the Snowhawk listened to the reports and watched the long lines of headlights moving away on the two-lane roads with a growing sense of horror.
Fortunately, nobody died.
There had been three fires and a half-dozen heart attacks. Several men had intercepted Jimmy Pachman as he was trying to get out of his driveway and forced him to open his gas station. The men paid for the gas, but Pachman claimed he’d been kidnapped. Police, fire, and medical facilities had been strained to the limit and would announce before the end of the week sweeping reviews of their procedures. The City of Walhalla spent nine thousand dollars to rent equipment and pay for overtime out of its perennially hard-pressed treasury. And there was talk of lynching some of the people on Johnson’s Ridge.
Max found out over breakfast. It was, he decided, the same effect that had lit up the boat in Tom Lasker’s barn and scared the bejesus out of Ginny. Except this time it was on a wider scale. This time there would be lawsuits.
He left his bacon and eggs, called the security station to talk to Adam, and got April. “It has not been a good night,” she said.
“I don’t guess.” Max took a deep breath. “I’m on my way.”
He passed several wrecks along the highway.
Police helicopters roared overhead.
At the turnoff to the access road, a man in a Toyota was arguing with the cop on duty. The cop spotted Max, rolled his eyes, and waved him around. This action infuriated the driver of the Toyota.
Max took his time going up, noting the large piles of snow on either side where the plow had gone through. At the crest he passed one of the Sioux security people. This was the topside traffic coordinator, looking cold, carrying a radio in one hand, waving Max on.
The 8:00 A.M. shift had arrived and begun removing the tarps. Max took a long look at the Roundhouse. In direct sunlight it was hard to see whether it was putting out any illumination of its own. He stopped the car in his accustomed place and sat holding one hand over his eyes, trying to get a good look.
“It faded with the dawn,” April told him a few minutes later.
“Just like the boat.”
“Yes. Except that this time it wasn’t just a set of running lights that came on. The entire building lit up.” They’d taped the early-morning news shows. April ran one of them for him. The segment included views from an aircraft. The top of the ridge glowed softly.
“More like phosphorous than electricity,” he said.
“That’s what we thought.” She sipped coffee. Outside, they heard a few cheers.
Max looked through the window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Any reaction yet from the city fathers in Walhalla?” he asked.
“Reaction? What do you mean?”
He sighed. “I think we threw a scare into the town last night. They are probably not happy with us.”
She smiled. “Max, nobody’s dead. Although I’m going to see that Adam grounds the Snowhawk. We don’t need any more live broadcasts up here. At least not by our own people.”
“The who?”
“Andrea Hawk. One of the Sioux security people.” She explained how the incident had begun.
“Well,” said Max, “maybe we can ride it out. Chances are that before this is over, Walhalla will have an NBA franchise.”
The phone rang. April picked it up, listened, frowned. “You’re kidding.” She listened again. “Who?” She gave Max a thumbs up. “We’re on our way.”
“What?” asked Max.
“We’re inside,” she said.
While the main effort was being made in front, one of the security people had got through a door near the rear. At the stag’s head.
A crowd had already formed. At its center stood the man of the hour. “Well done, George,” said Adam Sky, who arrived simultaneously with Max.
The man of the hour was George Freewater, a young Sioux with an easy smile. But Max saw no entrance. Tom Lasker came around the curve of the building from the other direction.
Freewater, standing beside the stag’s head, beamed at them. Then, almost casually, he extended his right hand, tugged his glove tight the way a ballplayer might, and touched the wall. Directly over the muzzle.
The stag’s head rode up and uncovered a passageway. The crowd applauded. They also backed away slightly.
The passageway had neither windows nor doors, and it was short: After about twenty feet it dead-ended. There were no features of any kind, save for a half-dozen rectangular plates about the size of light-switch covers. These were mounted on the walls waist high, three on a side.
April made for the opening, but Freewater grabbed her sleeve. “Let me show you something first.”
“Okay. What?”
“Watch.”
Voices in back demanded to know what was happening. Someone was trying to identify herself as UPI.
Without warning, the door came back down. No seam or evidence remained that it had ever been there.
“What happened?” asked April.
Freewater was looking at his watch. “It stays up for twenty-six seconds,” he said.
“Thanks, George,” April said. She pressed the stag’s muzzle.
The door didn’t move.
She looked at Max. “What’s wrong?”
Freewater ostentatiously removed one of his gloves. It was black and quite ordinary. “Try it with this,” he said.
April frowned, pulled off the mitten she was wearing, and put on the black glove. “Does it really make a difference?” she asked.
The smile was all the answer she needed. She touched the wall, and the passageway reappeared.