37

On a rare, dangerous but necessary outing to the town, Edward sat in the cafe, a plate with the remnants of a large hamburger and fries pushed to one side, and looked over the papers sent by his department head in Austin. Chits for release of back pay, amended W-2 forms, suggested teaching schedules for the next semester. A liability waiver from the school’s attorneys, asking that the school be released from whatever slight responsibilityit might have had for their being in Death Valley. The implication was, of course, that signing all these papers — especially the last — would mean his reinstatement and the resumption of his career.

Minelli entered the caf6 and sat down quietly beside him. “You going to sign?”

“I don’t see why not,” Edward said. “You?”

“Sure. Back to normal.” He grinned wanly and lifted a thumb, then looked at the thumb intently. “Hitchhiking back into life. The old school’s acting as if they’re afraid of us.”

The waitress, young and plump and bright-faced, came out of the kitchen with a keypad. “You want to order something?” she asked.

“How’s the meat loaf?” Minelli asked.

The waitress lifted her eyes heavenward. “Not recommended,” she said. “We don’t have any, actually.”

“Nah, nothing for me.”

“Anything else?” she asked Shaw. He declined. She issued a printed bill from the front of the keypad and he handed her his charge card.

“We should cut our book deals soon,” Minelli said.

“There haven’t been any offers,” Edward reminded him.

“They’re…” Minelli seemed to lose his train of thought. “Reslaw thinks we’re just lying too low to get any offers. We should talk to that Air Force attorney, or maybe to Mrs. Morgan’s lawyer.”

“You really want to write a book now?” Edward asked softly. “Go back over all we’ve been through, when nobody really knows what’s going on yet?”

“You mean, why try anything until it’s all over…”

Edward nodded. “We can stay here for another couple of days, spend some time out in the desert—”

“Away from Death Valley.”

“Right. And then get back to Austin and hope the reporters have forgotten about us.”

“Fat chance,” Minelli said.

Reslaw came into the cafe and slid into the seat beside Minelli. He withdrew a folded New York Times from under his arm and spread it in a clear space on the table. The headline read:

“That’s where we should be,” Reslaw said, pointing to the picture of a meeting room in the St. Francis Hotel. “Talking to these people.” There were pictures of Kemp, Sand, and Samshow on the next page.

“What could we tell them?” Edward asked. “What do we know that they don’t?”

Reslaw shrugged. “At least we’d be doing something useful.”

“If they wanted to talk to us, they’d let us know.”

“The President came to talk to us,” Minelli said. “Look what he’s done. We’re a jinx. Did you ever think perhaps the alien put something in all of our minds…?” He made a vague gesture toward his temple, eyes wide. “Something that makes us stupid and weak? Maybe it’s making the President say things he doesn’t mean.”

Edward looked at Reslaw. “Anything in your head?”

“Not that I can feel.”

“It’s not impossible,” Minelli said.

“No,” Edward admitted, “but it’s paranoid as hell, and that’s the last thing we need, more fear.”

Minelli turned the paper around to face him and read the article quietly.

“Stella says there have been more people on the highway, stopping at the motel, the trailer park,” Reslaw said. “Most are going out to the cinder cone.” He bit off an ironic laugh and shook his head. “I remember an old ‘Peanuts’ cartoon with Snoopy. The end of the world is coming, so let’s hide under a sheet. With eyeholes cut out.” He made circles around his eyes with his fingers and peered at Edward.

“Stop it,” Minelli said pleasantly. “You’re acting like me. Only one crazy fellow allowed in this group.”

“What gives you privileges?” Reslaw asked, equally pleasant.

“Weak character. It’s on my resume.” Minelli handed the paper to Edward. “This is really going to send them into a tailspin. They call it the smoking gun, whatever the hell it is. We’ve already been shot in the head, maybe, and we just haven’t died yet.”

“You do have a way with words,” Reslaw said, staring at the palm of one hand. The waitress approached and he ordered a milkshake and a hamburger.

Edward finished the article and stood, dropping his tip on the table. “If everybody’s going to be camping on the desert, there’s no sense our looking for solitude. We should clear out of here and get back to Austin and leave these good people alone.”

“Makes sense to me,” Minelli said.

“What about your book deals?” Reslaw asked.

“Fuck fame and fortune. Who’d have time to spend the money?”

Stella had invited Edward to join her on a horseback ride that afternoon. They loaded four bales of alfalfa into the Morgan Company jeep and drove to a run-down corral a mile outside town. Three horses — a roan, a chestnut quarter horse, and a small, energetic pinto-stood with ears attentive in the middle of a broad pasture.

“I haven’t had time to ride for months,” Stella said, lifting a bale from the back of the Jeep and hefting it to a half-demolished feed pen within the fence. All three horses approached warily, tails swishing. “They’re half wild by now.” She smiled at him, flicking straw from the sleeves of her Pendleton. “Up to a challenge?”

“I’m an amateur. I haven’t ridden in years.”

The horses gathered to snuffle at the alfalfa, then settled in to feed. Stella hugged the pinto’s neck and it regarded her with a wild pale eye, though not resisting her caress. “This is Star. Used to be my horse all the time. When I came back from school, I’d ride her all over the desert, out to the opal beds and down to the Indian digs, across the dry creek beds. We had a good old time, didn’t we?”

Star munched.

“You should ride the chestnut gelding, that’s Midge,” she suggested. “Midge is even-tempered. Get acquainted.”

Edward approached the chestnut and stroked its neck and mane, murmuring “Good horse, nice friendly horse.”

After a few minutes of reacquainting the horses with human company, Stella brought two blankets and saddles from the Jeep, Star accepted the blanket skittishly, Midge with resignation.

“I’ll get on them both first,” Stella said. “Try them out and get them used to riders.” She adjusted the cinch on Star and mounted easily. The pinto backed away from the alfalfa and paced around the feed pen nervously, then stood still and hoofed the soft dirt and old straw in a corner. Stella dismounted and approached Midge. Edward backed away.

She mounted Midge just as gracefully. Midge bucked from the feed and reared, throwing Stella on her back in the dirt. Edward yelled and grabbed the reins and kept his feet clear of the prancing hooves. When he had guided the horse away, he sidled it into a corner and went to help Stella to her feet.

“I’m fine. Just embarrassed.” She brushed her jeans with quick, disgusted strokes.

“Gentle, hm?” Edward asked.

“He’s your horse, obviously.”

“I’ll try to convince him of that.”

A few minutes later, Midge accepted Edward’s weight without protest, and Stella rode the pinto beside them. They rode to the far end of the corral and she dismounted to lift the wire loop on a sun-bleached gate.

Shoshone, like most of the desert resorts in the area, sat on a thermal hot spring that poured hundreds of gallons of water a minute out across the desert, and had done so, without letup, for decades. The runoff formed a creek that meandered under California 127, borax pans covered with grass and scrub, throwing up thick fringes of cattails along its banks.