silver in the night sky. Up ahead, the navigator was talking to the engineer, laughing about something, reminding the engineer of a fiasco with some girl in a San Francisco bar. The radioman volunteered a comparison between the girl in the bar and a Japanese girl he had known in Yokosuka. Their laughter was strong, easy, free, mingling with the vibration of power from the jet engines. They knew what their job was and they were doing it, asking no questions of their passenger.
Hearing the soft voices, the different accents from Maine to Mississippi, from Brooklyn to Houston, he felt a change come over him. Hearing the steady beat of the powerful engines, feeling the lift of the wings that spanned the earth and the sky and carried him across the continent in a matter of hours, he felt better.
He closed his eyes and slept.
* * *
The airport at Las Tiengas was new, raw, and busy. A white-helmeted MP with eyes like steel marbles met him at the bomber, asked his name, and guided him to an Army scout car parked in the restricted military area of the field. Durell did not object, although this was not what he had expected. In a matter of moments, they were skimming down a new highway across the flat desert floor, away from the gaudy glow of lights that marked the town.
They passed a white-and-black barrier manned by more MP's, and under the desert moon Durell saw the white blocky shapes of barracks, skeletal rocket launchers, a huge hangar, a glare of blue light from a cavernous machine shop. The MP who drove was not communicative. He seemed bored. The desert wind was chilly.
Mike Larabee was waiting for him in an office of the Base Administration Building. Larabee was a squat bulldog of a man, his jaw dark with unshaven beard, eyes bloodshot, face tired. His glance was hostile. His handshake was hard and quick.
"Sit down, Durell. Relax. Like something to eat?"
"I didn't expect to work out of here," Durell said.
"You don't. You're supposed to be on your own. But I guess McFee figured you needed some briefing. I don't like it a bit, I tell you. A thing like this needs organization, a lot of men working together. What can you hope to do alone?"
"I hope to find Calvin Padgett."
"Nuts. You'll only get in my hair."
"I'll try not to," said Durell.
"Well, I just don't like prima donnas," Larabee growled. He slapped a palm over his mouth and wiped his hand across the lower half of his face, pulling and distorting his flesh with his fingertips. He sighed deeply. "Sorry. I haven't had much sleep. We'll get along, Durell."
"You know that Padgett is still somewhere in the area?"
Larabee nodded. His face looked more like a bulldog's than ever as he jutted his jaw angrily. "The son-of-a-bitch. The screwed-up bastard. I'd like to ream him with a forty-five."
"How did he get away from you?"
"We found that out just a few hours ago. Through a drainage culvert. Of all the goddamn things. Down a manhole and crawling for two, three hundred yards, popping up like a gopher outside the wire and the radar. My own damned fault. I ought to be hanged."
Durell relaxed a little. "Any leads to where he might be hiding out?"
"Just one. He didn't go into town often, but he had a girl there. Or a woman friend, you might say. Cora Neville."
"Local girl?"
"Just the richest dame in ten states. You can't touch her, Durell. Don't try. We've got trouble enough without making her squawk. But she's staked out, too. Not a sign of Padgett. We searched her ranch and the whole damned motel. He wasn't there."
"What motel?" Durell asked.
"The Salamander. It's just north of town, and you never saw a place like it. Forty bucks a day, cigarettes a buck a pack, four bits for a Kleenex. Jaguars and Cadillacs and a lot of rich, spoiled, useless people taking the desert air, sobering up for the next round. She fits the place like a glove, that Cora Neville. Cal Padgett was right friendly with her."
Durell's face looked thin and sharp. "How did he get to know a woman
Hearing the soft voices, the different accents from Maine to Mississippi, from Brooklyn to Houston, he felt a change come over him. Hearing the steady beat of the powerful engines, feeling the lift of the wings that spanned the earth and the sky and carried him across the continent in a matter of hours, he felt better.
He closed his eyes and slept.
* * *
The airport at Las Tiengas was new, raw, and busy. A white-helmeted MP with eyes like steel marbles met him at the bomber, asked his name, and guided him to an Army scout car parked in the restricted military area of the field. Durell did not object, although this was not what he had expected. In a matter of moments, they were skimming down a new highway across the flat desert floor, away from the gaudy glow of lights that marked the town.
They passed a white-and-black barrier manned by more MP's, and under the desert moon Durell saw the white blocky shapes of barracks, skeletal rocket launchers, a huge hangar, a glare of blue light from a cavernous machine shop. The MP who drove was not communicative. He seemed bored. The desert wind was chilly.
Mike Larabee was waiting for him in an office of the Base Administration Building. Larabee was a squat bulldog of a man, his jaw dark with unshaven beard, eyes bloodshot, face tired. His glance was hostile. His handshake was hard and quick.
"Sit down, Durell. Relax. Like something to eat?"
"I didn't expect to work out of here," Durell said.
"You don't. You're supposed to be on your own. But I guess McFee figured you needed some briefing. I don't like it a bit, I tell you. A thing like this needs organization, a lot of men working together. What can you hope to do alone?"
"I hope to find Calvin Padgett."
"Nuts. You'll only get in my hair."
"I'll try not to," said Durell.
"Well, I just don't like prima donnas," Larabee growled. He slapped a palm over his mouth and wiped his hand across the lower half of his face, pulling and distorting his flesh with his fingertips. He sighed deeply. "Sorry. I haven't had much sleep. We'll get along, Durell."
"You know that Padgett is still somewhere in the area?"
Larabee nodded. His face looked more like a bulldog's than ever as he jutted his jaw angrily. "The son-of-a-bitch. The screwed-up bastard. I'd like to ream him with a forty-five."
"How did he get away from you?"
"We found that out just a few hours ago. Through a drainage culvert. Of all the goddamn things. Down a manhole and crawling for two, three hundred yards, popping up like a gopher outside the wire and the radar. My own damned fault. I ought to be hanged."
Durell relaxed a little. "Any leads to where he might be hiding out?"
"Just one. He didn't go into town often, but he had a girl there. Or a woman friend, you might say. Cora Neville."
"Local girl?"
"Just the richest dame in ten states. You can't touch her, Durell. Don't try. We've got trouble enough without making her squawk. But she's staked out, too. Not a sign of Padgett. We searched her ranch and the whole damned motel. He wasn't there."
"What motel?" Durell asked.
"The Salamander. It's just north of town, and you never saw a place like it. Forty bucks a day, cigarettes a buck a pack, four bits for a Kleenex. Jaguars and Cadillacs and a lot of rich, spoiled, useless people taking the desert air, sobering up for the next round. She fits the place like a glove, that Cora Neville. Cal Padgett was right friendly with her."
Durell's face looked thin and sharp. "How did he get to know a woman
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