"Hell, you can't even throw away a Kleenex you've blown your nose on without having some snoop pick it up to make sure it contains nothing but snot-no uncensored messages to accomplices on the outside, nothing. They've got a bad case of nerves about something, and this weather isn't making them any happier. We were supposed to land in Alamogordo yesterday and drive up, but the whole damn valley was socked in, so they couldn't put us down any closer than Roswell, and hours late at that. You can imagine-the way the snow was coming down-the fun we had driving in convoy over the mountains in the dark. If the old man wasn't a slave driver at heart, we'd never have made it, but he's bound he's going to set off his big firecracker without any more delay. Naldi's trying to tell him that even after the snow melts those desert roads are going to be too muddy to use, but five gets you ten Rennenkamp won't listen to reason. He's already sore at Naldi for causing one postponement." Buddy frowned, looking past me. "Oh, oh. The little snoop just went to get the big snoop. You'd better get out of here."
"Why?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"I told you. We've got security with a capital S. Wait a minute." Buddy lowered his voice. "I'm stuck with this junket, and, much as I hate giving a tip away. Look, if you want a story, don't waste your time here. It's all sewed up tight, big Washington deal, no free lancers need apply. Get over to Carlsbad, you know, the Caverns-the National Park-not the town. Check and see if maybe they're not planning to be closed one day very soon. Nobody's publicizing it, but I've got information that says they will be."
"Meaning," I said, "just what?"
"Use your head. They're closing the caves, kind of casually-for repairs to the stalactites and stalagmites, I guess-so there won't happen to be anybody underground on a certain second of a certain minute of a certain hour of a certain day. They may even clear the personnel from the buildings located directly over the caves, on some excuse or other. Does that ring a bell or doesn't it? Remember, Carlsbad's almost two hundred miles southeast of ground zero, in another range of mountains entirely-if I remember the geography of my home state correctly."
"Wow!" I said. "If you're right-"
"I had it on pretty good authority. Naldi himself advised it, I heard, and he's been studying ground shocks since the last days of Pompeii or thereabouts, so he ought to know what he's talking about. Looks as if somebody isn't quite sure this gun isn't loaded, eh? And little old Buddy's going to be sitting in a lousy little blockhouse out in this lousy valley, looking a mountain full of hot stuff right in the eye… Just get down there, Flash. If anything does go wrong, they'll try to cover up, they always do. I'd like to know there's somebody out here with newspaper training getting the real story of the boo-boo.
No, Matt," he said in an entirely different voice, "I'm sorry as hell, but I can't tell you a thing. If you want information, you'll have to apply to the proper… Oh, hello, Peyton."
There were footsteps behind me, and somebody grabbed my arm and swung me around. There are some beautiful responses to that opening which leave the other fellow much less healthy than he was, but this didn't seem like the proper time to use them. I let myself be turned, and found myself facing a lean Madison Avenue figure in dark-gray flannels, a gabardine topcoat and a hat with a brim so narrow it hardly seemed worth putting on. He didn't look funny, however, not even out here in the land of the broad-brimmed Stetson. No man with those pale fanatic's eyes ever looks funny to me. I saw too many of them goose-stepping in fancy uniforms while I was operating on the continent during the war.
"Is this the man?" he asked.
I thought he was addressing Buddy, and it didn't make sense, but then I saw another man standing by-a bigger, older man who looked uncomfortable in civilian clothes. He might have been ex-Army, but I doubted it. He looked ex-cop to me. He glanced from me to the truck and nodded.
"That's the guy, Mr. Peyton," he said. "That's the pickup he was driving. He was coming along the street real slow with his head out the window like he was looking for something."
"When was this?"
"Oh, say fifteen-twenty minutes ago. When I saw him come by again from a different direction, and stop, I figured I'd better let you know."
The younger man never took his colorless eyes from me. They weren't gray, they weren't blue, and they certainly weren't green or brown. They must have had some kind of pigmentation, since they weren't white, either, but I couldn't put a name to it. They were the eyes of a man who'd always think he was right, no matter how wrong he might be.
"Well," he said, "who are you and what have you got to say for yourself?"
Buddy McKenna stepped forward. "Lay off, Peyton," he said. "The boy's just a free-lance photographer looking for a few pix. Can you blame him? We aren't all on Uncle Sam's payroll, you know. Some of us have to work for a living."
It made me feel a little guilty to have him come to my defense like that, since-although he didn't know it-I was on Uncle Sam's payroll, too.
The man called Peyton turned slowly to face him. "Mr. McKenna," he said, "before we started, you were informed as to the regulations that would be in effect for this group of observers and the reasons for them. You were asked not to communicate with anyone from the time you joined us in Washington for the preliminary briefing to the conclusion of the experiment when you would be free to submit your story-subject, of course, to proper clearance."
"All right, all right," Buddy said, "so who's communicating? Can't I say hello to an old friend I see on the street?"
He winked at me. We were newspapermen together, disrespectfully bamboozling the pompous forces of law, order and security, as always, for the sake of the picture and the story-and maybe, incidentally, an ancient principle known as the freedom of the press.
"You know this man?" Peyton demanded.
"Sure, I'm just telling you-"
"How long have you know him? When was the last time you were in touch with him?"
"Why, hell, it was… "Buddy thought back and seemed shocked at the passage of time. "Jeez, he was just a long, skinny, green kid with a brand new camera, it must have been a year or two before the war. My God! I didn't think it had been that long!"
"And you haven't seen him since or communicated with him in any way? And today you just happen to see him driving along the street… You say he's a photographer? That's very convenient, isn't it, your coming across a photographer friend at just this time? You may be sure the coincidence will be investigated, Mr. McKenna."
Buddy said, "I don't like your insinuations. I didn't send for-"
"In that case," Peyton said coldly, "since you haven't heard from this man in-what is it?-fifteen or twenty years, you're hardly in a position to vouch for him, are you? I think you'd better leave us. I'll talk to you later."
Buddy hesitated, shrugged and gave a mock salute. "So long, Flash. Remember the motto of the working press:
Illegitimati non carborundum. That means don't let the bastards grind you down."
He strolled away. Peyton watched him go, and I knew that if anything could happen to Buddy in the way of clearance or censorship troubles, it would. Well, I'd got other men into worse difficulties-LeBaron for one- but I was sorry just the same. On the other hand, while he'd given me some interesting things to think about, Buddy hadn't exactly helped me out, either.
Peyton started to turn back to me, and I braced myself for the coming inquisition, but the top-brass argument by the cars was just breaking up, and he swung his frown in that direction.
The dark-haired man, Naldi, was saying, "Doctor, I respectfully submit that I know these mountain and desert roads better than you do, having explored them quite thoroughly in all kinds of weather-"
"And I say, Doctor," Rennenkamp interrupted, "that I am in charge of this operation, and I will not stand for any further delay. If we can harness the energy of the atom and transport mankind to the stars, I find it hard to believe that we cannot solve the problem presented by a few miles of snowy, or muddy, roads."