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?"

"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.