The “Furnace”…Where in hell would that be? Somewhere near Vandenberg, apparently. He had visited Vandenberg seven times in his career, twice covering important combined civilian-military shuttle launches to polar orbit. Hicks pulled out his pocket compact disk player from a suitcase and hooked it into the computer. He indexed the World Atlas sector on his reference disk and searched through the F’s in the gazetteer. “Furnace, furnace, furnace—”

He quickly found several Furnaces, the first in Argyll County, Scotland. There was also Furnace, Kentucky, and Furnace L (“What is L, lake?”) in County Mayo, Ireland. Furnace, Massachusetts…And Furnace Creek, California. He entered the map number and coordinates. In less than two seconds, he had a detailed color map of an area a hundred kilometers square. A flashing icon in the lower left-hand corner indicated a comparative satellite photograph was available. His eye searched the map until an arrow appeared, flashing next to a tiny dot.

“Furnace Creek,” he said, smiling. “On the edge of Death Valley proper, not far from Nevada actually…” But not very close to Vandenberg — across the state from it, in fact. He switched disks and keyed in a request for Automobile Club of Southern California information. The computer found a year-old listing. “1995L Brief: Furnace Creek Inn. 67 units. Golf, riding. Long-established, picturesque location overlooking Death Valley. Three stars.”

Hicks thought for a moment, very much aware that the facts were not coming together perfectly. Operating solely on instinct, he picked up the phone, punched a button for an outside line, and requested the area code for Furnace Creek. It was the same as San Diego’s although it was hundreds of miles north-northeast. Shaking his head, he called information and asked for the number of Furnace Creek Inn. A mechanical voice informed him, and he jotted it down, whistling.

The phone rang three times. A sleepy-voiced, young-sounding girl answered. Hicks checked his watch again, for the fourth time in ten minutes. For the first time, he actually paid attention to the dials. One-fifteen p.m. He hadn’t slept all night. “Reservations, please.”

“That’s me,” the girl said;

“I’d like to book a room for tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t do that. We’re completely full.”

“Can I make a reservation for your dining room, then?”

“The inn is closed for the next few days, sir.”

“Big traveling party?” Hicks asked, his smile broadening. “Special reservations?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not allowed to give out that information now.”

Hicks could almost see the girl biting her lip. “Thank you.” He hung up and fell back on the bed, suddenly’ exhausted.

Who else would have tracked this down?

“Can’t sleep,” he resolved, sitting up again. He called room service and asked for coffee and a substantial breakfast — ham, eggs, whatever they had. The clerk offered a three-egg concoction with ham and bell peppers mixed in — a Denver omelet, as if pigs and peppers might be special to that city. He agreed, held down the button, and called the downstairs travel agency listed in the hotel directory.

The agent, an efficient-sounding woman, informed him that there was a private airstrip near Furnace Creek, but the closest he could fly in commercially would be Las Vegas.

“I’ll take a seat on the next flight out,” he said. She gave him the flight number and departure time — about an hour from now, cutting it close — and the gate number at Lindbergh Field, and asked if he would need a rental car.

“Yes, indeed. Unless I can fly directly in.”

“No, sir. Only small airfields out that way, no commuter flight service. The drive between Vegas and Furnace Creek will take about two or three hours,” she said, adding, “if you’re like everybody else who drives on the desert.”

“Madmen all, eh?” he asked.

“Madwomen, too,” the agent said briskly.

“Mad, all mad,” Hicks said. “I’d like a hotel room for the night, as well. Quiet. No gambling.” It would be late afternoon by the time he arrived in Las Vegas, and he would not be able to make it to Death Valley before dark. • Best to get a good night’s sleep, he thought, and start out in the morning.

“Let me confirm your reservations, sir. I’ll need your credit card number. You’re a guest at the Inter-Continental?”

“I am. Trevor Hicks.” He spelled the name and gave his American Express number.

“Mr. Trevor Hicks. The writer?” the agent asked.

“Yes, indeed, bless you,” he said.

“I heard you on the radio yesterday.”

He pictured the travel agent as a well-tanned blond beach bunny. Perhaps he had been unfair to KGB-FM. “Oh, indeed?”

“Yes. Very interesting. You said you’d take an alien home to meet your mum. Your mother. Even now?”

“Yes, even now,” he said. “Feeling very friendly toward extraterrestrials, aren’t we all?”

The agent laughed nervously. “Actually, it frightens me.” “Me, too, dear,” Hicks said. Delicious, lovely fright.

8—

Harry stood before the glass, hands in his pockets, staring at the Guest. Arthur conferred with two officers at the rear of the room, discussing how the first physical examination was going to be conducted. “We won’t be entering the room this time,” he said. “We have your photographs and…tissue samples from the first day. They’ll keep us busy.”

Harry felt a small flush of anger. “Idiots,” he said under his breath. The Guest, as usual, was curled beneath the blankets on the low platform, only a “foot” and “hand” sticking out from the covers.

“Beg pardon, sir?” asked the current duty officer, a tall, muscular Nordic-looking fellow of about thirty.

“I said ‘idiots,’” Harry repeated. “Tissue samples.”

“I wasn’t there, sir, but we didn’t know whether the Guest was alive or dead,” the Nordic man said.

“Whatever,” Arthur broke in, waving his hand at Harry: slack off. “They’re useful, however they were taken. Today, I’m going to ask the Guest to stand up, allow us to photograph it…him—”

“It,” Harry said. “Don’t coddle our prejudices.”

“It, then, from all sides, in all postures, while active. I’ll also ask if it will submit to further examinations later—”

“Sir,” the Nordic man said, “we’ve discussed this, and considering the warning the Guest has delivered, we believe absolute caution is called for.”

“Yes?”

“We’re revealing a great many things about ourselves. It could be an information conduit to the object in Death Valley, and how we carry out our examinations, X rays, whatever, could tell them a lot about how advanced we are and what our capabilities are.”

“For God’s sake,” Harry said. He ignored Arthur’s sharp glance. “They’ve been listening to our broadcasts for who knows how many decades. They know everything there is to know about us by now.”

“We don’t believe that’s necessarily so. A lot of information is simply not conveyed in civilian broadcasts, and certainly not in military broadcasts.”

“They can type us down to our toenails just by the fact that we still broadcast analog radio waves,” Harry said, not moving from the window.

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Your warnings are well taken, Lieutenant Dreyer,” Arthur said. “But we can’t get anywhere unless we examine the Guest. If this means some two-way exchanges, so be it. If the Guest is a conduit to the ship, we might be able to learn how through the exams.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” Harry conceded in an undertone.

“Yes, sir,” Dreyer said. “I’ve been told to pass these on to you — your itineraries for the Commander in Chiefs visit. We’re at your disposal.”

“All right. Let’s have two-way back on.” Arthur walked down the slightly sloping floor to the window and stood beside Harry. He pushed the button activating the intercom to the Guest’s chamber.