“I don’t think that’s what they have,” Hicks said.
“So what is it, then? What would bring ol’ Crockerman out here?”
Hicks thought for a moment about the possible unpleasant effects of discussing visitors from space with these men. He could almost sympathize with any government efforts to keep such things secret. Yet Australia was loaded with men like these: tough, resourceful, valiant, but not particularly imaginative or brilliant. Why would Australia trust public reaction, and not the United States?
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve come out here on a hunch, pure and simple.”
“Hunches are never pure and simple,” Forrest shot back. “You’re a smart man. You’ve come out here for a reason.”
“Mrs. Morgan seems to think you’re important,” Morris said.
“Well…”
“You a doctor?” Flagg asked, looking as if he might need some medical assistance.
“I’m a writer. I have a Ph.D. in biological science, but I’m not an M.D.”
“We get all sorts of Ph.D.’s in Shoshone,” Morris said. “Geologists, archaeologists, ethnologists — study Indians, you know. Sometimes they come into the Crow Bar and sit down and we get into some real interesting conversations. We’re not just a bunch of desert rats.”
“Didn’t think you were,” Hicks responded. Oh?
“All right. Frank?”
“Coming up on Furnace Creek shortly.”
Hicks looked through the side window and saw tan and white sand and patches of scrub, HO-scale dirt roads and tracks. Then he saw the highway. Forrest banked the Comanche again. Hicks’s stomach kept its discipline, but Flagg moaned. “You got a bag?” he asked. “Please.”
“You can keep it down,” Morris assured him. “Hold up on the aerobatics, Frank.”
“There it is,” Forrest said. He inclined the plane so Hicks was staring practically straight down at a cluster of buildings spread among rust-brown rocks, copses of green trees and low hills. He could make out a golf course spreading lush green against the waste, a tiny airstrip and an asphalt parking lot filled with dark cars and trucks, and rising from the parking lot, a green two-seat Army Cobra helicopter.
“Shit,” Forrest said, pulling back sharply on the wheel. The plane’s engines screamed and the Comanche swung around like a leaf in a strong wind.
The helicopter intercepted them and kept pace with the Comanche no matter what twists and turns Forrest executed. Flagg threw up and his vomit struck the side windows and Hicks and seemed to have a life of its own, hobbling about between surfaces and air. Hicks wiped it away frantically with his hands. Morris yelled and cursed.
The Cobra quickly outmaneuvered them. A uniformed and helmeted copilot in the rear seat gestured for them to land.
“Where’s your radio?” Hicks demanded. “Turn it on. Let them talk with us.”
“Hell no,” Forrest said. “I’d have to acknowledge—”
“Goddammit, Frank, they’ll shoot us down if you don’t go where he says,” Morris said, beard curling up and then back with the aircraft’s motion.
The helicopter’s copilot meticulously pointed down to the road below. Green cars and camouflaged trucks raced along the highway.
“We’d better land,” Forrest agreed. He peeled away from the helicopter, descended with astonishing speed, pitched his Comanche nose-high, and brought the aircraft down with at least four hard jounces on the gray asphalt airstrip.
Quietly heaving without issue, Hicks tried to control himself. By the time they were surrounded by what he took to be Secret Service men — in gray suits and brown — and military police in dark blue uniforms, he had his nausea largely under control. Flagg had bumped his head and lay stunned in his seat.
“God damn,” Morris said, none the worse for wear.
15
Arthur, stooped even more than usual, walked down the inn’s flagstoned hallway, barely glancing at the adobe walls and black, white, and gray Navajo carpets hung above antique credenzas. He knocked on Harry’s door and stepped back, hands in pockets. Harry opened the door and swung his arm impatiently for him to come in. Then he returned to the bathroom to finish shaving. They were all joining the President for dinner in the resort’s spacious dining room within the hour.
“He’s not taking it well,” Arthur said.
“Crockerman? What did you expect.”
“Better than this.”
“We’re all staring down the barrel of a gun.”
Arthur glanced up at the bright open doorway of the bathroom. “How are you feeling?”
Harry came out lifting one ear to poke the razor beneath it, his face lined with remnants of shaving cream. “Well enough,” he said. “I have to leave in two days for treatment. Warned you.”
Arthur shook his head. “No problem. It’s scheduled. The President’s leaving day after tomorrow. Tomorrow he confers with Xavier and Young.”
“What’s next?”
“Negotiations with the Australians. They show us theirs, we show them ours.”
“Then what?”
Arthur shrugged. “Maybe our bogey is a liar.”
“If you ask me,” Harry said, “the—”
“I know. The whole thing stinks.”
“But Crockerman’s swallowed the message. It’s working on him. Young and Xavier will have seen the site…Ah, Lord.” Harry wiped his face with a towel. “This is not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Isn’t it a bitch? Life is always a bitch. We were so excited. Now it’s a nightmare.”
Arthur raised his hand. “Guess who was captured riding an airplane with three desert types?”
Harry blinked. “How the hell should I know?”
“Trevor Hicks.”
Harry stared. “You’re not serious.”
“The President is reading his novel now, which is trendy enough, and not quite pure coincidence. He obviously felt it was research material. The three desert types have been returned to Shoshone with a stiff reprimand and the loss of their plane and license. Hicks has been invited to dinner tonight.”
“That’s insane,” Harry said, turning off the bathroom light and picking up his dress shirt from the corner of the bed. “He’s a journalist.”
“Crockerman wants to talk things over with him. Get a second opinion.”
“He has a hundred opinions all around him.”
“I last met Hicks,” Arthur mused, “three years ago, at Cornell.”
“I’ve never met him,” Harry said. “I suppose I’d like to.”
“Now’s your chance.”
Arthur left his friend’s room a few minutes later, feeling worse than ever. He could not shake the sensibilities of a disappointed child. This had been a wonderful early Christmas present, bright and filled with hope for an unimaginable future, a future of humans interacting with other intelligences. Now, by Christmastime, the Earth might not even exist.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, not for the first time hoping by physical effort to shake the gloom.
The waitresses and cooks behind the white walls and copper-paneled pillars of the dining room had come up with a formal repast of prime rib, wild rice, and Caesar salad, the salad greens a trifle wilted because of the halt in deliveries, but all else quite acceptable. Around a rectangular table assembled from four smaller tables sat the principals of the action at the “Furnace,” plus Trevor Hicks, who acted as if he were taking it all in stride.
I have stumbled into a jackpot, he thought as the President and the Secretary of Defense entered and took their seats. Two Secret Service agents ate at a small table near the doorway.