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."
"Doctor-"
"There will be no further postponement," Rennenkamp said. "That is final, Doctor."
The dark-haired man glared at him and flung away, coming towards us briefly so that I could see his face, quite swarthy, with rather small rimless glasses perched on a rather large bony nose. He snatched out a key and started to unlock the door of one of the motel units, and for a moment I caught a view of the back of his head from an angle-the same angle from which I had once viewed the head of a man with black hair through the smoky air of the Club Chihuahua while a girl in a yellow satin dress came teasingly along the edge of the stage.
Then he was gone. I suppose it was my duty to tell Peyton, who was watching the white-haired figure of Dr. Rennenkamp stride firmly across the driveway. I did consider it.
"I said, "That was Henry Naldi, wasn't it? The black haired guy?"
Peyton wheeled to face me. "That was Doctor Alexander Naldi-" He checked himself abruptly.
I grinned. "Alexander," I said. "Thanks. And Rennenkamp's first name-Excuse me, Doctor Rennenkamp's first name is Louis, I believe." I took out my notebook and wrote. "And yours, Mr. Peyton?"
He snatched the notebook from me. It was too bad. He'd put his hand on me once, but I was willing to overlook that, reluctantly. But he wasn't acting at all like a man who wanted help with his little problems, and his problems weren't my problems… Having my notebook, he took me by the arm. Considering the cultivated way he was dressed, he had a very rude way of dealing with people. It was too bad.
"This way, you," he said grimly. "I have some questions for you… Bronkovic, take a look through that vehicle."
"Yes, sir," the big man said. "What about the lady?"
"The lady?"
It must have been a blow to Gail; she wasn't used to being overlooked. That he hadn't even noticed her face at the cab window showed the dedicated nature of Mr. Peyton; he'd been too busy glowering at the rest of us. He looked now and wasn't particularly impressed. His expression said no pretty face would ever deflect him from his duty by a fraction of a degree.
He started to speak. Then he hesitated, and looked again, and something changed in his pale eyes. He surveyed the truck briefly, as if he hadn't really seen it before. He glanced at the California license plate. He glanced at me. After a moment, he cleared his throat and released my arm.
"On second thought," he said, "on second thought, maybe I've been a little hasty."
For him, that was like an ordinary person's confessing to killing his mother with a stolen axe. I tried not to look surprised, but succeeded only fairly well.
"Yes," Peyton said thoughtfully, "a little hasty. As Mr. McKenna pointed out, you fellows do have a living to make." He handed back my notebook. "I suppose the headlines will read, SCIENTISTS STRANDED IN SNOW. Well, it's legitimate news, and even if it makes us look a little foolish, I see no reason to suppress it. I'm Paul Peyton, security officer in charge. This is Dan Bronkovic, one of my assistants. I'm sorry that I am not permitted to authorize any interview or pictures at this time. You'll have to do the best you can with what you have."
He paused, surveyed us briefly as if committing us to memory, made a gesture towards raising his snappy little hat to Gail and stalked away. Bronkovic, looking puzzled, followed. I walked around the truck and got in and drove away, not fast, but as fast as I could without looking too much like a man with a guilty conscience.
"Well!" Gail said. "What was that? Why did he let us go?"
"I don't know exactly," I said, "but he had our description from somewhere, once he got around to thinking about it, that's obvious. I guess various people in Washington have decided to cooperate after all, and the word's gone out to lay off a tall, skinny man, a beautiful woman and a truck with California plates."
"I must say it's a relief," I said with a grin. "He didn't have what you'd call a reasonable attitude, and he was a little too free with his hands. If he hadn't already had the official word, I might have run into trouble trying to make him listen to my explanation of what I was doing with a loaded revolver and an illicit film capsule in my boot."
I felt a little guilty saying it, now that we were back on a moderately friendly basis again, but there were some things she was better off not knowing-and after all, it wasn't really a lie. I hadn't said there was any film in the capsule.
XV
They pulled out a little after eleven. We could see them go from the window of a tourist court near the highway junction. Security or no security, nobody could have missed the caravan of government cars heading out across the valley.
"Well," I said, "I guess there's no doubt about who won the argument. Okay, let's get to work. I didn't want to risk bumping into any of Peyton's minions-no sense pushing our luck-but now they're gone, let's grab some lunch and take this town apart. We'll do it on foot this time, street by street. If you've got anything in the way of boots or overshoes, you'd better put them on. It's getting pretty damn slushy out there
…"
It was a rough afternoon, and the snow didn't help a bit. When we weren't wading through the slush, it was being splashed on us by passing cars. At dinner time, the tally stood at no Wigwams, one Tepee, two telephone subscribers named Hogan-a hogan is a Navajo hut-and a small Eskimo igloo constructed by a bunch of Spanish-American kids with happy dark faces. They thought the snow was real great. It had closed the schools for the day.
We checked every name and every structure that could possibly be taken to represent an Indian dwelling of any kind, and finally, at dusk, we stumbled into the Cholla Bar and Grill defeated and so tired that we couldn't even talk until we'd polished off the first round of Martinis.
"I still think," Gail said, "that our best bet is The Teepee."
The Teepee was a tent-shaped drive-in we'd discovered on the edge of town that apparently served ice cream and kindred products in summer. "It's closed up tight," I said.
"Well, it's just the sort of mistake a… a dying person might make. Teepee-Wigwam. Wigwam-Teepee. Janie was trying to tell me, but she just got confused…"
I said, "Gail, the joint was boarded up. The folks who run the place are in El Paso for the winter. We checked; nobody's been around for months. It's no damn good." She didn't speak, and I said, "You're still quite sure your sister said Wigwam?"
"You keep asking me that. Of course I'm not absolutely sure. There was a lot of noise and… well she was dying. I've never seen a person die before. But I know what I think I heard. I can't help it if-"
"Okay," I said, cutting her off. "Suppose it is Wigwam, are you quite sure she said Carrizozo?"
She set her glass down so quickly that part of her drink slopped out. "Why don't you say what you really think?" she demanded with sudden violence. "Why don't you say that you still think I… I'm lying, leading you on a wild-goose chase for some… some sinister purpose…!" Her voice broke. "Oh, God, I wish I'd never come on this fantastic expedition! Just look at me! I haven't had my clothes off for two days, and I'm so t-tired and d-dirty I could cry! I wish I'd just told that nasty old b-boss of yours what he could do with his lousy blackmailing… Ouch!"
She leaned down and rubbed her shin where I had kicked her, glaring at me across the tabletop.
"Keep your voice down," I said. "Don't go hysterical on me, glamor girl. Finish your drink and read your menu."
She straightened up. "One of these days," she breathed, "one of these days somebody's going to take a baseball bat to you, and I hope I'm there to see it!"
"Sure," I said. "If you want to pull out, they run buses to El Paso. Either stop screaming at me and behave yourself, or beat it."
There was a little silence, then she pushed a wisp of hair back from her face and picked up her Martini glass. She spoke in a cool voice, devoid of anger or hysteria.
"I thought if I didn't cooperate I'd go to jail as a dangerous enemy agent."
I laughed. "We were bluffing, glamor girl. Haven't you caught on yet? For a poker-playing Texican ranch girl you bluff easier than any human being I ever met. I'd love to play you for money some time. Go ahead and go, wherever you want to. Nothing will happen, nobody will whisper a word against you."
She sipped her drink, studying me over the glass. "Well, I declare," she said slowly. It was the first time she'd really put out with the drawl. "I do declare, it don't seem possible that one man could be so aggravatin' all by himself."
"It's a knack," I said. "I've worked hard at developing it. I'm glad it's appreciated." I hoped she couldn't guess how close this was to the truth.
"I don't understand," she said, dropping the Texas act as suddenly as she'd picked it up. "I don't understand, why are you so anxious to get rid of me all of a sudden? Not that I mind, Heaven forbid, but I thought you had some idea you needed me. You certainly went to enough trouble to get me here."
I said, "That was when I thought you might lead me somewhere interesting and profitable. But we've spent a day on it, and nothing's come of it. I haven't any more time to waste." I grinned at her. "Or maybe I'm just turning you loose to see what you do when you think you're not being watched. Take your choice." I let my grin widen in what I hoped was an infuriating way. "Goodbye. It's been real nice, glamor girl. Parts it, anyway."
She got to her feet, set her glass down very gently, took her coat from a nearby hook and walked out without looking back. Now, I thought, if she had any resources we didn't know about, she'd have to trot them out quick before she lost touch with me altogether. I had another drink and wondered why I was suddenly kind of lonely. I should be satisfied with my own company, shouldn't I, a diabolically clever guy like me?"
XVI
I phoned Mac from a booth by a filling station-the same filling station, as a matter of fact, that we'd patronized when we first arrived. It was the only public phone I knew of in Carrizozo. The same man was sitting at the desk beyond the big window of the building, having a sandwich and a cup of coffee for dinner.
I had no trouble reaching Mac in Washington. "Eric here," I said when he came on the line. "Alexander Naldi. Seismologist, if that's the proper term. Medium height, large head, black hair. Glasses situation confused. He was wearing them today, bifocals yet, but he didn't have them on in Juarez. Maybe he was in disguise, or thought he was."
"I see," Mac said, two thousand miles away. "This is the man from whom Sarah got the films?"
"I wouldn't swear to it in court, but he was in the place at the time, and he's the only person she actually touched while on stage."
"A seismologist, you say?"
"Don't ask me to spell it, sir. A man who studies earth tremors."
"I am aware of the definition of the word."
"Yes, sir. He's all set up to study earth tremors around here. There should be some good ones in a day or two. He seems to be in charge of the earth-tremor department. He's also doing his best to stall the project in question. He's responsible for one postponement, and he tried to promote another today, but Rennerkamp wasn't buying."
"I see."
"He has also recommended that the caverns at Carlsbad be evacuated during the test. This conflicts with official reassurances, quoted in the newspapers, to the effect that there isn't the slightest danger to a single precious underground formation."
"You seem to have acquired some fascinating data," Mac said. His voice was cool. "None of it, however, seems to have much bearing on our problem."
"Perhaps not, sir, but-"
"Your job is Gunther. Espionage and sabotage, on whatever scale, are not our concern, Eric. I am sure that in those fields the national interest is being quite adequately safeguarded by the agency or agencies established for the purpose. Never mind Alexander Naldi or the Carlsbad Caverns. You were sent after one man, a man known as Cowboy-"
"Just a minute, sir," I said. If he could split hairs, so could I. "Let's clarify this a bit. Am I looking for Gunther, or am I looking for this Cowboy character?"
"They are one and the same."
"Says who? Everything I learn about Gunther sounds pretty small-caliber to me. Oh, he's involved, sure, up to his neck, but if the Cowboy is their top man locally, it doesn't look to me as if this gigolo is a very likely suspect."
Mac said coldly, "Our assignment, your assignment, Eric, is Gunther. That is the way the orders came through, and that is the way we will execute them." After a moment, he added, "After all, we owe him for LeBaron; he's due for murder anyway. And if they want us to do the detective work, they can so state. In this case they claim positive identification. Do I make myself clear?"
He did. Somebody had reamed him out for interpreting orders loosely or concerning himself with matters outside his jurisdiction, so now we were going to do it by the book. Somebody wanted Gunther. Somebody would get Gunther.
"Yes, sir," I said. "As far as Naldi and the Carlsbad Caverns are concerned, I just mentioned it because I thought you'd want to pass it along."
"That," said Mac sarcastically, "is a strange thought. I will have to pass
it along, of course, now that you have presented me with it, but the desire is conspicuously lacking."
I frowned at the glass wall of the booth. He was certainly in a state about something. I said, "I had the impression that everything was sweetness and light and official cooperation, sir."
"What would give you that odd impression?"
I said, "You haven't given our description to any related agencies and asked that we be let alone if encountered?"
"I am not in the habit of circulating the descriptions of our people, Eric, particularly not when they are on secret and potentially dangerous duty."
"Then," I said, "something damn funny is going on around here." I told him what had happened that morning.
"A security officer?" Mac said. "And he'd been told what to look for?"
"Yes, sir. He didn't place me at once, he was too busy acting the Grand Inquisitor the way they do, but when he got around to noticing the lady and the truck and the license plate, he suddenly remembered something and became very gracious indeed."
"I see," Mac said. "I'll investigate. You were careless. That involvement wasn't necessary."
"No, sir. I was scouring the town for wigwams. I didn't expect to run into an official parade like that."
"Considering the date, which I hope you are doing, it's hardly an earthshaking coincidence."
"Earthshaking?" I said. "I think that's a very appropriate word in this connection, sir. Incidentally, there were no wigwams."
"I see." His voice was suddenly soft and sad and far away. "Well, we anticipated that possibility, didn't we? Do your best, Eric. I didn't mean to be… The political situation is a little trying at the moment."
"Yes, sir," I said. "It always is."
"it is hard to explain to people who know nothing about it that political reliability is not the only qualification necessary for undercover work, or even the primary one."
"They are raising hell about Sarah?"
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