Converse and the Mexican went in front. At the top of the ridge was a barbed-wire fence with a metal swing gate leading through it. They went through the gate across a meadow of yellow grass. As they cleared the rise, they came in sight of a rock pinnacle looming over the trees on the far side of the field. Smitty looked up at it through his binoculars and shrugged.
They went two abreast across the meadow and stopped at the edge of the wood on the far side. Danskin tried his radio.
“Max one,” he said into the speaker. “Max one, over.”
They got what sounded like Wolfman Jack, extremely faint. “Maybe we ought to try it from lower down,” Smitty said. Danskin slapped the antenna down into the box.
“He must buy this stuff on Times Square. If he used government equipment it might work for a change.” He turned to the Mexican and did an impression of cheerful briskness. “Where’s the house, señor?”
The man pointed into the woods with his chin. His legs were trembling. Danskin looked at him with suspicion, took the glasses from Smitty, and surveyed everything within view.
“Anybody see us from here?”
“It’s down,” the Mexican said. “We go down now.”
They followed him into the woods, Smitty cradling his rifle across a forearm, Danskin carrying the handgun pointed at the ground. At a turn in the trail, Smitty froze and crouched. Danskin went down with him.
“There’s some fuckin’ thing in the tree, man. Look at it.”
“It’s a mirror,” Converse said. He walked up to the tree and looked up at it. The next tree was garlanded with angel’s hair, a third with black rosary beads.
“There’s another one,” Danskin said. He and Smitty stood up. The Mexican stood stock-still. Converse saw him swallow.
“What’s all this jive in the trees?” Smitty demanded. “What is that about?”
“Decorations,” the Mexican said.
Danskin was standing under a tree on which a small speaker was mounted; its wires trailed down the trunk and led off into deeper wood.
“For Christ’s sake,” he said.
Smitty looked up apprehensively.
“You think they can see us with that stuff? Or hear us?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Danskin said.
They walked warily under the decorations; lengths of insulated wire from the tree-mounted speakers ran beside the trail and snaked over an outcropping of rock which the trail dipped to circumvent. As they walked in the rock’s shadow, Converse heard the Mexican draw breath and saw him spring into the bushes just ahead of them. Danskin swung at him with the pistol, then shoved Converse aside in pursuit. There was a furious beating of the brush.
Cursing, Smitty swung his rifle up and peered down into the thick green. In a moment, they could see the Mexican run across a rocky clearing. He ran in a comic manner, lifting his knees high, his elbows pumping furiously. Smitty fired at him, deafening them both. The bullet rang against rock. The man was gone.
“There’s a trail down here,” Danskin called to them. “He took off on it.” They climbed down the slope to where Danskin stood and saw that there was indeed another trail, much narrower and oppressed with undergrowth.
“How come you couldn’t shoot him?” Danskin asked.
“I don’t know,” Smitty said sadly. “First I didn’t want to make the noise, and then I couldn’t see him.”
“Goddamn it,” Danskin said, “I knew he wanted to run. I didn’t think he’d get it on.”
“Maybe he didn’t go to the house,” Smitty said. “He didn’t follow the wires. They go the other way.”
“Let’s see where he went,” Danskin said. “We know the way out We’re not gonna get lost.”
The brush was much thicker and it was difficult to see ahead. Smitty went first, forcing his way through the branches that closed in on the trail. At the first turn he shouldered his way through a brake shielding his eyes with his elbow, and abruptly disappeared from sight. They heard him call out in fright.
Suddenly there was a ledge before them, a deadfall. Smitty was rolling down a grassy slope just below where they stood; the slope ended in a drop to the canyon below. Across perhaps five hundred yards of space, on another edge of what might be the same mountain, was a stone building like a church. There was a corral beside it, in which a horse grazed.
Smitty stopped rolling about five feet short of the edge. He stood on his hands and knees, his face blanched, staring down into space.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Did you see that? Did you see it?”
“Yeah,” Danskin said. He nudged Converse down onto the slope and climbed down himself.
They were on the edge of the mountain. The cliff with the slope above it ran along it as far as they could see in both directions.
“So where the fuck did he go?” Smitty asked. “There’s no trail.”
They spent a few minutes trying to find a track which the Mexican might have taken, but they found nothing except sheer drop.
“That’s it,” Danskin said, looking across at the stone building. “Let’s get off of here before we get shot at.”
They climbed up into the brush and lay down in a spot where they could look across the canyon.
“Well, we’re fucked,” Smitty said. “We can’t do anything from here.”
“What do you think of that?” Danskin asked Converse.
“I don’t know,” Converse said.
Danskin smiled at him.
“Looks like we might not need you, friend. Looks like maybe the play’s over.”
“I hope not,” Converse said.
“Ask the man,” Smitty said. “See if you can get him.”
Danskin set the radio in front of him and pulled up the antenna.
“Max one. Max one, over.”
“Hello, Max one,” Antheil’s voice replied. “You know I can see you?”
“No shit,” Smitty said, astonished.
“We need a hand, if you have a minute,” Danskin said.
“It’s getting late,” Antheil said. “How the hell did you get up there?”
“You follow the trail and climb.”
“Hang on,” Antheil said. “We’ll do what we can for you.”
Danskin replaced the antenna and turned over on his back.
“Lost in Space,” he told them.
_
MARGE LAY DOWN BESIDE HICKS, ON THE FLOOR between his mattress and the bag. When she woke up it was still light. Kjell was playing with his horse in the meadow across the warm stream; she sat on the bank and watched him for a while. She walked in the woods at the edge of the meadow and looked at the trinkets in the boughs.
Coming back to the house, the space and the distances began to oppress her. The space was comfortless, the time empty and without any promise of peace; she was at their intersection, and it was not a place she could occupy. It was desperation, nowhere.
She went back into the room and cleaned the spike with alcohol and cooked up in a stained silver tablespoon, making for the timeless vaults. The shot nearly knocked her cold; she went out and vomited beside the shower.
When it was all right, she went into the main room to lie down. Dieter was at his console, working with wires. Beside him, in a Mexican ceramic dish, were clusters of small gray mushrooms, flecked here and there with a curious chemical blue.
She eased herself on a Navaho rug in front of the empty fireplace.
“You want to get high?” Dieter asked her.
“I am.”
He turned from his work to look at her and took a delicate bite from one of the mushrooms.
“That’s not high — what you are.”
He brought the bowl to where she lay and held the mushrooms before her face.
“I used to go down for these myself during the season.