Runyan pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out. The acrid aroma of tarpaulin mingled with the wafted delicate fragrance of greasewood. The clean dry air was warm and enveloping, as if you could shuck your clothes and drink it in through every pore. Runyan waited for his eyes to adjust, then turned towards Danielson's tent, a sense of anticipation beginning to tickle his loins. He peered through the darkness towards her tent, some forty paces away on the other side of the one erected for him, but could only make out the vaguest outlines. Then he saw her, waiting for him in the deepest shadow. The familiar feeling of sweet power flooded him, and his mind filled with images of her warm curves, putting flesh to the dim silhouette he could barely perceive as he approached.

Danielson watched the figure picking his sure way in the dark. She had the irrational feeling that the ground would open up and swallow him before he reached her. It didn't. He stopped a pace from her, his strong presence palpable even at the distance. She felt an urge to reach out and touch him, but he made no motion and neither did she.

He lingered a moment savouring the invisible aura between them, then whispered, 'Let's head out this way.'

He pointed to the rudimentary road that led to one of the outlying sites. They walked carefully out of the campsite and onto the road. The moon was nearly full, casting faint shadows. Danielson found that at their strolling pace she could walk easily, with only part of her attention on the rocky road-bed. She looked around and up. Away from the moon the pure desert sky was almost a solid blanket of stars.

'It's so lovely,' she whispered.

As she looked upward and outward the trauma of the afternoon receded and an overpowering expansiveness filled her. She reached for Runyan's arm and bugged it in both her hands, pulling him close to her. After several paces he freed his arm and encircled her waist. She slipped her arm across his back and leaned her head on his shoulder.

They walked on, speaking little, each lost in thought, awash in awareness of the other. Runyan estimated they had walked a half hour when he said, 'I think we better head back.'

'I suppose we should,' she replied, her voice hinting regret. She felt something slipping by, something she didn't want to lose. As they turned around in the darkness she tugged at his sleeve to halt him. He turned towards her, and she gripped his other sleeve as well, facing him, arms open, body exposed.

He raised his arms to encircle her shoulders, drawing her into a gentle embrace. She cradled her head against his chest, arms around his waist, and stared down at the earth beside them. She thought again of the shattering event of the earlier afternoon, of the miniscule horror hurtling beneath their feet. Somehow, she felt this man was her protector, the sole barrier between her and the ferocious void. She lifted her head to look into his eyes. The shadows on his face were portals to a vast emptiness which she had to keep at bay. She moved her face closer to his so his features were clear, the shadows muted. She opened herself to a feeling she knew had been growing. She wanted this man. The world seemed large and empty. She needed to be with him, to hold to his firmness and strength.

She stretched to kiss him, feeling the prickle of his moustache and beard as he responded. Their lips brushed. A cool current raced through their bodies at the touch of sensitive flesh on flesh. He cupped her jaw and neck, fingers lightly tangled in her hair, kissing her deeply, drawing a dormant passion up and out.

They walked as quickly as they could back to the camp, pausing for another prolonged kiss when the interval grew too long to bear. The camp was dark and quiet when they returned.

Outside her tent she embraced his neck and stood on tiptoe for one more lingering kiss before crossing the threshold. An image of the ludicrously narrow cot flashed in her mind. They could throw the thin mattress on the tent floor. She broke their kiss, found his hand, and brushed her lips across his palm. Then she pushed aside the tent flap and, still holding his hand, led him in. Runyan stooped to follow her, a small smile playing on his lips.

Chapter 15

Viktor Korolev forged down the sidewalk with long solid strides, his black mood radiating ahead, parting grumbling pedestrians like the bow wave of a ship. They had offered him a ride, but he needed to walk to work off his frustration.

So the Americans had done it! This inconceivable dung. He'd had to lay his proof before the generals. After that, none of his bellowing power could dissuade them from narrow thoughts of retribution. Granted the Americans were formally at fault, this thing was too different to be handled with old-fashioned polarized modes of behaviour. Good arguments, to no avail.

Korolev thought of his message to Zamyatin, a meagre return for gifts received. The American would rue the day he had proffered his insights, seeking help. Korolev sighed. Had this Robert Isaacs not catalyzed events, the day of reckoning would only have been postponed.

Korolev slowed his pace, frustration waning, pushed aside by the need to develop a constructive response. He began to mentally list others in the power structure to whom he could take his case for moderation, cooperation. Whatever the generals plotted now, he hoped it would involve no loss of life.

On Thursday morning, Isaacs studied each one of the photographs as Vincent Martinelli banded them over. He set one of them aside. All the others ended up in a neat stack of rejects. He picked up the special one and peered at it closely again.

'These are all the possible sites?'

'Every one Danielson gave us.'

'And this is the only one that shows anything but natural terrain and vegetation?' He flapped the photo in his hand.

'The only one.'

'Okay, so I'll bite. Where is it?'

' New Mexico.'

' New Mexico ! Good god! Then this thing may have begun in the United States ?'

'Looks like it. We took five shots of New Mexico. That one is in the Guadalupe Mountains to the east of the White Sands missile testing range.'

'Hmmm. Some connection there, you think?' Isaacs asked. 'What is the place?' He waved the photo again.

'Hey, don't ask me.' Martinelli protested. 'You're the smart guys that figure 'cm out.'

'No idea?'

'No, seriously. I came up here as soon as they came out of the print machine. All I've got is the coordinates. They're on the back.'

Isaacs turned the print over. The numbers meant nothing to him.

'I'll get Saris on this.'

'Anything else from my side?'

'Not until we know what we're dealing with here.'

'Okay, give a holier if you need something.'

'Right, thanks for the quick work, Voice.' Isaacs waved a salute as Martinelli let himself out.

Mid-morning was slow time. Esteban Ruiz sat in the guard house at the front gate of CIA headquarters trying to pick a rim of varnish from under his fingernail. A quiet smile reflected his thoughts. Tonight he would put the final coat on the new desk and shelves, and by tomorrow they could permanently set up the small computer he had scrimped and saved to buy his children. It was not the biggest, but it had been on sale, and when he lugged it in the door the children had shouted with surprise. Carlos, the oldest, had grumped a bit that it did not have enough memory, but Esteban's heart swelled with pleasure that his son even knew to question such a thing. Esteban did not know computers, was more than a little frightened of them, but he did know wood. The new shelves, the product of his hands, mind, labour, and love, looked good. He was proud of them and proud of his children who yearned to embrace a world he would never know. Ruiz was not aware of the black limousine until it slid to a quiet stop in front of him. Without quite focusing on detail, he knew what it was.