Carter was stopped just beyond the big pink building. A man with a brown beret, rolled-up sleeves, and thick-soled shoes said, "You can't go there. Please stick to the areas located on your map." Conspicuous on his hip was a webbed belt, a leather holster, and something that was big enough to be a .45.
"What's over there?" Carter asked innocently.
"Buildings from the old days. Closed down now. In a year, maybe two, they'll be dormatories."
"Is there a library around here?"
The man nodded. "Building C-two on your map."
"Why do you need a gun?"
"Snakes," the man said.
Carter smiled at him. "You hit many snakes with that forty-five?"
"There are large areas where the public is welcomed," the man said. It was a speech he'd had to memorize to get the job. "We encourage outings and do our best to provide for your safety."
"Suppose I was willing to take the risk of going over there?"
"It's not an option, sir," the guard said.
Carter took off on a tack beyond the pink building, bringing him on a forty-five-degree path beyond the commons and cafeteria building. He left a wide gravel path and strolled leisurely across a grassy knoll and had got nearly a quarter of a mile before he heard a sharp voice commanding him to stop.
The guard this time was a woman who wore a short blue canvas skirt, ankle-high aerobic shoes, and a chambray work shirt like Carter's. She was even better armed than the last guard. Slung over her shoulder was a Kalashnikov. "Sorry, sir, my instructions are to keep you to the paths and areas marked approved on the map you were issued when you came in."
"You know how to use that thing?" Carter nodded his head at the Kalashnikov.
"That's affirmative, sir. I have three weeks training a year with it."
"Use it for the snakes, right?"
She shook her head. "Hardly any snakes here, sir. You may have noticed a large cat population. Even if there were snakes, the cats would get to them quickly."
"What do you need that heavy artillery for?"
"Uh, sir, this is part of the Center for the Arts security forces."
Carter shook his head. "You haven't answered my question. What are you protecting us from? Bandits? Contras?"
"Sorry, sir, I walk my rounds and follow my instructions. If you have questions about the center's security, you're free to take them up with the director."
Carter took off in yet another direction, with the same results. He was sent back by an armed guard.
Carter outlasted Zachary by ten minutes. The CIA man had been stopped by armed persons who'd sent him back to the areas indicated on the map.
They were forced to join an orientation and discussion group in which Jim Rogan gave a lengthy discourse on the explosions and their significance.
"These guys here," he said, pointing to Carter and Zachary, "said the explosions were probably pipe bombs and as nearly as we can tell, they were right. There did not appear to be any specific target. None of our buildings or utilities were damaged. There were some broken windows and debris, but that's the extent." He looked at them with fatherly concern. "I've provided some security forces to check things out and to make sure you're all okay."
While Rogan spoke, justifying his armed guards, Carter realized it was going to make investigating the surroundings that much more difficult.
"Why would anyone want to set off a bomb here?" an incredulous and serious young woman with a straw hat said.
"We're working on it," Jim Rogan said. "But don't worry, we'll keep our guard up. And we won't let it interfere with our festival. We'll have our workshops and our readings. Remember, wherever you go, you'll be safe. But just to make sure, I ask that you don't stray beyond the marked buildings on the map that came with your registration packet."
"There's no way for us to get out tonight for a look around," the Killmaster said. "He'll have someone posted to watch us. If we don't even try, and participate in some of the other activities, it will get his guard down."
Zachary groaned. "This is not going to be easy stuff to take."
Carter gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. "Just think of it all being for a good cause. We can get free tomorrow night and find out what the hell's at the other side of these grounds."
The evening passed with agonizing slowness. A tall woman in her early thirties, speaking with a working-class English accent, appeared to be taken with Zachary and tried to sit near him and engage the CIA man in conversation.
At the dinner hour, they were served some black beans and rice and macaroni and cheese. Although the cheese was tangy enough, Zachary balked. "Thank goodness for my war chest in my room." In desperation, he went to the cantina and found a few candy bars, and when that didn't do the trick, he bribed one of the Belezian cafeteria workers, who produced a roast pork sandwich with fresh lettuce and a piquant salsa, which he shared with Carter.
Discussion groups were formed and Carter made efforts to engage Rogan with questions that were related to the agenda of poetry. "Would you please," he said, "give us your theory about the need for relevant imagery?"
The portly director was delighted with the question and spent a half hour expounding on it. Questions and open discussion lasted yet another hour. The Englishwoman, looking at Zachary as she spoke, took issue with Rogan, no doubt trying to impress Zachary.
Carter looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. Not a bad night's work, considering how boring it was.
Rogan read some more of his work and the work of others he'd translated from various languages.
Zachary was soon inspired with a question of his own. "Would you please discuss in some detail the obligations of a translator to the integrity of the original work?"
The Englishwoman beamed with satisfaction, as though it had been the very thing she'd come to hear about. "Here, here," she said, applauding faintly.
Her response was not lost on Rogan, who looked at his watch and sighed thoughtfully. "Maybe we can get at that tomorrow, in the morning session," he said with a hopeful nod.
Zachary was right there with the pressure. "Hey, I thought we came here to be serious and work. Isn't that what you said? I read that the discussions at Black Mountain went on all night when the students and teachers began really communicating."
Rogan looked at him for a moment, trying to make up his mind.
The Englishwoman spoke out in outrage. "You were the one who said this was to be a working session."
At length Rogan smiled. "Okay," he relented. "I can see you people are serious. I can see what this all means to you."
"Damned right," Zachary said as Rogan began, once again, to expound on a subject that was dear to his heart.
The session broke up at eleven-thirty with Carter, Zachary, and an elderly man who wore a bow tie trying to prolong things, asking still more questions.
Rogan held up his pudgy hands and said, "I really appreciate all this energy. I've got an assignment to give you, and you can be working on it tonight and we'll look at the results tomorrow."
While the students took notes, Rogan assigned a topic for them to write about.
"Does that sound like make work to you?" Zachary whispered.
Carter shook his head. "I think he's serious. I don't think he's trying to get away for any reason other than he's tired."
As they headed to their rooms, the Englishwoman asked Zachary if he'd like to come to her room for a nightcap. She very nearly blushed when she said, "I have a little flask of cognac."
Zachary was tempted by the prospect of the cognac, but he politely refused.
"I think we've done ourselves some good," Carter said. "In the meantime, don't even go out to have a smoke once you've turned in. Tomorrow night we'll take advantage of the fact that we have ground-floor rooms with large enough windows to crawl out of."