It was already getting dark in the shadow of the ridge, and a fierce wind beat against the ancient Buick. He knew about the hairpin access road and didn’t much like having to navigate at dusk with this kind of wind blowing. But the sisters were excited, so there would be no peace until they’d seen what they’d come to see.
“There,” said Amy.
A board had been erected by the side of the highway. It had a big yellow arrow on it, and it said The Roundhouse. But someone had drawn a line through the middle of the sign and printed Closed on it.
“That can’t be,” said Teresa. “It’s supposed to be open until sundown.”
Just around the bend they came across the access road, but it was blocked by a barrier. A police cruiser was parked to one side, and a line of cars was being waved on. Joe eased in and rolled down the window. A policeman gestured impatiently at them.
“What’s wrong, Officer?” Joe asked.
“Please keep moving, folks. It’s shut down.”
“Okay,” said Joe, trying to hide his gratification. “What time does it open in the morning?”
“It won’t. It’s closed permanently.”
“Closed permanently?” said Teresa. Joe could hear the disbelief in her voice. “Why? Officer, we’ve come a long way.” Her voice was getting shrill.
“They don’t tell us much, ma’am. The courts have ordered it shut down. Safety hazard.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll have to ask you to move on.” He stepped away, waiting for them to pull out. Another car drifted in behind them. The policeman sighed.
At that moment a black 1988 Ford, coming from the north, pulled up to the barrier. The driver was alone. An elderly Indian, Joe thought. Then he watched indignantly as they opened up. The Ford went in, and the roadblock was replaced.
“Hey,” said Teresa. “What’s going on? How come he got in?”
“Official vehicle,” said the cop.
Joe glared, but the cop didn’t seem to care. He looked at Joe and pointed to the highway. “Somebody’s going to get a letter,” Joe said, then rolled up the window and hit the gas.
Walker had anticipated trouble at the blockade. All the way over from the reservation, he had been certain they would deny him entrance. Maybe even arrest him. But they had let him through. And as he started up the access road he understood. He was old, and they were hoping he could rein in the more aggressive spirits at the Roundhouse. In any case, wherever he was, they did not see him as a threat.
Cautiously he negotiated the curves, noting a liberal supply of police scattered along the road. The trees thinned out after a while, and he emerged finally on top of the ridge. There were only a half-dozen cars parked in the lot.
The Roundhouse glistened in the fading light. It spoke somehow to the spirit. Its lines were curved and uncluttered, and he knew that its designers had loved the world as it was then, as it still was on the other side of the port. He would have liked to speak with those who had traveled so far to sail virgin seas. It seemed almost as if they had known what the condition of the Sioux would be and had left the woodland as a gift.
Adam stepped from the security hut and waved.
Walker parked the car and got out. “Good to see you, Adam,” he said.
“And you, Chairman.” Adam started to say something but hesitated.
“What is it?” asked Walker.
“The site is not easily defensible. Not with a handful of people.”
“Would you prefer to withdraw?”
“No,” he said. “I am not suggesting that.”
A helicopter drifted in low and kicked up dust from the excavation ditches. “Photo recon,” said Adam.
Walker nodded. “They’ve sealed off the access road. What are you suggesting?”
“That we take the initiative. That we not wait for them to hit us.”
“And how would you do that?”
They’d reached the security station and hesitated by the door. “We could start by dropping a few trees on the access road. That’ll at least slow them down.”
“There are police stationed along the road.”
“I know,” said Adam.
And Walker understood. The police did not look as if they believed any serious deployment by the defenders would take place. This was, after all, an area where people traditionally did not shoot each other. A simultaneous series of ambushes could clear the road. And a couple of well-positioned snipers might hold it if some trees were dropped. It might work. “No,” he said.
“Chairman, we cannot sit here and simply wait for the attack to come.”
“And if you kill a few policemen, do you think the end will be any different?”
Anger rose in Adam’s dark eyes. “If we are to travel beyond the great river, we should not go unescorted.”
“No,” Walker said again. “Spill blood once, and there will be no end to it until we are all dead. I prefer a better outcome.”
“And how do you hope to arrange a better outcome?”
“I’ve been in touch with well-placed friends. Help is on the way.”
“Well-placed friends?” Adam smiled. “When have the Sioux known such friends?”
“Possibly longer than you think, Adam. It may be that you have simply not recognized them.”
They went into the security station. Little Ghost and Sandra Whitewing got to their feet. Both looked calm. Little Ghost was in his late twenties. The chairman knew him, had always worried about his future, because Little Ghost had a wife and two sons but no job. Today it looked as if that would no longer be a matter for concern.
And Sandra, who had once come to him for help when her father drove his car into a gas pump. Her dark eyes shone, and it struck him that she was extraordinarily lovely. Somehow, over the years, he had failed to notice. Too busy negotiating his own narrow track through the world. Pity.
She worked in a restaurant that catered to reservation visitors. He had heard that she was engaged to a white man, a carpenter or an electrician or something, who lived in Devil’s Lake. She was not yet twenty-one. He considered ordering her off the ridge but knew that would be unfair, both to her and to her brothers. She had chosen to make her stand, and he could not deprive her of that privilege.
Weapons were stacked around the room. M—16s. At least they had some firepower.
“We also have a hand-held rocket launcher,” said Adam. “They will not take us without paying a price.”
“Who else is here?” asked Walker.
“Will Pipe, George Freewater, and Andrea are in the Roundhouse. Max and Dr. Cannon haven’t left yet, but I’m sure they will do so shortly. They’re with visitors.”
“There are still visitors?” asked Walker, surprised.
“Three from the last tour.”
He lowered himself into a chair. “We need to talk about the defense.”
The door opened, and Max came in. “I wouldn’t have believed this was possible,” he said apologetically. “I’ve been trying to call Senator Wykowski, but it looks as if the lines are down.”
Walker smiled. “They don’t want us talking to anyone,” he said. “But I don’t think it matters. We are way beyond senatorial intervention.” The chairman felt sorry for Max, who seemed to be a man uncertain of purpose. Courage is not easy to summon when one is at war with oneself.
He looked through the window at the sunset. It saddened him to realize he might not see another.
April was talking with the departing researchers, wondering whether they would be the last to have crossed to Eden. They were Cecil Morin, an overweight, softlooking middle-aged bacteriologist from the University of Colorado; Agatha Greene, a Harvard astrophysicist who had been overcome by the wonders of the Horsehead; and Dmitri Rushenko, a biologist from SmithKline Beecham Pharmaceuticals.