“Yeah. So what?” said Howard.
“It is also my understanding that Texans enjoy things that are large, or vast, or massive, given all the jokes I’ve heard. Let’s go, Bob.”
Howard just grumbled contemptuously and blew bubbles in his Dr Pepper when it came, watching Glory take dainty sips from hers.
THEY TOOK HIGHWAY 466, turning north off of Route 66. Just before noon they pulled over to look down at the nearly completed dam and the partially inundated valley that would soon be called Lake Mead.
“Don’t look like no wonder of the world from up here,” said Howard. “Looks like something a school kid would make in a shoe box. ”
Glory had to admit that the scene wasn’t quite as awesome as she had expected. Driving through the desert landscape did something to your sense of scale-you couldn’t tell after a while in that flatness if something was massive and distant or modest and, close; you had no sense of how far away the mountains were because they always seemed the same distance away on the horizon. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go down and see what it’s like from up close. I bet it’s different.”
“Uh-huh.” But Howard was pleasant about it. He parked on top of the dam and they got out to look over the edge, and this time it was an entirely new place.
“Incredible,” said Lovecraft, the wind from below blowing back his short hair and causing him to squint involuntarily. “Incredible , indeed.”
Even Howard couldn’t hide his awe. He leaned forward as far as he could, holding one hand over his hat to keep it from blowing off, and gazed down into the slope of concrete that arched downward like a half parabola that seemed to go on for miles. “This must be bigger than the pyramids,” he said. “All these trucks fulla concrete are like ants dragging crumbs to build a mountain. Makes you proud to be a man, huh, HP?”
Lovecraft gave Howard a sideways look and smiled.
But Glory was more interested in the water-so many millions of gallons it would be measured in acre feet-trapped behind the monolith of concrete, inundating the features of the valley in which it was trapped. She wondered what was there. Animals? Vegetation? People and their homes? All of it would be drowned in the clear water of the Colorado River as it came out of the Grand Canyon. It would sit there, those millions and millions of gallons, seeping slowly into the rock faces of the valley walls, pushing at the single smooth barrier of man-made stone except where it would be channeled out in the spill ways. She imagined what it might be like to live in that valley, where the air would be water; if she didn’t breathe, if no bubbles came from her nose and mouth, the clear water would be indistinguishable from air, only colder and thicker, more shimmery and beautiful the way the light rippled in it.
Howard looked at the information on the roadside billboard. “I can see why it was man that conquered the planet,” said Howard. “Sorry, Glory, for bein’ so difficult.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Seven hundred twenty-six feet high when it’s finished. Wow, that’s higher than the tallest pyramid, ain’t it?”
“The Great Pyramid of Khufu is only four hundred eighty-one feet tall, if I remember correctly from my research for Houdini,” said Lovecraft. “The dam will be thirty feet shorter than the pyramid is wide when it is complete.”
“Well, that makes this a hell of a lot more magnificent, don’t it? A nation like this could conquer the world, huh?”
“Do not forget,” said Lovecraft. “The Mesoamericans built an even greater pyramid. The old druidic races built Stonehenge, the Romans built their Coliseum, their roads, and their aqueducts. This makes me think less of conquest than of the wonders of the ancient world.”
“Please,” said Howard, but he was too late.
“The great Colossus over the harbor of Rhodes, the Lighthouse of Alexandria, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the—”
“Great Eye Pyramid of Atlantis,” said Howard, knowing that it would annoy him.
Lovecraft drew his eyebrows together to mark his displeasure. “Well, and now what are they all but ruins or myths? This rampart of stone is impressive for the moment, but it will not stand the test of centuries. Nor will the nation that built it. As for Atlantis, perhaps it has left not even a ruin of its great pyramid because it was all a figment of some man’s imagination.”
“Well, thank you very much for such an uplifting lecture,” said Glory.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to damp your high spirits,” said Lovecraft. “It’s just that I have little regard for such myths as Atlantis, Mu, and Lemuria. It has always disappointed me that Bob and Klarkash-Ton would write of such places when their own imaginations could have provided ample rich settings.”
“Like what?” Howard asked. “Some inbred New England backwater where you wouldn’t know if you were diddlin’ your cousin or a cow?”
Lovecraft turned away and didn’t reply.
“Bob,” Glory said, “don’t you think…” He had already stalked off to the car. She joined him there and sat for a while until Lovecraft had cooled down enough to return, and they drove the rest of the way to Boulder City in a stony silence.
WHEN THEY REACHED the fringes of the burgeoning town of Las Vegas, Glory was filled with the relief of knowing her trip was over. “Take the next right on Fremont Street,” she said.
“Where did you say your sister was employed?” Lovecraft inquired as if he were about to note the fact in his journal.
“The Boulder Club.”
Lovecraft couldn’t help the sarcasm that tinged his voice. “Ah, I should have guessed,” he said. “It seems to be a running theme in this barren province.”
As they entered the dim interior of the Boulder Club, Lovecraft was suddenly struck by the cold. He pulled his jacket around himself and looked around through the smoke that tinged the air. The smell of spilt beer and liquor, stale smoke, bad cooking from the kitchen; a tinge of anxiety, excitement, and dejection in the air in the scent of human sweat; the murmur of voices, mumbles under the breath, the occasional loud curse or shout of joy. This was not the place for him; this was the gateway of a doomed city, the fringe of Gomorrah waiting for its harbinger of destruction. Lovecraft followed Howard and Glory past the clatter and click of one-armed bandits spinning out their symbols and spitting out their change, the rustle and shuffle of dealers flicking cards onto green-velvet tabletops. And in the periphery, men pretending to look nonchalant as they kept vigil over each and every customer.
Glory’s sister, Beatrice, appeared to be about five years her elder.
Her station was behind the ornate wrought-iron grillwork of the cashier’s booth, and when Glory surprised her and they embraced through the bars it looked as if she were in a baroque jail cell. Glory made introductions, Beatrice eyeing the men, particularly Lovecraft, with a hint of suspicion. But she was pleasant, and after she signaled for someone to cover for her, she motioned the men over. “Here, please accept a complimentary chip on the house.” She gave Lovecraft and Howard each a fifty-cent chip. “You can only spend it here. Good luck.” Taking the hint, Lovecraft and Howard excused themselves to wander about the casino while the sisters absorbed themselves in their sisterly talk.
The casino was hardly full. As they walked about, obviously at a loss for what to do, a dealer motioned them over to an empty blackjack table.
“Afternoon, gents. Care to try a hand of blackjack?”
Howard looked down at the chip in his hand as if he had never seen one before. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.