around her and drew her to him. Ronnie put her arms around his waist and began to nibble his ear.
“I remember when we used to come to places like this to look at each other.” She said it like Bambi.
Neary looked down at her and, seeming to remember some good old times, he smiled. Ronnie smiled back and gently sucked on Roy’s upper lip. He had always gone for that in a big way, and soon their kisses spread inside. But Roy was not so engrossed that he couldn’t weasel open half an eye and turn it to the skies. Because that’s precisely when everything exploded with a blue-hot fire-whoosh that tore at his clothes. Neary almost jumped out of his skin as the red lights diminished in the distance, but Ronnie knew it was only a semi-truck-trailer, and after a few seconds so, glumly, did Roy.
The spell was broken.
Ronnie, testing her husband, asked, “If one of those things came down right now and the door opened, would you go on it?”
Roy, thrilled at the proposition, cried, “Jesus Christ, yes!” Then, seeing and feeling the hurt tense through her, he added, “Well, anyone would.”
But the damage was done. Ronnie broke away from him, and went back toward the car. He hurried after her.
Ronnie stopped and turned on him. “You know what you’ve done to us?” she cried out. “You know what this means? You’ve brought us out here twenty miles from home in the middle of the night . . . and you destroyed our sleep cycle. Your sons are gonna conk out in the middle of the day and Sylvia will be up until one A.M. for the next three nights because their father swears he saw a flat, orange Betty Crocker crescent roll that flies. We might as well all have breakfast right now.”
She paused to catch her breath and then in a lower tone, completed the demolition. “Don’t ever try anything like this again. We’re your family. It is not normal.”
There was nothing that Ronnie could have said, Neary knew, that could have been more final. It sure wasn’t normal, but as Neary was about to discover, normality, as he once knew it, was coming to an end.
11
T here is no fast way to get to Benares. The ancient and most holy city of the Hindus is approachable mainly through faith.
An approach by military aircraft was out of the question. To have sent a fighter plane or attack bomber through India’s airspace would not only have freaked out the militantly neutral Indians but, more important, would have endangered the secrecy of the project.
David Laughlin supposed, privately, that if there had been time, Lacombe would have traveled to Benares in the proper manner, on bare feet, wearing a loincloth and supported by a wooden staff. As it was, Laughlin was grateful for the small, fourteen-passenger Corvette jet borrowed from Air Alsace, which made the trip from Paris to Rangoon in just half a day.
A Vertol chopper brought them in low over the spires and domes of Benares a half hour later, as the sun was setting. The river moved sluggishly beneath the helicopter, its holy waters freighted with the holies of silt.
The hillside lay a few miles outside the city. The Vertol hovered at a discreet distance while its pilot tried to find a place to land. It wasn’t easy.
“Look at them!” Laughlin said. “Thousands!”
“Tens of thousands,” Lacombe corrected.
“It’s fantastic. I—”
“The sadhu is a very holy man,” Lacombe cut in quietly, above the rotor noise. “But also very practical. He also wants an answer. In his lifetime. He has been listening for many years. With him it is more than a matter of faith. It is a matter of results.”
Laughlin thought that over. “But I thought the Hindus went the other way,” he shouted. “Nirvana, not here.”
Lacombe shrugged.
The chopper set down gently in a space near two Mercedes tour buses. The pilot cut the engines and the rotors whined down. Dust started settling over everything within a hundred yards. Lacombe climbed out first and stood momentarily in
“I remember when we used to come to places like this to look at each other.” She said it like Bambi.
Neary looked down at her and, seeming to remember some good old times, he smiled. Ronnie smiled back and gently sucked on Roy’s upper lip. He had always gone for that in a big way, and soon their kisses spread inside. But Roy was not so engrossed that he couldn’t weasel open half an eye and turn it to the skies. Because that’s precisely when everything exploded with a blue-hot fire-whoosh that tore at his clothes. Neary almost jumped out of his skin as the red lights diminished in the distance, but Ronnie knew it was only a semi-truck-trailer, and after a few seconds so, glumly, did Roy.
The spell was broken.
Ronnie, testing her husband, asked, “If one of those things came down right now and the door opened, would you go on it?”
Roy, thrilled at the proposition, cried, “Jesus Christ, yes!” Then, seeing and feeling the hurt tense through her, he added, “Well, anyone would.”
But the damage was done. Ronnie broke away from him, and went back toward the car. He hurried after her.
Ronnie stopped and turned on him. “You know what you’ve done to us?” she cried out. “You know what this means? You’ve brought us out here twenty miles from home in the middle of the night . . . and you destroyed our sleep cycle. Your sons are gonna conk out in the middle of the day and Sylvia will be up until one A.M. for the next three nights because their father swears he saw a flat, orange Betty Crocker crescent roll that flies. We might as well all have breakfast right now.”
She paused to catch her breath and then in a lower tone, completed the demolition. “Don’t ever try anything like this again. We’re your family. It is not normal.”
There was nothing that Ronnie could have said, Neary knew, that could have been more final. It sure wasn’t normal, but as Neary was about to discover, normality, as he once knew it, was coming to an end.
11
T here is no fast way to get to Benares. The ancient and most holy city of the Hindus is approachable mainly through faith.
An approach by military aircraft was out of the question. To have sent a fighter plane or attack bomber through India’s airspace would not only have freaked out the militantly neutral Indians but, more important, would have endangered the secrecy of the project.
David Laughlin supposed, privately, that if there had been time, Lacombe would have traveled to Benares in the proper manner, on bare feet, wearing a loincloth and supported by a wooden staff. As it was, Laughlin was grateful for the small, fourteen-passenger Corvette jet borrowed from Air Alsace, which made the trip from Paris to Rangoon in just half a day.
A Vertol chopper brought them in low over the spires and domes of Benares a half hour later, as the sun was setting. The river moved sluggishly beneath the helicopter, its holy waters freighted with the holies of silt.
The hillside lay a few miles outside the city. The Vertol hovered at a discreet distance while its pilot tried to find a place to land. It wasn’t easy.
“Look at them!” Laughlin said. “Thousands!”
“Tens of thousands,” Lacombe corrected.
“It’s fantastic. I—”
“The sadhu is a very holy man,” Lacombe cut in quietly, above the rotor noise. “But also very practical. He also wants an answer. In his lifetime. He has been listening for many years. With him it is more than a matter of faith. It is a matter of results.”
Laughlin thought that over. “But I thought the Hindus went the other way,” he shouted. “Nirvana, not here.”
Lacombe shrugged.
The chopper set down gently in a space near two Mercedes tour buses. The pilot cut the engines and the rotors whined down. Dust started settling over everything within a hundred yards. Lacombe climbed out first and stood momentarily in
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