"The mountains straight across," I said, "are called the Oscuras, I think. The Army's got a lot of stuff back in there, or did the last time I was through. It's all restricted as hell back in there. Those mountains, just visible, to the south are the Manzanitas."
That got a small reaction from her; she deigned to turn her head and look, but she didn't speak.
"Yes," I said, "that's where the underground test will take place shortly, if it goes off on schedule. It's already been postponed once, and this weather is going to make things rough out there." I paused. "We don't think much of your Wigwam story, Gail, but we're inclined to buy Carrizozo. You can see how it might be the logical place for a drop-that's the jargon for an underground station or post office. It's right where the main highways cross. Anybody going into or coming out of the test area wouldn't need much of an excuse to stop off in Carrizozo to pick up instructions or deliver the goods."
She didn't answer, of course. Her profile was very handsome, but as cold and lifeless as the face on a coin. I drove back and zigzagged through the town, saying nothing. It took three quarters of an hour, but she finally broke down and spoke.
"May I ask what we are doing?"
I said, "Giving you the benefit of the doubt, glamor girl. I don't think much of that Wigwam story, but I'm willing to be convinced. Now that you've finally come out of your trance, suppose you watch that side of the street while I watch this one. Any sign you can't read, just holler and I'll stop."
She turned at last to look at me directly. "But-"
"So maybe it isn't in the phone book," I said. "And maybe it isn't a motel or restaurant, maybe it's a little curio shop or candy store without a phone. Maybe it's a private residence with a cute sign out front, only listed under tbe owner's name."
"But you said-" She paused. "You implied… dreadful things!"
"Gail," I said, "in this business, there's a maxim that goes: suspect everybody once except a woman you've slept with; suspect her twice. You will admit it's odd that there's no such place in the directory, won't you?"
"But you don't really believe-"
"At this stage of the proceedings, I don't believe anything," I said. "I don't disbelieve anything, either. What do you want me to do, take you on faith?"
She flushed slightly, "No, but-"
"Hold it," I said. "We can argue about it later. Look over there."
"What is it?" Her voice was suddenly eager. "Is it-"
"Not what we're looking for, but there are an awful lot of government cars congregating at that motel up ahead. They weren't there the last time we came by… I'll be damned!" I said. "There's Rennenkamp, Old Man Atom himself, the director of the test. I've seen his picture in the paper. Looks like something has got him in a real calm and objective mood as befits a scientist of his age and reputation…"
I shouldn't have slowed down, of course. Making a U-turn to avoid passing the place again would have looked too obvious, but I should have driven past rapidly, looking straight ahead, instead of gawking like a tourist at the tall, white-haired old man who was violently haranguing a shorter, darker man in front of a gray car with u.s. GovERNMENT-INTEBAOENCY MOTOR POOL stenciled on the side.
I guess I was curious as to whether the old gent wanted to get started, snow or no snow, and they wouldn't let him, or whether he was telling them he was damned if he was going to risk getting stuck out in the valley today, and to hell with scientific progress and national prestige.
It certainly wouldn't hurt to get some idea as to whether or not the test might be delayed again-but as I came abreast of the place with my bare face showing at the open cab window, a man came out of the motel office and stopped to stare.
"Matt!" he shouted, starting across the sidewalk. "Matt Helm! What the hell are you doing here, you old bastard?"
It was the last question in the world I wanted to be asked in that particular place at that particular time.
XIV
The funny thing was, I didn't even know him. I mean, I'd have passed him on the street without recognizing him, it had been that long, and even after I remembered who he was, it took me a while to dredge up his name, although I'm supposed to be good at faces and names.
But he belonged to that youthful, pre-war period of my life when I'd carried a big 4x5 Speed Graphic camera like a shining sword and worn a press pass in my hat like reporters do in the movies-at least I did until I was laughed out of it by the reporters on the paper, one of whom was this man.
There wasn't anything to do but pull into the driveway and get out and go around to meet him and let him pump my hand enthusiastically. He was one of those ageless, pink, chubby, baby-faced characters who remember everybody they've ever met and are always glad to see them. I don't know why. Personally, I've met a lot of people I'd just as soon forget.
"Well, if it isn't old Flashbulb Helm," he said. "How's the newspix racket after all these years?"
"I wouldn't know," I said, improvising. "I'm freelancing nowadays." Well, that checked with my original cover as Mr. Helm, photojournalist from California. "What the hell are you doing out here in a snowdrift?" I asked. "I heard you'd gone to Washington to become a political expert or something."
I'd remembered his name then: Frank McKenna, but nobody had ever called him Frank. He'd been universally known as Buddy, and I had no doubt he still was. I remembered Gail, at the window of the truck, and I said, "Honey, this is Buddy McKenna. Don't believe anything he says, even if you read it in the papers."
Buddy gave Gail an appreciative look. "Is that nice?" he asked me reproachfully. He turned to Gail. "Accuracy is the watchword with McKenna, ma'am. I may not get the story, but I'll damn well spell your name right… What did this oaf say your name was?"
1 said quickly, "Her name is Gail, and you keep your cotton-picking hands off, old pal, old pal." I looked around. "Just what's going on here, anyway? Isn't that Rennenkamp over there having a hemorrhage about something? Who's the dark-haired guy arguing with him-the intense one with bifocals?"
"That's Naldi, the seismograph man. He can record the rumbling of a hungry stomach through a thousand yards of solid rock. He's been planting his instruments all over these damn mountains; hell, they postponed the party once so he could finish the job. He just drove up to meet us and go in with us-that is, if we do go in. There seems to be some question, weather-wise."
"Who's us, and where's in?"
Buddy hesitated and gave me a sharp glance, but he said readily enough: "Us are noted figures of press, radio and television, selected for integrity and patriotism. It helps if you happen to be a reasonably good reporter, too, but it isn't absolutely necessary as long as you can prove that your grandma never spoke nicely to Karl Marx. Of course, you also have to swear that you won't print a damn thing but what they want you to." He jerked his head towards the tourist court. "In there are also some eminent scientists thawing out their frozen tootsies, some senators and congressmen and some representatives of friendly foreign governments. And if you try to tell me you don't know why we're here, I'll call you a liar."
I grinned. "Of course it's just a guess. I could be wrong."
"Yeah," he said. "Wrong enough to hire a truck and plow through three feet of snow to get here." He paused, but I saw no necessity to put him straight about the ownership of the truck. He went on: "Well, I'm afraid you've had your trouble for nothing, pal, unless you want to grab a candid shot of the old man waving his arms, and that'll probably cost you your camera and a year in jail. The security on this picnic makes the old Manhattan Project look like a national convention with full network coverage."
"Pretty rough, eh?"