one is liberally hung with unfriendly signs: NO TRESPASSING, NO HUNTING, NO WOOD HAULING. I think that if Mount Everest were located in this portion of the United States, Hillary and Tenzing, upon reaching the peak, would have been greeted by a large sign reading: KEEP OFF—THIS MEANS YOU!
After following the fence a certain number of miles, you come to an opening protected by a cattle guard—a western invention consisting of a number of rails laid across the road over a shallow trench. Vehicles can negotiate this kind of open-work bridge, but stock won’t try it for fear of getting their hoofs caught between the rails; so it serves the purpose of a gate without having to be opened and closed for each passing car. While bouncing over this guard, you’ll see another sign: PRIVATE ROAD—KEEP OUT! Johnson Land and Cattle Co. The name isn’t Johnson, of course, but never mind. The road is gravel and fairly rough. It leads back among the dry and barren foothills, out of sight of the main highway, and runs, finally, past a large, paved parking lot and up to a gate in another fence, this one of steel mesh twelve feet high topped by three strands of barbed wire on a slanting bracket. At this point a Marine guard with a gun steps out of a little house and asks where the hell you think you’re going.
Beyond him you see a number of low government buildings—government architecture has an unmistakable look—and that’s all you’ll see, and all I am permitted to tell you. If you want to know more, ask any waitress in any restaurant in Albuquerque. She’ll have more dope on it than I do, anyway; I have to go through channels to get my information.
The conference took a couple of hours, and was as productive as most emergency conferences that are called on the spur of the moment by an administrative officer in a big tizzy, before enough data has been assembled to act upon. We finally came to the momentous decision that we had better wait until Jack Bates, who had been flown to Nevada by the Army, got back with some accurate information, and adjourned. I drove home, parked the Pontiac in the driveway, and let myself into the house. The lights were on in the living room, and Natalie was sprawled in the big chair with her glasses on and not much else: she was wearing one of those abbreviated nighties that come equipped with little pants, and need them. She looked about ten years old.
I said, “That’s a hell of a costume for a married woman. You look like Shirley Temple.”
She sat up quickly, startled. Absorbed in her book, she had not heard me come in. Then she grinned. “That shows your age,” she said. “I’m younger than she is.”
“What are you reading?” I asked.
She glanced at the cover of the book and shrugged. “Just brushing up on how to save the world,” she said. “All it needs is one or two little changes in human nature, it says here.”
She took off her glasses and laid them aside, shivered slightly and reached for the short white terry-cloth robe she had thrown off. “It was hot in here while the fire was going,” she said. “I didn’t realize it had burned down so far. How did your meeting go?”
I shrugged. “We accomplished the usual amount of nothing.”
“Trouble, darling?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who was there, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Shouldn’t ask,” I said. “The Director was there; I’ll tell you that much. He was very happy. He loves trouble, as long as it happens to somebody else.”
“To you?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “He wouldn’t like that. It might reflect back on him. No, I’m in the clear. In fact, I’m apt to come out of this very well.” I hesitated; but there are times when you have to talk to someone. “You see, Princess, somebody in Washington didn’t like a few recommendations I made in my last report. Apparently that’s what’s been holding things up for the past six months. When they hear things they don’t like in Washington, they have a
After following the fence a certain number of miles, you come to an opening protected by a cattle guard—a western invention consisting of a number of rails laid across the road over a shallow trench. Vehicles can negotiate this kind of open-work bridge, but stock won’t try it for fear of getting their hoofs caught between the rails; so it serves the purpose of a gate without having to be opened and closed for each passing car. While bouncing over this guard, you’ll see another sign: PRIVATE ROAD—KEEP OUT! Johnson Land and Cattle Co. The name isn’t Johnson, of course, but never mind. The road is gravel and fairly rough. It leads back among the dry and barren foothills, out of sight of the main highway, and runs, finally, past a large, paved parking lot and up to a gate in another fence, this one of steel mesh twelve feet high topped by three strands of barbed wire on a slanting bracket. At this point a Marine guard with a gun steps out of a little house and asks where the hell you think you’re going.
Beyond him you see a number of low government buildings—government architecture has an unmistakable look—and that’s all you’ll see, and all I am permitted to tell you. If you want to know more, ask any waitress in any restaurant in Albuquerque. She’ll have more dope on it than I do, anyway; I have to go through channels to get my information.
The conference took a couple of hours, and was as productive as most emergency conferences that are called on the spur of the moment by an administrative officer in a big tizzy, before enough data has been assembled to act upon. We finally came to the momentous decision that we had better wait until Jack Bates, who had been flown to Nevada by the Army, got back with some accurate information, and adjourned. I drove home, parked the Pontiac in the driveway, and let myself into the house. The lights were on in the living room, and Natalie was sprawled in the big chair with her glasses on and not much else: she was wearing one of those abbreviated nighties that come equipped with little pants, and need them. She looked about ten years old.
I said, “That’s a hell of a costume for a married woman. You look like Shirley Temple.”
She sat up quickly, startled. Absorbed in her book, she had not heard me come in. Then she grinned. “That shows your age,” she said. “I’m younger than she is.”
“What are you reading?” I asked.
She glanced at the cover of the book and shrugged. “Just brushing up on how to save the world,” she said. “All it needs is one or two little changes in human nature, it says here.”
She took off her glasses and laid them aside, shivered slightly and reached for the short white terry-cloth robe she had thrown off. “It was hot in here while the fire was going,” she said. “I didn’t realize it had burned down so far. How did your meeting go?”
I shrugged. “We accomplished the usual amount of nothing.”
“Trouble, darling?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who was there, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Shouldn’t ask,” I said. “The Director was there; I’ll tell you that much. He was very happy. He loves trouble, as long as it happens to somebody else.”
“To you?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “He wouldn’t like that. It might reflect back on him. No, I’m in the clear. In fact, I’m apt to come out of this very well.” I hesitated; but there are times when you have to talk to someone. “You see, Princess, somebody in Washington didn’t like a few recommendations I made in my last report. Apparently that’s what’s been holding things up for the past six months. When they hear things they don’t like in Washington, they have a
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