“Make a slot for Bernice Morgan,” Crockerman ordered. “No more arguments.”
“Yes, sir,” Rotterjack said, pulling out his mechanical pencil.
“They should be here with me, those three geologists,” the President said. He got to his feet and walked away from the overhang, brushing his hands on his pants. The Secret Service agents watched him closely, faces impassive. Crockerman turned to Harry, still clutching his black notebook, and then nodded at the cinder cone. “You know what my conference with Young and Xavier is all about.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Harry said, matching Crocker-man’s steady gaze.
“They’re going to ask me if we should nuke this whole area.”
“I’m sure that’s going to be mentioned, Mr. President.”
“What do you think?”
Harry considered for a moment, eyebrows meeting. “The entire situation is an enigma to me, sir. Things don’t fit together.”
“Mr. Gordon, can we effectively retaliate against this?” He indicated the cinder cone.
“The Guest says we cannot. I tend to accept that statement for the time being, sir.”
“We keep calling him the Guest, with a capital G,” Crockerman said, coming to a halt about twenty yards from the formation, then turning to face south, examining the western curve. “How did that come about?”
“Hollywood’s absorbed just about every other name,” McClennan observed.
“Carl has been an avid watcher of television,” Crockerman explained candidly to Arthur,” before his duties made that impossible. He says it lets him keep in touch with the public pulse.”
“The name obviously evolved as a way to avoid other, more highly colored words,” McClennan said.
“The Guest told me he believes in God.”
Arthur chose not to correct the President.
“From what I understand,” Crockerman continued, his face drawn, eyes almost frantic above a forced calm, “the Guest’s world was found wanting, and eliminated.” He seemed to be searching the faces of Arthur and those nearest to him for sympathy or support. Arthur was too stunned to say anything. “If that’s the case, then the agency of our own destruction awaits us inside this mountain.”
“We must have more cooperation from Australia,” McClennan said, clenching one fist and shaking it in front of him.
“They’re telling quite a different story down there, aren’t they?” The President began walking back to the trucks. “I think I’ve seen enough. My eyes can’t squeeze truth out of rocks and sand.”
“Making tighter arrangements with Australia,” Rotterjack observed, “means telling them what we have here, and we’re not sure we can risk that yet.”
“There’s a possibility we’re not the only ones who have ‘bogeys,’” Harry said, giving the last word an almost comic emphasis.
Crockerman stopped and turned to face Harry. “Do you have any evidence for that?”
“None, sir. But we’ve asked for the NSA and some of our team to check it out.”
“How?”
“By comparing recent satellite photographs with past records.”
“More than two bogeys,” Crockerman said. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”
14
Trevor Hicks slowed the rented white Chevrolet as he approached the small town of Shoshone — little more than a junction, according to the map. He saw a cinder-block U.S. post office flanked by tall tamarisk trees and beyond it, a stark sprawling white building housing a gas station and grocery store. On the opposite side of the highway was a coffee shop and attached to it, a spare building with neon beer advertisements in its two small square windows. A small sign spelled out “Crow Bar” in flickering light bulbs — a local tavern or pub, obviously. Hicks had always been partial to local pubs. This one, however, did not seem to be open.
He pulled into the post office’s gravel parking lot, hoping to ask someone if the coffee shop was worth a visit. He didn’t trust local American eateries any more than he liked most American beer, and he did not think the appearance of the coffee shop — or cafe, as it styled itself on an inconspicuous sign — was very encouraging.
It was almost five o’clock and the desert was already chilly. Twilight was an hour or so away and a mournful wind blew through the tamarisk trees beside the post office. His morning and afternoon had been frustrating — a rental car breakdown fifty miles outside Las Vegas, a ride in the tow truck, arranging for another car, and as a lagniappe, a heated conversation with his publisher’s publicist when he thought to call and explain his missed interview…Delay after delay. He stood near the car for a moment, wondering what sort of idiot he was, then chose the glass door on his right. As it happened, that led him into the local equivalent of a branch library — two tall shelves of books in a corner, with a child-sized reading table squatting before them. A counter stood opposite the shelves, and beyond it the furniture and apparatus — so a small plaque read — of the Charles Morgan Company. The door on the left led into a separate alcove that was the post office proper. The air of the office was institutional but friendly.
Beyond the counter, seated before an old desktop computer, was a stately woman of about seventy-five or eighty years, wearing jeans and a checked blouse, her white hair carelessly combed back. She spoke into a black phone receiver cradled between her neck and shoulder. Slowly, she swiveled on her chair to glance at Hicks, then raised one hand, requesting patience.
Hicks turned to examine the books in the library.
“No, Bonnie, not a word,” the woman said, her warm voice cracking slightly. “Not a word since the letter. I’m just about at my wits’ end, you know. Esther and Mike have quit. No. I’m doing fine, but things are kind of sliding here…”
The library held a fair selection of science books, including one of his own, an early popular work on communications satellites, long since out of date.
“It’s all crazy,” the woman said. “We used to worry about Gas Buggy, and all the radiation from the test site, and now this. They closed down our meat locker. It’s enough to scare the hell out of me. Frank came in with Tillie yesterday and they were so nice. They worried about Stella so much. Well, thank you for calling. I’ve got to start closing up now. Yes. Jack is in the warehouse and he’ll walk me down to the trailer park. Thanks. Goodbye.”
She replaced the phone and turned to Hicks. “Can I help you?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was wondering about the coffee shop across the street. Is it recommended?”
“I’m not the one to ask,” the woman said, standing.
“I’m sorry,” Hicks said politely. “Why?”
“Because I own the place,” she answered, smiling. She approached the counter and leaned on it. “I’m prejudiced. We serve good solid food there. Emphasis sometimes on the solid. You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“On your way to Las Vegas?”
“From, actually. Going to Furnace Creek.”
“Might as well turn back. Everything’s sealed up that way. The highway’s closed. They’ll just turn you around.”
“I see. Any idea what’s happening?”
“What’s your name?” the woman asked.
“Hicks. Trevor Hicks.”
“I’m Bernice Morgan. I was just talking about my daughter. She’s being held by the federal government. Nobody can tell me why. She writes to say she’s well, but she can’t say anything about where she is, and I can’t talk to her. Isn’t that crazy?”