I, too, hesitated, thinking hard. I reviewed the events of the past several weeks: the innumerable occasions on which Terry clearly anticipated Candy’s next statement and beat her to it or said it in chorus with her; his recent incredibly scholarly eloquence, coupled with Lisa’s related behavior.
The evidence in toto was substantial and convincing. But for our (and Candy’s) ostrichlike reluctance to face facts, we would have accepted the obvious conclusion some time ago: Candy and Terry, and Lisa too, are in communication — call it ESP or whatever — and we have been eavesdropping on Candy’s mental processes, wherever she is and whatever she might be doing.
“If we’re wrong,” I cautioned, “we’ll have lost several days’ searching up here.”
Adam nodded tensely. “I know. But we’ve covered at least a ten-mile radius so far. If she were here, we’d have found her by now.”
I sighed. “I think so, too.”
“Right; let’s go.” Adam was getting into almost as intense a state as the day Candy went down. He swept through the trailer like a whirlwind, gathering various tools, equipment, foodstuffs, and the like. When I asked why, he replied that the trailer would slow us down — he didn’t know what the problem might be, but Candy was frightened; he was not going to be late.
Adam often talks about his pre-Armageddon ambition to compete professionally in Grand Prix and Nascar, and describes his efforts (uniformly illegal) to acquire the high-speed motoring skills necessary for such a career. The stories tended to begin with “It was the loneliest summer of my life,” and I dismissed the bulk of them as exaggeration, wishful thinking, and tall tales spun to entertain us.
However, if there is one thing Adam has not exaggerated, it is his driving skill. For the first few minutes I was terrified; I expected every second to end in a crash. But I knew there was no point in trying to get him to slow down as long as he wore that expression. I gritted my teeth and held on — and for once I didn’t have to remind Lisa to fasten her seat belt. I held Terry securely in my arms; Tora-chan clung to a seat cushion in the rear, looking annoyed.
But soon I noticed that Adam’s driving actually was as smooth as ever; only the speed was different. He was completely relaxed behind the wheel as he hurtled us along the twisting fire road through the sequoia forest.
He cornered very quickly — but under perfect control; every turn was executed in the same precise manner; it was like watching a machine drive: He approached each corner from the outside, braking late and heavily with his toe on the brake, using his heel to punch the accelerator as he double-clutched, downshifting to the appropriate gear. He twitched the steering wheel just before releasing the brakes, which put us perceptibly sideways going in. He fed in power, increasing it steadily as we cut across the width of the road, clipping the inside verge just past the geometric apex, accelerating out on an expanding radius. The slide angle tapered off to zero as we accelerated down the ensuing straightaway. There was none of the wild, time-wasting, back-and-forth broadsliding that one sees when Hollywood attempted to depict fast driving; I don’t think I saw him cross-control the steering three times during the whole hours-long dash.
And we certainly did go quickly! We pulled out of the search area in the deep sequoia forest around seven; Adam got us to the hard-surfaced park roads by about ten. We went even faster on pavement.
Terry continued to mutter intermittently as we traveled:
“…cooling longjohns’ connected to the backpack, shoulder ring’s connected to the helmet ring, glove ring’s connected to the arm ring, neckbone’s connected to the…”
“Oh — God bless! What a sight! That’s beautiful…”
“Where is it…? I did everything right — I’m sure I did…”
“There…! Oo-ooh, damn, it’s big. Okay, board and storm — no, let’s not be greedy; boarding will be quite sufficient.”
Adam glanced across at the bird occasionally and shook his head. Once he said, “This is crazy. If we accept this premise, then Candy must have gone up on a shuttle; she must be in space right now. What’s an eleven-year-old kid doing in space?”
“Would you rather go back and keep searching?”
He kept driving.
Terry continued to “keep us posted.” Briefly he repeated some gibberish we’d heard previously. But by quarter to eleven, he got excited: “No-no-no; stop here! Oh — must the damned thing always go where I steer it instead of where I want it…!
“Okay, wake up, all you little transistors; Momma wants to talk to Ivan. Ivan, Ivan — talk to me, you ideologically deficient collection of cowed chips!
“There, that’s better. Okay, now let’s have Ballistika.”
“Adam,” I ventured, “that sounds like Russian.”
Adam concentrated on his driving. His jaw muscles worked but he didn’t reply.
“Dear Lord…!” Terry burst out abruptly. “Did you make me this stupid originally or have I picked it up on my own! I can’t put this thing down at Vandenberg — I don’t want to wind up inside a mountain…!”
Suddenly Terry had our undivided attention. Adam braked to a quick stop.
“Now what…? What other coordinates do I remember? Think, dummy — or do you like it up here! Think harder! We’re running out of time! Think! Thinkthinkthink! Picture the IFR Supplement in your head — certainly there ought to be room for it; we know there’s nothing else in there. What did you see — whatwhatwhat? Of course…! Perfect!
“Now the coordinates. Think — the clock is running…!
“Ah-ha! 34 degrees 54 minutes north longitude, 117 degrees 52 minutes west latitude…! Damn, what a memory! And… execute!”
I hadn’t had to be told; I copied the numbers as Terry uttered them. Adam was already unfolding the chart. We didn’t have the dividers and parallel rule, but it wasn’t difficult to make an approximation…
“Edwards Air Force Base,” breathed Adam. “Of course, perfect.”
“She said that,” said Lisa from the back seat. We spun and stared. “She’s awful scared,” she continued solemnly. “I think we better hurry.”
We arrived back at the little airstrip outside Fresno a few minutes after noon. Lisa’s soft-spoken observation was all it took to revert Adam to a full-blown wild man. He fueled and preflighted the Cessna; and by 12:30 we were accelerating down the runway. Adam banked almost the instant the wheels cleared the ground, and seconds later we were on course for Edwards.
He climbed us to about seventy-five hundred feet; the operator’s manual suggests that altitude as the ideal compromise between lessened air resistance and engine-power loss due to reduced oxygen. He fiddled with the mixture, manifold pressure, and propeller pitch until he was squeezing out the absolute maximum speed of which the plane was capable.
We’ve been in the air for about an hour; just under a half hour to go.
I’m not a compulsive histographer like Candy. I’ve been keeping her journal up-to-date in her absence because I know she would rather not have any significant gaps. But today’s record is being made in hopes that keeping busy will enable me to retain what little remains of my sanity.