As the train slowed to a stop at Chihuahua Station it was besieged by hordes of food and soft drink vendors. The din of hawking and haggling and the jostling as passengers crowded to the train windows had wakened Charles, but he made a presence of sleeping, slumped in the seat with his straw sombrero over his eyes. The wooden slats of the seat gouged into his back, as they had the whole trip from Topolobampo. He watched the sunbeams peeping through his sombrero and concentrated on slowing his breathing as the Mexican customs and immigration officials approached.

     "Señor." A hand tapped his arm. He straightened up and slowly raised the brim of his grimy hat, yawned, and rubbed his eyes which were ringed by layers of desert dust that had blown in through the open train windows.

     "Documentos, por favor," said the official.

     "Sí, Señor." Sleepily, Charles rummaged through the pockets of his soiled shirt, discovering as if by chance his forged tourist card. Is this what you want, Señor?" He laid on a thick American accent.

     The official took the document without replying and his nose twitched with disgust as he scrutinized the issue date and the personal identification features. Charles had 'aged' the forgery by putting it inside his boot and later, adding a dash of cheap mescal to enhance the aroma. The official surveyed him with a glare of disapproval and looked as if he were going to vomit.

     Charles looked back at him and yawned. "Excuse me."

     Are you returning to the United States?"

     "Yes."

     "Then I must take your tourist card."

     "I have enjoyed my stay in Mexico, Señor."

     Yes, I'm sure you have." The official shook his head and moved down the aisle of the third class coach.

     Charles turned his sigh of relief into a profound yawn and stretched to satisfaction.

     "Señor, do you want tamales, enchiladas, tortillas, something to drink?"

     He saw a little Indian girl on the platform, looking up at him with expectant brown eyes. She struggled with the weight of two great baskets, one loaded with food under a once white cloth and the other clinking with soft drink bottles.

     "Yes, I'm pretty hungry. Let's see what you've got."

     She raised the cloth as if unveiling a sculpture.

     "Hmm, I like the looks of the enchiladas. What's in them?"

     "Onions, chiles and chicken, Señor."

     "How much?"

     She gave him an appraising look. All blue-eyed people had lots of money. That's what her mother always told her."Two pesos each, Señor." She shuffled her bare feet among the banana peels and corn husks that littered the station platform.

     He laughed. "What do you take me for, chica, a crazy gringo tourist?"

     "Oh no, Señor, but these are very good enchiladas."

     "Maybe, but they are very small. I'll give you fifty centavos each."

     "One peso, Señor."

     "Not interested."

     "Okay, fifty centavos."

     "You speak English very well." She giggled and looked coy.

     "Give me ten enchiladas and two bottles of orange soda." He gave her the money through the train window and received his purchase wrapped in coarse brown paper. Since he had no table, he spread the paper out upon the train seat and devoured the enchiladas picnic fashion. They were very hot.

     The air horn of the diesel locomotive excreted its unmelodious blat just as he finished the last bottle of soda. He handed the bottles down to the little girl as the train began to pull out of the station and waved goodbye to her. "Tell your mother I couldn't find any chicken in her chicken enchiladas. It must have run away."

     The little girl waved back, hiding a broad smile with her other hand.

     The train growled across the shimmering desert and arrived in Juárez late in the afternoon. After a good meal of steak, beans and cold Carta Blanca, Charles found a taxi to take him to the outskirts of the city.

     "Do you know how to get to Juanita's whorehouse, Señor?"

     The driver nodded enthusiastically. "Sí, Señor!"

     "Okay, if you can get me there in less than half an hour I'll give you fifty pesos."

     The driver opened the door. "Get in."

     They sped away from the cab stand, narrowly avoiding collision with a Pemex truck, screeched around corners, paying no attention to traffic lights or policemen, skidded over streetcar tracks and leap-frogged over the spiderweb network of dirt roads which went off in every direction from the city. On these roads one found the thieves' market, the bordellos, the rendezvous of smugglers, the sites where illicit transactions of every kind imaginable and unimaginable, occurred.

     "Juanita's is just ahead, Señor." The driver pointed with one hand and guided the lurching Chevy with the other. How he saw anything through the dusty windshield was a mystery.

     "Perfect. You've made it with time to spare. I hope you have retro-rockets on this thing." Charles held on the door-frame to keep his head from being driven through the roof as the car bounced over the rough road.

     The driver laughed and slammed on the brakes. They skidded up to the entrance of a nondescript adobe house in a choking dust cloud.

     "When you want to come back, just tell Juanita." The driver opened the door for him and accepted the extra fifty pesos with his regular fare.

     Charles waited until he had driven away, making a show of arranging his rucksack and tying his bootlaces. Hearing the bolt being drawn back on the door, he ran around the corner of the house, out of sight from the entrance, and headed off into the sagebrush.

     "Nobody out here," said a woman with a piercing voice.

     Charles heard the door slam as he walked back to the road. Removing the map from his rolled-up raincoat, he took his bearing. There was nothing special about Juanita's, except that it was close to the border. He went back into the brush and followed the road until he came to the international boundary fence, taking care that no one saw him.

     The sun had begun to set, but there was ample light for him to observe the U.S. side with his binoculars for any signs of activity. He was at a point just over twenty miles out of Juárez. It was desert, with nothing but the smoke of El Paso's smelters to indicate the existence of a large city. He took a compass reading to make sure it was smoke from the smelters and not a brushfire, then arranged his pack for the hike.

     When it was dark, he left his hiding place in the brush and advanced upon the fence, making a neat hole in the wire links with his cutters. Having enlarged it sufficiently, he put his pack through and followed it, squeezing through the gap which the wire grudgingly yielded. He pulled the gap closed and repaired it with a length of baling wire from his kit.

     A startled bird flew overhead. He stopped working and listened, slowly scanning the darkened brush and cactus for the cause of the disturbance, but he saw only the full moon and heard only the gurgle of the shallow Rio Grande behind him.

     There was quicksand in the Rio Grande. That's what everyone said. He waded into the muddy water, his belongings on his head, and tried to avoid splashing so as to evade the ears of any border patrolmen in the area. Reaching the other side, he walked in the coolness of the beautiful desert night, trailing a piece of sagebrush behind him to cover his tracks in the sand. The owls, coyotes and crickets gave him musical accompaniment, and the sage and yucca perfumed the air. He felt like whistling, but decided against it. Following a dry stream-bed, he reached a culvert and crossed under a highway, then made his way into the desert, away from signs of habitation.

     At daybreak he was well across the border, but it was still unwise to travel by day, so he found cover beneath a rock out- crop. He ate some of the tortillas he had saved from his meal in Juárez and took a few sips of water from his canteen. Then he stretched out upon the cool stone slab and slept.

     Around noon he woke up, ravenously hungry. He ate a few more tortillas, but he craved meat. Shrewdly he surveyed the rocky area where he had taken refuge. He cut a stout pole of brushwood and looped some baling wire at one end of it, arranging the loop so that it could be tightened by pulling on the free end of the wire.

     In a shady crevice near his hiding place he found what he wanted, a big diamond back. He pried the angrily buzzing rattlesnake out of its den and placed the loop around it. After severing its head with his hunting knife, removing the entrails and skinning it, he built a small fire of dry sticks and roasted the clean white meat on a wooden skewer. With salt, the rattlesnake was delicious, roast chicken tasting no better. He ate his fill, leaving the remainder of the snake to dry in the blistering sun. Hearing the sound of a spotter plane, he crawled into his cool recess in the rocks. The fire was out and there had been little smoke. He listened to the crows calling from their perches on the saguaros and fell asleep.

     That evening he heard voices. They were discussing him, or rather what to do with him before they stripped him of his valuables. "The gringo is asleep," whispered one called Juan.

     "Then we must make sure he does not wake up," said Domingo.

     The rock declivity acted like an ear trumpet, and Charles heard everything. He began to snore and rolled over so that his hand now rested upon his snub-nosed Colt. His assailants were just below him, on the point of ascending the gradual incline of the rock stratum. He heard their sandals as they dislodged the screes at the base of the outcrop. They were coming up. He was about to sit up and start shooting when he heard a weird groan from one of the men. It hardly sounded human.

     "Cristo y los cantos!" exclaimed one.

     "Diablos!" added the other.

     In the bright moonlight they had happened upon the remains of the rattlesnake Charles had nearly finished. There was no doubt that the snake had been cooked and eaten.

     "A warlock!" shouted Juan as he made his getaway.

     "Saints preserve me from specters!" screamed Domingo, running after him.

     Charles laughed long and loudly. After gathering his kit together, he began the night trek toward the lights of El Paso.

     He trudged through the dilapidated entrance of the Hotel Fisher in the old part of town, his heavy boots clumping on the rickety wooden floor. The hotel was a relic of the cowboy era, boasting high ceilings covered with embossed sheet iron, all the rage in the eighteen-seventies, he thought, dropping his pack on the dusty floor.

     He caught the eye of the desk clerk. "Evening. Nice place you've got here - electric lights, wall-to-wall floors. Any vacancies?"

     "Gawd, another hippy!" exclaimed the desk clerk, who had been giving him a hard look from the time he came in the door. The wizened little man's beady eyes glared at him from beneath his green eyeshade.

     "Hippy?" Charles looked around. "No, not me. I've just been out doing some prospecting."

     "Sorry about that, I really am." But the clerk continued to survey him with suspicion. Prospectors had equally bad reputations.

     "Got a room?''

     "Oh, sure. Here you are. Just sign the register." He shoved a yellowed sheet of paper across the warped planks of the counter. Charles signed it 'W. Irving,' and gave his address as the Great Northern Hotel, Bodie, California. Bodie was a ghost town, which made things even more interesting for the clerk as he studied the information.

     "Ah, do you have some identification, Mr. Irving? Police requirement, you know." He snapped his metal sleeve garters of officiously.

     "Sure." Charles took out his forged California driver's license and showed it to the clerk.

     "Sorry, but things are getting tight these days. Used to have lots of the locals, businessmen mostly, comin' in with floozies. Now that they have to give their real names, they take all their business to Juárez. It's a cryin' shame. That's why we got rooms vacant. Take your pick."

     "Where can I get a bath?"

     "End of the hall. You'll find soap and towels in your room. Payment in advance." The clerk held out his hand.

     "Right." Charles counted out the money carefully to make sure he didn't encumber the hotelier with an over-payment.

     The bathtub had long since lost its enamel and needed cleaning. He found some laundry soap and filled the tub, which he cleaned as he washed his socks, shirt and underwear. After thoroughly rinsing and wringing out his clothes, he filled the tub and got in, luxuriating in the hot water. The towel was slightly shredded, but served to dry off with. Clad in his trousers and boots, he went back to his room and hung out his laundry on the cold steam radiator under the open window.

     He looked out at the bustling street below, thronging with sellers and purchasers of contraband, arms and gold, and listened to the noises of the traffic and the pigeons cooing on the ledge below the window. Before he went to bed, he cleaned his revolver and laid it on the nightstand beside him. He lay in bed for some time with the light off, watching the threadbare curtains billowing in the desert breeze, the neon lights in the street turning them into gossamers of brilliant pastel.

     He got up late the next morning, shaved and went across the street to the Chinese restaurant where he had breakfast. The egg foo yong and beer were just right, and he felt completely restored. Leaving the restaurant, he went down the street to look for a suit, something more conservative than the Italian pimp outfits then in fashion.

     He came out of the shop wearing a charcoal grey, single- breasted suit, a new pair of shoes, new shirt and tie, the complete ensemble making him look like a young banker who might have owned the bank. It was certain he would not be mistaken for a seller of used cars or insurance. This was soon to be to his advantage. Outside the clothing shop he found himself in a large crowd. Both sides of the street were lined with people.

     "What's up?" he asked a man who looked like a rancher.

     The man looked at him, shifted his chewing tobacco to one side of his mouth, and spat. "'Merican Legion parade today."

     He heard a blare of trumpets, and saw a local high school band come up the street, led by shapely drum majorettes. The girls were all blondes and drew whistles and obscene comments from the largely Mexican crowd. Following the band came the walking wounded of the American Legion, paunches, gray-heads and double-chins at the ready. The crowd grew hostile, and Charles made out what they had begun to chant: "Muerte a los gringos y la tierra para nosotros."

     "So that's how it is." he thought. "'Death to the gringos and land for us.'"

     The hatred of the crowd was palpable. He could feel it radiating in all directions. Carefully, he began to edge toward the wall of the building.

     A homemade bomb went off, making a loud bang and raising a cloud of white smoke in the street. A policeman blew his whistle and sirens screamed. In no time the milling crowd was confined within the length of the block by an array of police cars and motorcycles. Charles cursed under his breath. He wasn't worried about bombs.

     The police lines were too close. If he ran into a shop he would be seen and pursued. He picked the whitest policeman he could find.

     "Excuse me, Officer, may I get through?"

     The policeman looked him over. "Well, Sir, I'll have to check your package."

     Charles undid the string and removed the cover of the box. "Just some old clothes I was taking to the Salvation Army."

     "Sorry, Sir. Orders are to search everybody."

     "What's going on, anyway? As you can see, I'm new in town."

     "Tijerina's gang, the Brown Berets, up to their usual tricks. Okay, boys, let him through." The policeman waved him on.

     On the way back to the hotel he bought a cheap suitcase to carry his kit in. He checked out of the Fisher and walked to the bus station.

     "Oakland, California," he told the ticket clerk.

     "There's one leaving right now. You can make it if you hurry. Door number eight."

     "Thanks." He pushed his way through the crowd and found a queue that was disappearing through the doorway. After seeing 'Oakland' among the names over the lintel, he gave his ticket to the driver.

     "Bus eleven oh four, right over there." The driver pointed to one of the blue-and-white monsters which growled in the smoke- filled den.

     He entered the bus and wrinkled his nose at the familiar aroma of recirculated flatus which was chilled by the air conditioner to the temperature desired by the thermostat. He preferred the heat and dust of the open train windows to this, but now he was in the United States and consumption was mandatory in this consumers' paradise. The windows could not be opened in any case, other than dire emergency.

     The bus was nearly filled, but there was a vacant seat at the front, next to a middle-aged man, wearing a tweedy-looking business suit.

     Charles nodded to him. "This seat taken?"

     "Nope, it's all yours." The man's friendly smile was somehow reassuring, and Charles felt more at ease. He was tired of being a target for special observation and ready antagonism. Now, perhaps, he was blending into his background. He placed his suitcase in the overhead baggage rack and sat down.

     "Going a long way?"

     "Oakland," said Charles, adjusting his backrest, "and you?"

     "Bakersfield."

     "Well, looks like we'll be seeing a good deal of each other. My name's Irving, Bill Irving," said Charles, shaking hands.

     "Dave Tucker. Glad to meet you."

     The door closed, air brakes hissed, and the bus roared out of the station, leaving El Paso's skid row behind.

     "You do much travelling by bus, Bill?"

     "Not if I can help it."

     "No, you don't look the type."

     "Oh?" Charles felt the hair begin to rise on the back of his neck.

     Tucker smiled. "I play a little detective game with myself, try to size people up, Let's see, I'd take you for a banker, young vice-president type. Am I right?"

     "Sorry, you missed, but you're right on one count. My car broke down and I'm short of cash, so I'm going on by fartmobile."

     "No credit cards?"

     "Don't believe in 'em."

     "Cash on the barrelhead, eh?"

     "Usually. What line are you in?"

     "Novelties. Got my own company." Tucker took a business card out of his breast pocket and handed it to him.

     Charles studied the card. "Do you get around much on buses?"

     "No, I'm like you. I try to avoid 'em, but my wife and I planned one of those 'see America' tours, and I couldn't go, so I'm using my ticket to do some business trips on. Never again, I can tell you!"

     "Do you see much of your family?"

     "No, but I got the greatest little wife and couple of kids you'd ever want to meet." He showed Charles some pictures.

     "Umm, nice house."

     "And it'll be all mine when it's paid for."

     "When will that be?"

     "Let's see ... Another fifteen years, I guess. You married, Bill?"

     "No, can't afford it just now."

     "It's the greatest thing going, marriage. You really should, you know."

     "Why? So I can go into debt, wind up as a divorce statistic and raise a couple of strangers for a decadent society? You must be joking."

     "Jesus, you're not a commie, are you?"

     "No, just real conservative."

     "What sort of work ya do, Bill?"

     "I'm retired."

     "No!"

     "'Fraid so."

     "I think you're pulling my leg." Tucker shook his head and looked out the tinted window, watching the desert flash by.

     Suddenly, there was a muffled pop outside and the bus began to swerve from side to side, crossing the white lines. The driver was fighting the wheel, his teeth gritted with the effort of holding the huge vehicle on the road and avoiding collision with other traffic. "Blowout!" exclaimed Tucker.

     Expertly, the driver regained control of the bus and slowed down, stopping on the shoulder of the highway.

     "Sorry, folks," he said through the intercom, "we've just had some tire trouble. I'm afraid we'll be delayed for awhile until a relief bus comes along."

     The passengers groaned, not realizing how lucky they were to be alive and uninjured.

     "Good work," said Charles to the driver. "That was real Grand Prix stuff."

     The driver leaned back in his seat and rubbed his shoulder. "Thanks. I don't mind telling you it had me worried for a moment."

     "You get many blowouts?"

     "Some. We shouldn't get any, but the company likes to retread 'em a few times too often, That's between you and me, you understand."

     "The dirty crooks."

     "It's all right for you to say that, but I've got a wife and kids to support. If I didn't, I could write a book ... Oh no!"

     "What's wrong?"

     "There goes the air conditioner."

     "That's all we need."

     The driver opened the door and stepped out into the furnace heat of the desert. "I'll flag somebody down and get word to the next station. Enjoy the cool air while it lasts." He pushed the door shut behind him.

     "Well, I'm for a walk around," said Charles.

     Tucker looked glum. "Not me. Careful you don't fry yourself out there."

     It was quite a while before the driver got someone to stop and take word to the next town. Charles hoped the financial reward promised was sufficient to insure co-operation. By this time the interior of the bus had become like a bake oven and the passengers began to file out to stand beside the road. Charles noticed a pretty young brunette who seemed extremely fatigued. She walked slowly off into the bush, her head nodding.

     "Probably doesn't like the stink of that toilet on the bus," he thought.

     For some reason, six strapping negroes, with stylish Afro hairdos, got the same urge for desert exploration and followed her. Ten minutes later he heard faint screams among the cactus.

     "They're raping her!" screeched an elderly woman, who would have traded places with the girl if she had been able.

     The passengers rushed off in the direction of the screams, led by the driver. They reached the girl and found one of the Afros on top of her, very much as they had imagined.

     "Now, why don't you folks jest turn around and go back to the bus. Don't you know you is where you ain't wanted?" The black waved a forty-five caliber pistol at them in a good-natured manner, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that he viewed the situation as quite unimportant, but would just as casually kill someone if pressed.

     The passengers looked at the driver. "Look," he stammered, "I've got a wife and kids. You don't expect me to ..." Whatever they expected, it was not the driver's affair.

     "Come on," said Charles. "You heard the man. Let's go back."

     "Tha's what I calls a real smart boy. Go on, you folks do like he say." The other negroes laughed.

     "Well, I never ... !" exclaimed the elderly woman. "And you call yourselves men."

     "Listen lady, there's no contest. Let's go." Charles took her arm, but she shrugged him away. He grabbed her and forced her to come with him. "I don't know what your problem is, Ma'am, but you're only going to get someone killed, and I really don't fancy that."

     "Yeah," said Tucker, "you don't see any James Bonds on this bus, do ya'?"

     The girl moaned.

     "And what if she were your daughter, or your wife?"

     "I'd hope she was on the pill," said Charles, as he led her away, accompanied by the other passengers.

     Back at the bus, the passengers spoke in low tones. Few of the men could look one another in the eye. The old woman was busy haranguing all who would listen and the bus driver was on the verge of tears.

     Charles went over to him. "Listen, I know you can't do anything about it. Don't take it so hard. You did right,"

     The driver was trembling. "It's a hell of a business, and on my bus, my bus!"

     "They do seem to be taking their time. Look, you don't know anything, understand?" Charles gripped his arm and whispered into the driver's ear.

     "How do you mean?"

     "Just keep the passengers here 'til I come back."

     The driver swallowed and nodded that he would, and Charles strode off into the desert.

     "What's up?" asked Tucker, who had watched Charles leave.

     "Don't know, exactly," said the driver. "You know that fellow?"

     "No, not really, but I'd say he could be poison if he took a dislike to you."

     "What's his line?"

     "Says he's retired, but he packs a gun."

     "How do you know?"

     "Oh, I just know, that's all." Tucker had no wish to elaborate. "Probably one of those gangsters."

     "Him? A clean-cut kid like that?"

     "Things are different these days. Got a light?" He offered the driver a cigarette and took one for himself.

     Charles circled the spot where the girl was, listening to the hoots and catcalls of the blacks. He took off his shoes and moved quietly through the sand, dropping on all fours as the voices grew louder. He saw them beyond the clump of cactus. They had their backs toward him, cheering on the one who was now raping the girl. "An arrogant bunch," he thought, as he took aim at the one holding the gun, and he was glad that he had cut x's into the soft lead noses of his .38 cartridges.

     He fired, traversing the revolver like an automatic weapon. Four of them went down before the other two even discovered the source of the gunshots. The fifth ran off, but didn't get far. He fell and impaled himself on the bayonets of a yucca. The one on top of the girl was not very agile. Unfortunately for him, the forty-five was too far away to be of any use, He crawled off as fast as his lowered trousers permitted, but Charles easily overtook him and fired the last bullet into the negro's head at close range. He was a big fellow, and his body slumped upon the sand like a wounded rhino. "Wouldn't like to tangle with him," thought Charles.

     He went back to the girl. She seemed exhausted and gasped for breath between sobs.

     "Come on, pull your panties up and let's go." He didn't understand all there was to the 'permissive society,' but he felt that she had received what she had asked for. He wiped the sand off the forty-five and checked the magazine to see if it were loaded. After slipping his shoes on, he searched the bodies for additional weapons, but only discovered a few switchblade knives. He found a substantial sum of money in one of the negros' socks and put that into his pocket. One of the bodies groaned. A hard kick to the temple stopped that.

     "Well?" he said, sticking the pistol into his belt. He looked at the girl and saw that she had gone to sleep. "Of all the lazy ..." He reached over to pull her skirt down and glanced at her bare thighs, a strange place to have so many mosquito bites, he thought. But they weren't mosquito bites. As he raised her up, he saw more needle marks under her arms. Cursing, he threw the girl over his shoulder and struggled back to the bus.

     "We heard shooting," said the driver."

     "Yeah, that was me. I got the jump on the one with the gun, twisted it out of his hand, and cut loose. I don't think I hit any of 'em, but I sure scared 'em. At the rate they were going, I'd say they should touch down at Cape Canavaral sometime this evening."

     Most of the passengers laughed, relieved of the uncomfortable burden of responsibility. They made way for Charles as he carried the sleeping girl into the shade of the bus and laid her on the oil-soaked gravel.

     "What's wrong with her?" squawked the old woman.

     "Well, Ma'am, aside from being kicked, raped and man-handled, I'd say she was loaded with heroin."

     "No! A nice-looking girl like that."

     "Young people, today!" exclaimed another passenger, just as the relief bus pulled up.

     Charles took the first driver aside. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't make a big thing about this."

     "But I've got to make a report."

     "Look, do me a favor. Have you considered what those guys would have done if they had come back?"

     "No."

     "Well, at the very least they would have held everybody up and stolen the relief bus."

     "Yeah, I guess so."

     He passed the driver a hundred dollars. "Go on, buy the kids a present."

     "Hey, thanks a lot. I sure can use it."

     "It won't hurt that bunch to get a little thirsty, now, will it?"

     "No, serves 'em right." The driver chuckled as he deftly folded the sweaty notes and put them into his shirt pocket.

     Everyone who was able slaved to transfer all the baggage and cargo on to the second bus. By the time they had finished, they were soaked with perspiration and ready to drop from heat exhaustion. The temperature had reached its zenith, and all the desert creatures had long since left the hot sand for the comfort of their burrows. Stepping into the air-conditioned bus was like going into an arctic gale. As the last of the passengers got on, the old woman turned to the first driver.

     "Aren't you going to call the police? I think it's just awful, having those criminals running around out there."

     The driver wiped his streaming forehead with a sodden handkerchief. "Ma'am," he said wearily, "where have you been the last decade, or so? 'Call the police,' you say. Do you think they grow on trees? The other driver says there's trouble in Las Cruces. Do you think the police have got nothing else to do but run around in the desert at this hour, chasing rowdy passengers?"

     "Rowdy passengers! Well, I never ..."

     "Until that girl wakes up and lays a charge of rape, you won't even get them for disturbing the peace."

     "But they threatened us with a gun!"

     "Can you prove that?"

     "We all saw it, didn't we?"

     "Yes, but we're white and they're black. No judge or jury would think of prosecuting."

     "But ..."

     "Please get on the bus, Lady, we're holding up the other folks."

     The girl was dead when they arrived in Las Cruces, a sweltering town full of riot police and drab National Guard vehicles.

     "Passengers will please remain on the bus. We are leaving immediately." The driver looked nervous.

     "What's up?" asked Tucker.

     "Don't know, exactly," said the driver, "but I hear somebody's taken over some ranches or farms hereabouts, and they've got artillery, or something. That's why all the soldiers have been called in. We'll be in military convoy as far as Albuquerque."

     Tucker's jaw dropped in amazement. "Hell! What do you make of that?"

     Charles shook his head and said nothing. He could have told him what the latest reports said about the El Paso area. That was why the area had been chosen for infiltration. The reports were accurate, and not to be found in any newspaper. He looked out the window and watched the ambulance drive away with the body of the girl. "Well, there she goes."

     Tucker craned his neck to look out. "That really was a shame. Poor kid. Those coons sure had it comin'."

     "You mean, their little run in the sun?"

     "I'm sure you didn't leave 'em in any condition for running." Tucker winked.

     "My dear Sir, whatever do you mean?"

     "Okay, I won't be pushy. I'm just proud to meet up with a real man, for a change.

     "Don't mention it, please."

     "The girl, what do you suppose ..."

     "Umm, I'd say it was heroin."

     "An overdose?"

     "Probably."

     "It's poison. Don't the kids know that? Just like taking poison."

     "Yeah, but that's what they heard in high school about tobacco, alcohol and marijuana. When it comes to heroin, the kids figure it s just another cry of 'wolf.' Besides, heroin's a pleasant way to die. You're so high you don't even care about it."

     They left Las Cruces in convoy with three other buses, escorted by jeeps mounting machine-guns. Soon they were growling down the four-lane highway, spewing rank exhaust fumes over the desert.

     "But seriously, there must be a way of stopping this heroin epidemic," said Tucker.

     "You can't stop it. You can control it, but no one will make any money out of that. You come up against the churches and the gangsters, just like Prohibition. Bad laws make big money, you know."

     "And how would you control it more effectively than it's being controlled?

     "Legalize death."

     "I don't get you."

     "It's very simple. Let people know that taking heroin is just like taking death on the instalment plan, then let them do it. I understand that an addict has about two years to live if he can get all the heroin ne wants. If not, that could be arranged."

     "You mean, make sure the addict dies?"

     "Yes."

     "But that's murder!"

     "Depending on your definition of the term. I only suggest this scheme so that normal, non-gangster society can be allowed to function. Naturally, the addict population would be segregated from the non-addict. Slum areas could be reserved for them. The present shooting galleries would continue to operate, but they would be free."

     "I don't see how you can use free heroin to stop heroin addiction, and murder ... !"

     "But you want to stop the spread of heroin addiction among productive members of society and take power from the gangsters who are spreading corruption."

     "Yes."

     "Well, then you must identify the sources of heroin addiction and eradicate them."

     "Sure, that's logical, but what are they?"

     "Despair and the profit motive."

     "What you advocate is that all persons who are fed up with life should be given a pleasant way out."

     "Why not? What have you got against people that you should force them to live?"

     "But what if someone, an addict, changes his mind and wants to rejoin society?"

     "He could be given a chance to return, cured somehow, if that's really so important to you."

     "There's something monstrous in the idea. I don't quite know what it is, but ..."

     "You don't think a man has the right to take his own life?"

     "No, that isn't what I disagree with. It's just that you're advocating wholesale suicide."

     "Why not? Do you think that the world is any better for being crowded with unhappy people, people who can't cope with life, old people who only have the pain of arthritis to remind them that they are still alive?"

     "There's a flaw in your argument, but I can't quite get at it."

     "The reason you can't find the flaw, but are still not satisfied with my proposal is that you are only midway to accepting its major premise, and I think that events will draw you all the way over so that you will accept not only this idea, but others which will seem even more extreme."

     "You sound like a college professor. Just what do you do for a living?"

     "I told you. I'm retired."

     "Okay, okay. Hey, would you look at that!"

     They drove onto an overpass, part of a massive cloverleaf complex. Nestled in one of the great loops were the smoldering ruins of a modern service station and restaurant. Military ambulances and cratered asphalt indicated that the damage was other than an ordinary insurance conflagration.

     "Looks like mortar work," said Tucker.

     "Yes, the place has been under bombardment. Incidentally, have you ever seen the Pont du Gard?"

     "No, what's that?"

     "A tremendous Roman bridge-aqueduct in France. These big freeway bridges remind me of it."

     "Do they look the same?"

     "No. The Pont du Gard is beautiful. It's a reminder of Rome. One day those bridges will be reminders of the United States."

     "You mean of the U.S. as a great country?"

     "No, like decadent Rome, a country of great buildings and little men."

     Charles had dozed off, despite the spine-curving uncomfortableness of the seat, and woke up as the bus bounced over the concrete apron of the station. It was dark outside.

     "Folks, this is Albuquerque. I've got some good news and some bad news. Might as well let you know the bad news first. We can't leave Albuquerque until daylight. Army says the road's too dangerous."

     "Aw, shit!" lamented one of the passengers. The others just groaned or mumbled to themselves.

     "But here's the good news. The company'll pay for your overnight accommodation. Food's not included, though."

     Sleepily, they stepped down from the bus and were herded into an establishment that made the Fisher look luxurious. They soon discovered the bedbugs had hearty appetites.

     Next morning, after a greasy, over-priced breakfast, they escaped from the hotel and returned to the bus, to be greeted by the radiant company smile of a new driver.

     "Morning, folks! Good to see yuh lookin' so fresh and cheerful. Army says we're cleared through to Gallup without escort, so we'll try to make up for some lost time. Hope y'all enjoy the ride." Without bothering to mesh the gears properly, he cannoned the bus out of the station and roared down the main street out of town.

     "Fresh and cheerful!" grumbled Tucker. "He must have rose-colored glasses on."

     "They look green to me," said Charles. "At least, that's how I feel." He scratched a bug bite.

     "They got you, too, the little bastards." Tucker rubbed his ears and scratched the side of his neck.

     "Yeah, we need de-lousing powder. Bet the driver didn't stay in the hotel."

     "Just as well. You wouldn't want him driving the bus in our condition, would you?"

     They arrived in Gallup that morning.

     "Hope we won't be here too long," said Tucker. "Nothing to do in this dumpy town but watch drunken Indians in cowboy suits."

     "Maybe they'd go for some of your novelties," said Charles, scratching his shoulder.

     "New, they don't look like rubber tomahawk types to me." Tucker scratched the bites on his stomach. "Damn bugs!"

     Their stop in Gallup was mercifully short, and soon they were speeding down the highway. Charles felt the bus swerve and looked out at the road ahead.

     "Now what does that fool think he's up to?" exclaimed the driver.

     A station wagon with its doors open was parked diagonally in the middle of the two lanes. The driver braked suddenly and took the bus around the obstacle by going onto the shoulder of the highway.

     "There's nobody inside," said Charles.

     "Oh, you'll probably find the Indian asleep in the brush," said the driver. That's what they do when they've had a few too many, just park on the highway."

     "It seems pretty dangerous."

     "Sure, mainly for people new to the state who don't expect it. It's a lot worse at night, though. You're right on top of 'em before you know it. No lights."

     "Why all the drunk drivers?"

     "They don't allow liquor to be sold on the reservation. If it weren't for selling liquor to the Indians, a two-bit town like Gallup would dry up and blow away."

     "Wouldn't it make sense to sell booze on the reservation so the Indians wouldn't have to drive so far?"

     "Not only would you have the saloon keepers on your neck, but you'd have the car dealers screaming for your scalp as well."

     "I guess the car dealers and saloon keepers never drive on these dangerous roads."

     "It only happens to the other guy, right?" The driver down- shifted and tapped the brakes.

     "Hey, what did we get into, a funeral procession?" Tucker looked at the line of cars ahead.

     "Looks like there's been a train wreck over there. People are helping themselves to anything they can grab." The driver pointed beyond the roadside.

     Charles saw a cluster of automobiles, like dung beetles, parked around a smashed refrigerator car.

     "Umm, grapes," said Tucker. "I could do with a box of those."

     "So could I," said the driver, "but the police wouldn't like it. Those grapes gotta be left in the ditch to rot."

     "Here they come," said Charles, seeing a pair of police cars, their red lights flashing. All along the wrecked train, people were running to their cars and driving off in every direction.

     "Look at 'em scatter!" exclaimed Tucker. "Hell, I wish I had a bunch of those grapes right now."

     It was hot the following day when they pulled into the Indio bus station.

     "All right, folks, this is Indio. You'll have a forty-minute lunch stop here. Remember your bus number, thirty-one twenty- three." The intercom made the driver sound as if he had a bad cold.

     "Good. I could do with a stretch. Don't think I'll have any- thing to eat, though." Tucker stifled a belch. "Breakfast nearly did me in."

     They had just left the bus when swarms of little Mexican children besieged them, handing out leaflets concerning an agricultural workers' strike. A picket line of adults, overseen by a priest, barred the way to the bus station restaurant. The pickets waved placards in English and Spanish and chanted, "Viva la huelga!"

     "What are they yammering?" asked Tucker.

     "'Long live the strike,'" said Charles.

     "I hope not. Maybe some of us would like to eat."

     "Señores said a mustachioed Mexican picketer, "you don't intend to eat in the restaurant.":

     "I don't," said Tucker.

     "But I do," said Charles.

     "You should not do it," recited the Mexican. "The owners have bought food harvested by Mexican bracero labor, imported scab labor whom they pay slave wages."

     "I'm sorry," said Charles, "but aren't you a Mexican?"

     "Me, Señor? Oh no. I am a U.S. citizen."

     "So you don't want the farm owners labor any more?"

     "That is right, Señor. All foreigners must be kept out. It is unfair competition."

     "I'm sorry to hear that," said Charles, "but my stomach is complaining and I don't think it will be satisfied with a strike leaflet."

     "Please do not break the picket line, Señor. I have nine children to feed."

     "You look as if you can barely feed yourself. Why did you have so many?"

     "Señor," he said, fingering a heavy gold crucifix, "because I am a man and a good Catholic."

     "We all have our crosses to bear, amigo," said Charles, breaking a path through the picket line.

     They entered the bus station restaurant, its familiar reek of diesel fumes, old cigarette butts and disinfectant assaulting their nostrils, smells which added flavor to the otherwise insipid food substitutes on display. The tawdry rock-and-roll that blared and crackled from the inescapable loudspeakers lent a broken-down carny atmosphere. Seeing the glum, seedy-looking patrons and attendants, Charles thought that there was nothing wrong with the place a good hydrogen bomb couldn't cure.

     "Think I'll have a toasted cheese and coffee," he said.

     "Nothing for me," said Tucker. "You can have one of my stomach mints afterward. I think I'll sneak a look at those girly magazines."

     "Don't ruin your mind."

     Charles took a seat at the counter. Because the place was crowded, he sat next to a border patrol officer, a big man wearing a revolver, Sam Browne belt and campaign hat.

     "'Scuse me, Officer," he said, "but aren't you working a little bit north of the border?"

     "Got to," said the patrolman. "We're trying to catch the ones already in."

     Charles succeeded in attracting the waitress' attention and got his coffee, if that was the word for it, half a cupful of brown liquid, most of which had been slopped into the chipped saucer.

     "Wetbacks?" he said, pouring the spillage into his cup.

     "Yeah, and then some. Not just Mexicans, though, Asiatics."

     "Bad? Hell, it's a flood."

     "Well, I'll be damned. Never heard anything about it." Charles decided whatever the brown liquid was, he didn't like it.

     "Read the papers lately?" The patrolman wasn't drinking his 'coffee' with much enthusiasm, either.

     "No."

     "Haven't you heard anything about the new tong wars in Frisco?"

     "No," he lied, "haven't heard a thing."

     "Well, they're keeping it hushed up. Don't want to scare people, but even so, something has to get out now and then."

     "Guess it does." Charles sniffed his toasted cheese sandwich. It smelled of hot plastic.

     The patrolman finished his coffee with grim determination, since he'd paid for it. "Well, gotta check the next bus."

     "Have fun."

     "Sure try to."

     "Think I will have something after all." Tucker took the patrolman's seat. "Don't know what, though. It's almost time to leave."

     "Try a date milkshake."

     "How come?"

     "You know, Indio, 'The Date Capital of California.'"

     "Good idea."

     The waitress made him a date milkshake, using highly chlorinated water, soya bean 'ice cream' and genuine imitation essence of date extract. Tucker offered debased currency in payment for the debased milkshake, but the waitress told him to pay at the postcard counter instead. Charles wondered if the postcards tasted any better than the 'food' served in the place.

     "What's that?" asked Tucker, interrupting his guzzling to look around.

     Charles wiped his chin with a paper napkin. "The Mexican kids are throwing rocks at the windows."

     As they approached the cash register, trying to stay away from the plate glass, Tucker reached into his pocket.

     "No, it's my treat," said Charles. "Just watch your head. That window may go any time."

     Tucker ducked and moved behind a revolving book stand. "Well, thanks for the milkshake, Bill. I keep forgetting that you're a rich, retired so-and-so."

     "That's right." Charles peeled a twenty-dollar bill from the dead negro's bankroll.

     They sprinted out a side door, and followed the other passengers, keeping their heads low to avoid flying rocks. Charles was nearly run into by a policeman in riot gear who puffed after a Mexican boy. Some of the pickets were using their staves against the policemen's batons.

     When everyone had boarded the bus, the driver slammed the door and hastily backed out of the terminal parking area, narrowly missing collision with an incoming bus. Sirens shrieked from every direction.

     "Did you enjoy your 'milkshake'?" Charles gave Tucker a wry smile.

     "Still waiting for my stomach to deliver the verdict," said Tucker, scratching a bug bite on his arm.

     "Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to real food."

     "Don't know. You think they export it?"

     "Could be. Maybe the Russians are eating it. They pay in real money, gold, you know."

     "Maybe so. Gee, I can remember when I was a boy in Iowa. There was a bakery down the street from us. They made the best bread and pastries. Even made their own candy." Tucker looked wistful as he remembered.

     "You mean you could actually taste something when you bit into a chocolate eclair?" Charles was eager for reassurance.

     "Oh boy, could you! The pastry shells were delicious and buttery by themselves, and when they put in the thick, fresh cream and poured on the real chocolate that would melt when you looked at it, it didn't matter if you were king of Big Rock Candy Mountain. You just couldn't get anything better than that. Hey, you like chocolate eclairs?"

     Charles nodded. "I seem to remember eating some that were very good, but I was just a little kid, then. They don't have any flavor to speak of, these days, so I don't buy 'em. I was beginning to think my tastebuds had got disconnected, or something."

     "There's nothing wrong with you. No, the flavor just isn't there anymore. I don't get it. We pay taxes to support the price of cream and butter, flour, and all the rest 'cause there's a surplus, and all you can find in the stores are things made with chemical substitutes. I just don't get it."

     "Oh, it's easy to figure out what's going on. The farm racketeers twist the government's arm to buy the real stuff, and the chemical food crooks twist the other arm so the government will hang onto the surplus until it spoils or can be dumped secretly in the ocean. I remember the poisoned potatoes outside my town. The government took my parents' tax money to buy the potatoes and poison them to keep them off the market. Meanwhile, my parents were paying outrageous prices to buy worse quality potatoes than the ones being poisoned."

     "It's a racket, all right. Look at that smoke. We must be coming to Los Angeles."

     "Not for awhile," said Charles. "Almost a hundred miles to go. That's L.A. smog, all right. Hope you enjoy it."

     Los Angeles was having a normal day of smog. It hit them as they got off the bus. Soon they were wheezing, coughing and wiping tears from their eyes. Tucker and Charles got back on the bus and closed the door, hoping to keep out the smog as much as possible when they left.

     Charles gazed out the tinted window, idly watching a couple of maimed youths scavenging from garbage cans which stood outside the bus station restaurant. Evidently they were poaching on the preserve of some elderly winos who appeared and protested the youths' presence. One of the young men found half a loaf of stale bread in one of the cans, and the battle was on.

     The winos were old, but they had their limbs, while both the younger men were on crutches, and one was missing an arm. The youths wielded their crutches skillfully, but they were no match for their street-wise elders, and were soon writhing on the filthy pavement after receiving vicious kicks to the groin.

     Inside the closed bus, it was like watching an old silent movie. The old men ran off with the loaf of bread, and laughing negro children ran off with the amputees' crutches. The passengers boarding the bus grimaced, and drew away from the two suffering youths, fearing to catch some contagion from the gaunt figures.

     "Probably Vietnam veterans," said Charles.

     "I'm Korean War, myself," said Tucker. "Feel sorry for those kids. They're having a rough time."

     "Guess you could call it that. I'm glad we're on our way."

     They left the grimy station and turned onto the usual skid row side street where bus stations are unfailingly located. Suddenly the bus came to a halt. A policeman waved them over to the center of the street and they drove along slowly. On either side of them were police cars, vans, armored vehicles and policemen armed with rifles and shotguns. Against the walls, their backs to the street, stood Negroes being searched by policemen with drawn pistols and snarling Alsatians. More blacks were being herded out of the buildings and made to stand, feet spread apart, arms extended against the sooty walls of the tenements.

     "Looks like a dope raid," said Tucker.

     "Could be," said Charles. "Hope we get out of here. We're a sitting duck for a molotov cocktail."

     "Well, I sure hope they find the stuff, whatever they're looking for."

     "If it's heroin, the cops are only helping the Mafia keep the prices up. The get a percentage, of course."

     "The C.I.A.? But that's a government outfit."

     "Sure, but they control the major source of heroin in Southeast Asia, the Golden Triangle of Laos, and besides, they need the money."

     "Bullshit! "

     "It's all documented, if you care to check me out."

     Tucker shook his head. 'But why, man? A U.S. government agency selling heroin. It doesn't make sense."

     "All the sense in the world. You'd admit that the U.S. has a tremendous problem with surplus population, wouldn't you?"

     "Well, yes."

     "You also know that the gangsters have a lot of influence in all levels of government."

     "Yes, after Old Tricky's shenanigans ..."

     "You're also aware that there's been a certain amount of limousine liberalism among the middle class over the years, a la J.F.K."

     "Sure, but what ... ?"

     "Well, say you were a really big gangster, one who wanted to make a lot of money and run the country as well."

     "You mean, impose a dictatorship."

     "You said it, not I."

     "Okay, but I still don't see ... "

     "Don't you see how vital heroin is to the set up?"

     "No. You've lost me."

     "Well, look at the surplus population angle. Heroin depoliticizes a person. Muggers and purse-snatchers aren't collecting for a revolution, just the next fix."

     "Yeah, that's right."

     "And as muggers and purse-snatchers, the superfluous people make themselves visible, hated and feared by people who might otherwise sympathize with them."

     "I see that, all right. A lump on the head doesn't bring out any milk of human kindness, especially at election time."

     "Right. Instead of backing limousine liberal candidates, the voters want 'law and order,' even if it means tossing the Bill of Rights into the trash can, and this is just the way the big crooks can increase their power. Most people prefer order to chaos, even if it takes a dictatorship to maintain order. This is exactly what certain interests are up to, creating chaos in order to grab power as the order-restoring dictators. Heroin addiction is a vital part of this very necessary chaos."

     Tucker slumped in his seat and shook his head wearily. "I don't know any more. I thought I did, a long time ago. Things are changing too fast ... "

     Charles fell sorry for him. Tucker reminded him of his own father who had disappeared years ago in the Rub' al Khali Empty Quarter. At the same time he realized that the incomprehension of Tucker and others like him, whether willing or not, was a major factor in the present unhappy situation. He wanted to grab all the Tuckers by the collar and shake them. "Why didn't you know?" he thought. "It was your duty to find out what was going on, damn it!"

     He looked at Tucker and sighed with resignation. There was no altering the past, nor was there time for pity. He had returned to do what was required of him, without reservation.

     The bus crept along with the traffic jam on the Golden State Freeway, and Charles looked out the window, remembering his first trip to Los Angeles as a child. The Pacific Electric Railway had taken him over the same distance in twenty minutes. Looking at his watch, he discovered that they had been able to go half as far in hair an hour by 'freeway.'

     "At this rate, we'll be celebrating Christmas in Bakersfield."

     "Wish there was a better way of going overland," said Tucker.

     "There was, back in 1910. The old Pacific Electric, the 'big red cars' as we called them, could average seventy-five miles per hour. That's better than we're doing now."

     "You weren't around in 1910, so how do you know?"

     "Well, my senior friend, if you'd pull your eyes away from the boob tube, you'd discover there are things called books."

     "Yeah, well, you can't believe much you read in them."

     "Are you a Christian?"

     "Sure."

     "I suppose you've seen Jesus, then."

     "Well, no."

     Charles smiled. "So in many ways, Mr. Tucker, you're much more 'with it' than I am. You're a member of the 'now' generation. The only distinction is that you can remember more than the median hippy, because you've lived longer."

     "Well, I didn't go to college, if that's what you mean. I don't see that it would help much in my line of work."

     "Maybe not, but I think Santayanna was right when he said that 'those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it.'"

     "You're sure a gloomy Gus. All right, so why aren't we doing seventy-five miles per hour right now, in a big red car?"

     "Because the automobiles got in their way and reduced the speed they were allowed to travel. In 1920 the speed began to drop, until 1950, when the interurbans could only average twenty miles per hour. At that point, they ripped up most of the lines and stopped carrying passengers. Now they want to rebuild some of the system. The money the taxpayer has spent on 'studies' for the reconstruction have already cost more than the original construction costs for the entire system. It might jolt you to know that this freeway and most of the others follows the old interurban right-of-way."

     "Well, why did the idiots take up the system in the first place if they're just going to build it again?"

     "'Idiot' is a very strong word. Let's say everyone was just being human, that is myopic. Some wanted to sell cars and others wanted to buy them. Nobody thought of the consequences, and if they did, they didn't care. It only happens to the other guy, right?"

     "Yeah, but now look at it. We're stuck. Haven't moved an inch the last ten minutes.

     Well, it's all got to do with 'freedom.'

     How's that?"

     "Freedom disappears when it is available to everyone. The automobile, as we are now discovering, was meant for the enjoyment of the few. When it is enjoyed by everyone, it's no longer enjoyment. In fact, it's not even a way of getting from one place to another, as you can see."

     "Do you think we should ban the automobile?"

     "No, not at all. All problems are self-correcting. More roads will be needed to accommodate more cars, and soon, most of the places people used to go will be covered with pavement, so there'll be no reason to go there anymore. Then they'll stay at home and the traffic problem will disappear, except for adolescent joy-riders. The pollution is already killing off motorists, so that's another plus factor."

     "Yeah, but by that time, the United States will look like a concrete jungle under a smoke cloud."

     "Well, at least you'll be able to drive your car as fast as you like."

     "Then there'd be no point to it."

     "No, but any other solution to the automobile problem would mean a general exercise of thoughtfulness, honesty and restraint. Are you some sort of Utopian radical?"

     "Hell, no, but I ... "

     "Are you in the habit of assuming that people usually exercise thoughtfulness, honesty and restraint?"

     "Well, no."

     "Under what sort of conditions would you expect this miraculous change to come about, other than in some radical Utopia?"

     "Well, I see what you mean, but I'm no radical."

     "Good. You were making me nervous there, for a moment.

     Now that you know that I'm not a communist and I know you're not a radical, we should be able to relax the rest of the trip."

     Tucker laughed. "I take it you grew up here, unless you have some sort of far-out interest in this smog-hole."

     "Yeah. See those slum houses over there?"

     "Yeah, there ought to be a law against building crap like that."

     "Well, you probably won't believe it, but all that land used to be orange groves. The air was perfumed, like something out of Arabian Nights."

     "No kidding?"

     The bus pulled into the San Fernando station.

     "Folks," said the driver, "we'll have a fifteen minute rest stop here. Don't go too far."

     "I wouldn't worry about strays," said Tucker. "Nobody in

his right mind would want to tour this dump."

     They got out and strolled around the bus, coughing and sniffing from the smog.

     "It's a dump, all right," said Charles. "I remember when the pepper trees made arches over the streets and you could walk for miles in the shade."

     "You must be imagining things. Pepper trees in this asphalt desert?"

     "It wasn't a desert, then. The trees made it look like an enchanted garden."

     "What happened?" Tucker lit a cigarette and threw the paper match upon the littered pavement.

     "Car owners didn't like the leaves. They stuck to the cars and were hard to clean up, so they had the city rip out the pepper trees."

     "'Arabian Nights,' 'enchanted garden,' huh? It's hard to imagine this dusty dump ever fitting your description. Come on, admit it. You're gilding your childhood a little bit, aren't you?"

     "No. I've seen other places a lot prettier, but it's sad to see this place get so ugly. it took so little to keep it looking good."

     They boarded the bus and once again, Charles looked out the window at the ruined town, a clear case of morbid fascination, he thought. The once-thriving business district had become a row of run-down buildings decorated with old election posters and signs which read 'bargain sale' and 'for rent' in Spanish. The human derelicts staggering along on the sidewalks took no interest in the boarded-up shop windows, nor in the interminable line of traffic that crawled through the town.

     They drove past his high school where he saw sullen young hoodlums lounging on either side of the chain-link fence with its topping of barbed wire. Junked cars, some of them burned-out, lay abandoned along the roadside, and the bus bounced in and out of the potholes in the paving. They passed the old mission and the abandoned orange-sorting shed, its walls red with the slogans of Mexican nationalism. He was relieved when the bus turned onto the freeway and gathered speed. The thrice-daily traffic jam was breaking up.

     It was long after sunset when they stopped in Bakersfield, a town which had lost any claim to individuality in the 1952 earthquake.

     "I can't believe it," said Tucker. "Never thought I was going to make it. How about a drink to celebrate a safe arrival?"

     "No thanks," said Charles. "Must pay my respects to the shrine."

     "Well, I sure can use one after this trip. Last time I ever go by bus."

     "Decided to stick to air travel, huh?"

     "Yeah. At least I won't get into the mess. I can fly over it and pretend it isn't there."

     "Good idea."

     "Well, goodbye, young fellow." Tucker waved.

     "Take it easy." Charles watched him disappear into the murk of the bus station cocktail lounge and made for the sign at the top of the stairs which read 'gentlemen,' 'hombres.' The reek of disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke was very strong in the men's room, making him cough. He washed his hands and face and shaved with a rental electric razor. In lieu of a shower, he dashed some pungent shaving lotion under his arms. "Whew!" he thought. "Just like the proverbial French whore."

     He went over to the battery of urinals which stood in a great open area under the glare of bright fluorescent lights. It was like being on stage. He found himself under the scrutiny of a negro. "If he doesn't stop watching what I'm doing and attend to his business," he thought, "he'll piss on his shoes." Charles zipped up and strode out, welcoming the diesel fumes of the waiting room.

     "Passengers bound for Fresno, Oakland ..." said the saccharine voice over the public address system.

     Charles found his seat on the bus and idly studied the faces of the passengers getting on. He recognized the negro from the men's room.

     "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" he asked.

     "No," said Charles. "It's all yours."

     "A little chilly this evening." The negro spoke with an eastern accent and was tastefully dressed in a business suit. A cravat provided a touch of comfortable elegance. Charles looked down at his own graying shirt and rumpled suit, feeling thoroughly unkempt by comparison.

     "Yes, it is chilly, but Bakersfield's a funny place," said Charles, "it can blaze and freeze in the same day."

     "Is that right?" The negro stared at him. "Do you mind my asking you something?"

     "No, not at all."

     The bus rocked from side to side as it came off the driveway apron and turned into the nearest traffic jam.

     "You're a foreigner, aren't you?" said the negro.

     "What makes you say that?" Charles gave him a quizzical look.

     "Well, your diction and accent, they're so precise and so modulated ..."

     "Thanks, but what if I told you I was from California?"

     "I wouldn't believe you."

     "You're having me on."

     "No. Oh no. Now I've caught you. You said, 'having me on' instead of 'putting me on'!"

     "Oh, my gosh!" Charles shook his head. "Well, where do you think I'm from?"

     "Europe. One of the Nordic countries."

     "I deny it. What's more, I'll take the Fifth Amendment."

     "All right, if you want people to think you're an American that's your business, but I'd brush up on my accent and vocabulary if I were you."

     "Are you a linguist, by any chance?"

     "No, but I always play a little detective game with myself when I get on a bus, and try to guess where people are from and what business they're in. The cut of your suit was one indication, definitely European style. I might even say Eastern European, if that's no offense to you. You're accent was the clincher." It was evident that he had made up his mind about Charles.

     "Sherlock Holmes seems to be very popular these days."

     "Ah yes," said the negro, brightening. "Are you a fan of his?"

     "I certainly was. Holmes was one of my childhood heroes. I tried to read all of his adventures."

     "'Quick, Watson, the game's afoot!'"

     "... The swirling fog, a Hansom cab; footsteps on the stair. 'Ah, yes, a young man of high station, a foreign prince of Bohemian ancestry ...' 'Preposterous, Holmes!' 'Elementary my dear ...'"

     They laughed.

     "You like music, I'll bet," said the negro.

     "Mostly classical."

     "My favorite classical composer is Bach, but I also like modern jazz. I find certain similarities. Cigarette?"

     "No thanks."

     "Mind if I smoke?"

     "No, go right ahead."

     The negro lit a cigarette of an expensive brand, using a gold butane lighter. "I'm quite a record collector," he said, exhaling the smoke with calm assurance. "My apartment is simply bulging with them. I also have a good stereo-tape collection."

     "That makes you quite a patron of music."

     "I do painting as well."

     "Abstract?"

     "Yes! How did you guess?"

     "Well, I play this little detective game with myself and ..."

     "Not you, too!"

     "It must be catching."

     "Well, I'd surmise that Beethoven is one of your favorites, or Mahler. Am I right?"

     "Sorry, I prefer the modern Russians," said Charles.

     "Barbaric, man, simply barbaric!"

     "Yes, I enjoy their expressions of power and sensuality."

     "You do?"

     "I must admit to certain barbaric tendencies," Charles smiled.

     "I'd have taken you for a Brubeck man, even, but Russians!"

     "Doesn't the image of Tartar cavalry sweeping across the steppes do something for you?"

     "No, man," the negro suppressed a shudder. "It really turns me off."

     Charles enjoyed the conversation and hardly noticed the passage of time. It was late in the morning when the bus crawled into the outskirts of Oakland. He noticed that the smoke pall was unusually heavy over the city and was confused by the unfamiliar route they were forced to take, as most of the streets were blocked by police barricades and motorcycle patrolmen. Fire engines came down the street, and the bus pulled toward the curb and stopped.

     "Just look at that!" The negro pointed to a great column of smoke.

     "There seem to be fires all around. Has there been an air raid, or something?" Charles pretended ignorance.

     "You must be a foreigner. Man, those are riots. Got to have 'em whenever it's warm enough."

     "Well, I've got to see my customers here. I hope some of them are still in business."

     "What sort of business are you in?" "Ladies' lingerie."

     "No!"

     "Yes. I've got a new line from Paris. I think it'll sell."

     "New, you don't want to go around this place just now. Come over to my apartment. We can listen to records and ..." He put his hand on Charles' knee.

     "No, you've got me all wrong, man." Charles laughed.

     "Oh, sorry." The negro took his hand away.

     The bus arrived at the terminal and hissed to a stop in the loading bay. Charles made his way across the crowded waiting room, hoping that he passed inspection from the closed-circuit television cameras that scrutinized all arriving passengers.

     He entered a coin-operated photo booth, where he unpacked his suitcase. Quickly removing his tie and coat, he changed into his drab nylon jacket and battered straw hat. After studying himself in the mirror, he took off the hat and placed it under his coat, along with the knapsack. By slinging one pack strap over his shoulder and holding the hat and coat in place with one hand, he availed himself of a choice of disguises. The hat and knapsack meant 'hippy' to the police, and the nylon jacket and slacks meant 'worker' to the hippies and radicals. He saluted himself in the mirror, thinking that his was the strangest invasion in U.S. history.

     Leaving his empty suitcase in the booth, he hurried around the queues at the ticket windows and found the street exit. Outside the bus station, he followed the discarded newspapers blowing down the boulevard and turned onto Telegraph Avenue, dodging the police cars and ambulances coming into Oakland.

     The sidewalks teemed with forlorn remnants of a crumbling empire, young war veterans minus limbs from a war no one wanted to know about. They lay in the alleys in stupors from drugs, wine or starvation. Some rummaged in garbage cans for food. Charles frowned as he walked around a cadaverous young man who had collapsed into a pool of his own excrement. Swarms of old looking youngsters besieged him for handouts, filthy, claw-like fingers protruding from the sleeves of ragged field jackets.

     Seeing his jacket and slacks, a white girl in the company of a bearded negro fixed him with a glare of pure hatred. "Go to hell you devil!" she shouted as he passed.

     A police patrol van cruised slowly along the curb, its occupants displaying grim looks behind their protruding shotgun barrels. He felt trapped in between, a target of hatred for the police and the rabble. Hostile gazes followed him down the street, and he forced himself not to break into a run.

     Approaching the university, he began to recognize some of the landmarks, or what remained of them, of the Berkeley he had known as a student. All the store fronts were boarded with plywood, most showing signs of recent fire damage. Water still trickled out of the entrances, and the sidewalks were littered with rocks, bricks and broken glass. He kicked an empty tear gas canister out of his way, and it clinked into the rubble-clogged gutter.

     Firebombs had burned out the coffee house where he had celebrated logical positivism, and made often frustrated attempts to entice some of the marriage-hungry coeds into bed, a major operation in pre-pill America. A musty smell of burned wood and damp cloth pervaded the street, deserted except for the occasional police car or National Guard vehicle that passed, crunching over the broken glass with apparent impunity. The authorities hardly glanced his way. What could be looted from the shops had already gone and what was left had been burned.

     At first he thought the smoke was getting thicker, but realized the sun was beginning to set. Through the haze he could make out a glowing orb beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. The city was dying, and it looked as if the sun were dying, too. He quickened his pace, knowing there would be a curfew.

     The winding roads of the Berkeley hills took him above the squalor of the city and into stands of pines that whispered soothingly in the moist sea wind. The rustic houses of the privileged flanked him on either side of the road, and he wondered what the occupants were thinking as they looked out over the ruins.

     Soon he came to a split level house, just off the ridge road. His feet crunched on the gravel path which led up to the solid looking front door with its massive brass knocker. From the living room came the sound of a hi-fi playing classical music. He raised the heavy knocker and let it resound upon its polished metal plate. The door sprang open instantly, and he recognized the swarthy features of his colleague, Jesus.

     "Hijo de puta! How happy I am to see you, Carlitos. Come

in, come in. You are early." Jesus pulled him in and took his knapsack which he put beside the umbrella stand. "I trust you had an uneventful trip."

     "Fortunately." Charles smiled weakly.

     "You look exhausted. Coffee?"

     "Yes, thanks."

     Shutting the door, Jesus followed him into the living room redolent with oil paints from an unfinished seascape that stood on its easel in a corner by the fireplace.

     "Hell, this is a fancy layout!" Charles marvelled at his feet sinking into the carpet.

     "You like it, huh? With the rent I pay, it should look good."

     "I see you've broken away from abstract expressionism. I like it."

     "I'm not quite satisfied. I fail to capture the full effect of sunlight upon the waves."

     "Ah, but that breaker captures the full effect of the light shining through the wave. I can almost feel the spray."

     "Such flattery!" Jesus looked pleased, nevertheless.

     Heavy footsteps came up the stairs from the basement, and Charles turned to see the stocky, perspiring form of a balding man whose face bore smudges of dirt. The man stood for a moment, looking at him, his gaze that of a bird of prey. Then he strode forward and grabbed Charles by the arm.

     "Charles!" The man's grimy hand felt like a vise.

     "Hans, old man! Good to see you. Glad to see you're keeping fit as ever." Charles winced from the pressure.

     "You are early. We were expecting you next week," said Hans, brushing at the dirt smudge he'd left on Charles' sleeve.

     "All the better to be ahead of schedule. You need some help, I understand." Charles slumped gratefully upon the couch.

     "We certainly do. You are a welcome addition to our little coffee club. Well, how does it feel to be back among your fellow Americans, Charles?" Hans chuckled.

     "Nervous. You two seem to be thriving, though."

     "I think we are all a little nervous, with anticipation," said Jesus. "Come along. We'll have some sandwiches and coffee on the roof."

     They relaxed on lawn chairs and sipped Jesus' excellent coffee, while looking down upon the profusion of bright pearls that were the lights of the city. Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor accompanied their unspoken thoughts, and Charles felt a twinge of sadness, drawn out by the music and the panorama of the city that was going through its last agonies, a city he had known, grown fond of, and now must turn away from, not wishing to see its squalid death. From their hillside vantage-point they could see the fires glowing in the distance and hear the incessant wailing of sirens.

     "So it's come to this," said Charles. "Never in my communist youth could I have imagined such a situation, here in my own country."

     "Yes, it does seem incredible," said Hans, "even to me, to see Hitler's prophecy fulfilled - the inevitable collapse of a mongrelized culture." He poured himself a sherry from the bottle on the trolley. "Now, only dictatorship can save what is left of this country, but I fear that it will be a mean little dictatorship; no ideals or grandeur at all, just a petit bourgeois effort to keep the masses at each other's throats and off the backs of the rich gangsters. It is the Götterdämmerung, the death of the gods the Americans worshiped. The United States will be dangerous for many years, but its time of greatness has passed. Sherry, everyone?"

     "Finish it up, muchachos. It will only go to waste, otherwise." Jesus held out his glass so Hans could fill it.

     "'Jerez.' From Spain, isn't it?" asked Charles.

     "Yes, the best."

     Charles looked at the ruby liquid in his glass and held it up so that it glowed with the light from the street lamps and conflagrations in the city below.

     "We'd better move fast," said Jesus. "My contacts at the university have informed me something very big is brewing."

     "You mean more bombing and disorders sponsored by the government?" Charles raised his eyebrows.

     "Yes, and then some." Jesus took a sip of sherry and rolled it over his tongue. "But the bombings of the government have been purposely amateurish and not aimed at valuable property or the means of production. The intention is merely to spread the fear of terrorism of the left."

     "And the bombings of the left?"

     "More enterprising, but sporadic and equally amateurish. They still think the workers are on their side, whether the workers know it or not, so they only bomb 'symbolic targets,' nothing that would bring the economy to a halt."

     "Ah, yes," said Hans, rubbing his calloused hands together, "but there is another variable which makes haste imperative."

     "And that is?" said Charles.

     "The sheer volume of it. Everyone is joining in. Hired provocateurs, romantics, dissident groups, foreign agents are hurling bombs like confetti. Over four thousand bombings have been reported this year, some of which did lots of damage. It is becoming the new national sport. If we don't act quickly, we may be lost in the shuffle."

     "Well, here's to the bombing of the middle, then. May it be more profitable." Charles raised his glass and drained the last of the sherry.

     "And to an early night's sleep, courtesy of the National Guard's curfew," said Hans, rising from his chair.

     "A warm welcome to your old country, Carlitos."

     "Not too warm, I hope."

     Morning came with the chirping of sparrows and the pungency of the smog which was already rising to the foothills. Charles and Hans followed Jesus down the spiral stairway which led to the basement.

     "As you see, it is not a real basement, since it is carved into the hillside and gives a perfect view of the slope." Jesus pointed to a loophole in the basement wall overlooking the bay.

     "We have already begun the tunnel," said Hans, directing his flashlight beam into a horizontal cavity in the hillside. "By our calculations we should be running into the drainage tunnel in a week or so, maybe less, since you are with us and we have Jesus' cafe con leche to fortify us."

     "You flatter my poor efforts. Observe between the two trees."

     Charles peered through the loophole. "Yes, I see it."

     "There is only one other outlet for that drainage tunnel, as we have determined, and that empties down the opposite slope. They are to place the boxes just inside the entrance, which you can see is only a short distance below the roadway, so they are likely to think the pickup will be made from a car, however, we will be entirely underground during that part of the operation. The other outlet will serve as our exit. It drains into a pretty little canyon, with a well-shaded dirt road."

     "Sounds like a vacationer's paradise. You ought to go into the tourist business, Jesus." Charles scanned the slope. "This house has the only view of the tunnel entrance. You realize ..."

     "Of course. We've prepared a warm welcome for them." Jesus smiled.

     "Good. Very good." Charles nodded appreciatively.

     "But you have not seen everything." Hans led them back upstairs.

     Outside the house they slipped and scrambled up a talus slope, clinging to clumps of sagebrush to steady themselves. At last they came upon a rock-strewn section of abandoned road.

     Jesus kept lookout while Hans moved a piece of sagebrush, uncovering a rusty manhole cover. Taking a socket wrench from his coat pocket, he unbolted the cover and lifted it so that Charles could look in. The morning sun illuminated everything in the little room below. He saw tools, bombs, submachine guns, rocket launchers, and in the center of the display, a large steel tube that yawned up at them.

     "What's that?"

     "Kleine Bertha," said Hans, "a 120 millimeter mortar."

     "Compliments of the Minutemen?"

     "Yes, and not the only bon voyage present they so kindly gave us, as you shall see."

     "Hurry up, you two," said Jesus. "It is past our breakfast time."

-------------------------

     Charles discovered breakfast at Jesus' was a round-the-clock affair, the only stopping point in a brisk schedule of digging, shoring, dirt-hauling and brief catnaps. It was an active week.

     "Breakfast time," said Hans. "You go up and get started. I want to check the shoring at the end of the tunnel."

     "Don't be too long, or I'll have everything eaten." Charles kicked off his boots at the foot of the stairs, hung his miner's hardhat on a peg, stripped off his overalls and tucked his T-shirt into his bluejeans. Jesus was a stickler for formality.

     "'You load sixteen tons ...'" he hummed as he padded up the steps in his socks. The smell of bacon gave him a jolt of energy which propelled him up the last steps and into the kitchen. He swooped down upon the heaping plate of bacon, eggs and pancakes, devouring them with only slight pauses for breaths of air and gulps of coffee.

     "... The rioters have begun to move into the suburbs of Boston. State police report incidents of sniping on principal freeways. The Governor of Massachusetts has declared a state of emergency.

     And now for the latest sports summary ..."

     "Flush that shithead and pass me some more scrambled eggs."

     Jesus switched off the radio and returned from the stove with another frying pan of bacon and eggs. Seeing Charles stoking up with food, he smiled. "Now you know how we have developed such hearty appetites, Carlitos. Where is Hans? His fuel bunkers must be very low."

     Hans burst into the kitchen, wringing wet with perspiration and covered with dirt. "We have broken through. Give me coffee and lots of sugar."

     "Congratulations!" Jesus handed him a cup of coffee and a broom. "You can celebrate by sweeping up the dirt you've tracked into the kitchen and by vacuuming the living room rug."

     Hans looked down at his feet in embarrassment, and they began to laugh. Jesus took the broom away and motioned him to sit down.

     "Does our letter to the Governor meet with your approval?" asked Jesus, setting a platter of food before the grimy Hans.

     Charles paused with his fork in mid-air and swallowed. "Yes but I would have preferred that it were signed 'Francis Drake' instead of 'Internal Revenue Association.' We are holding the state for ransom after all."

     "I sympathize, but the initials were too good to pass up. We'll have the F.B.I. chasing Irish-Americans, while the C.I.A. scratch their heads wondering if some of their pendejos haven't got out of hand."

     "To the jolly roger!" Hans raised his cup.

-------------------------

     The sun would soon be up, thought Jesus, as he sniffed the morning air which carried a mixed aroma of sea, sage and crude oil from the refinery. He fingered the safety catch of the Sterling while squinting into the rolling mist which obscured the dirt road and blanketed the hills with a damp silence. Somewhere, he heard the occasional clink of tools, and knew that Charles and Hans were busy.

     "I've never seen any like these," said Charles, as he lowered the nose of the rocket upon its simple launching trough.

     "Homemade," grunted Hans, screwing in the detonator. "I thought we might use them up, as they may not be reliable. The principle is quite simple, you see: Black powder propellant, impact detonator, shaped plastique bursting charge. The 'guidance system' is not overly accurate at long range. A child's toy, really."

     "Yes, buy a set now, and be the first child on your block to rule the world."

     "And you would probably deserve it, too."

     "The last one. You can cut the fuse short."

     "I won't cut it too short, though. We need fifteen minutes."

     "How did the truck carry all this?" Charles wiped the perspiration off his forehead with a sleeve of his coveralls.

     "I made a few modifications."

     "Oh?"

     "Heavy-duty shock absorbers, overload springs, special axles, extra-strong tires and rims." Hans lit the last fuse.

     "In other words, you manufactured your own truck."

     "I have discovered that people who buy pickup trucks really believe they can carry things in them. Ha, ha! Little do they know."

     "Jesus must be freezing."

     "He's not the only one. Coffee is in the truck. Let's go."

     They made their way down through the damp sagebrush and onto the road, where they found Jesus with the truck.

     "What took you so long? I've been standing here freezing, trying to see through this damned mist so long I'm beginning to see things that aren't there."

     "See, Hans. What did I tell you?"

     "I apologize for the fact that some of the detonator threads were rusty and delayed us, but the waiting is over. Get in. Did you leave the I.R.A. leaflets?"

     "All along the road."

     Hans let off the brake and they began to coast down the road which skirted the refinery.

     "It's a city, not a refinery, and not a worker in sight." Jesus looked out over the well-lit panorama below them.

     Charles surveyed the metropolis of boilers, separators, cracking towers and cooling columns as he wiped his greasy hands on his overalls. "What you see there produces nearly fifty per cent of the refined petroleum on the west coast. I should say, produced nearly fifty per cent after this morning's work."

     "The Governor is not going to like it. He will have much explaining to do, and the oil companies will be very angry with him." Jesus smiled.

     "Just his fault for being a skeptic and a verdammter tightwad," said Hans.

     "Poor Governor." Jesus assumed an expression worthy of a hired mourner.

     "Yes, poor Governor. How about some more coffee?" Charles passed him the steaming thermos flask.

     "Might as well drive with lights, otherwise we'll never see our way through this mist." Hans shifted into second gear and engaged the clutch. As the engine roared into life he switched on the lights and clicked the dimmer switch to low beam.

     Charles glanced behind them. "How long before ..."

     "We have seven minutes." Hans looked at the racing second hand of his watch. "Six and one half. No one can interfere with the process now, not even if he knew exactly what was about to happen."

     They were nearing the road which led to the freeway, when Jesus hit Charles on the arm. "Look, lights on the ridge!"

     "There they go! Perfect timing, Hans."

     "Ach, I didn't think ..."

     "Look at that!"

     "Hijole!"

     Hans stopped the truck and they looked back in fascination as a catalytic cracking tower received a direct hit and burst into a gigantic pillar of flame. A huge tank of gasoline opened like the petals of an infernal blossom and hurled forth a demonic ball of fire. The tank farm floated and danced in a lake of fire, the air shuddering with the reverberation of explosions. The waning night became day as the refinery became a sea of flame, and the waxing day became night as dense black smoke poured up from the inferno in stygian clouds, blotting out the sunrise. Streams of burning petroleum were lapping over the retaining walls and pouring through breaches made by the rocket barrage.

     "Scheisse! This place will be cordoned off in no time." Hans trod upon the accelerator and raced over the last quarter mile to the freeway.

     Charles pointed. "Look, it's crossing the freeway."

     The gasoline and fuel oil had rushed down the slope and on to the roadway, and cars in the constant stream of traffic were catching fire. Their fuel tanks exploded, adding to the inferno. Frenzied drivers accelerated, only to crash into others who had not seen the need for hurry. On the other side of the river of fire, more collisions occurred as impatient commuters crashed into their panic-stricken fellows who had braked to avoid the fire storm ahead.

     One driver left the road and drove madly along the shoulder, but the flames had already reached his car, which soon lurched to a halt, enveloped in burning gasoline from its exploded fuel tank. A flaming figure ran from the car, waving its arms about until it was overcome. It sprawled, still burning, upon the pavement.

     Hundreds of figures were propelled from their cars by the intense heat. They too were aflame, and they leaped and pirouetted in a fiery ballet until they were engulfed by the flood of burning oil that spread over the freeway.

     Hans stamped on the brake peddle. "We must go north, but how are we to cross the freeway? The southbound lanes are already blocked."

     Cars choked the three lanes they had to cross. In the northbound lanes there was not a car to be seen.

     Hans rolled down the window. "Emergency crew, please give way!"

     Several drivers complied. Now they were one lane away from their objective. One car stood between them and escape. White teeth gleamed in its driver's baboon-like countenance. "Go to hell, you muthas! White devils suck!"

     "Jesus, the Sterlings. Hans, crash the fence when we get the car out of the way."

     "Jawohl!"

     Charles and Jesus jumped out onto the pavement, firing bursts which shattered the windows of the car. Jesus covered while Charles opened the door. Out sprawled the blood-spattered body of a Black Panther, his pistol clattering on the asphalt. Charles pulled the driver's body out of the car and swung into the gory seat. He had no trouble starting the engine which was still warm. Engaging the clutch, he rammed the car in front, reversed and rammed the car behind, making enough space to maneuver. The stunned occupants of the cars looked at him, mouths agape. He revved the motor and crashed through the divider fence, bending the frail steel posts like spaghetti. Then he parked the car out of the way, wondering how the owner would claim on his insurance, and signaled Jesus to jump into the truck. As Hans drove by, Charles leaped into the rear. He looked back as the refinery rocked with more explosions and slipped a fresh magazine into his Sterling, reflecting that Black Panthers were exempt from taking out insurance.

     They left the truck in its hiding place and returned to the house in Jesus' Volkswagen camper. It was noon when they turned into the driveway and backed into the vine-covered carport.

     Jesus shook his head, seeing the two inert forms in the back of the camper. "Hey, you two, we're home!"

     "Go to hell." Charles spoke in his sleep.

     "Well, it's okay by me if you want to sleep in the car. It's just that there's cold beer on the roof."

     Hans stirred and rubbed his eyes. "Beer, did someone say beer?"

     "That's what I said."

     "Donnerwetter! Now that's what I call a dilemma. Ach, the beer wins. But then I sleep all day. No interruptions."

     Charles groaned. "That means I have to get out so you can get out. Never trust Hans when there's beer around. Hmm, it does sound good, though."

     Laughing, Jesus pulled open the double doors of the camper. The two tumbled out and staggered bleary-eyed into the kitchen.

     "I told you that you shouldn't sleep during the day. It puts you out of sorts."

     "Listen to our Spanish professor. Now he wants to abolish the siesta!"

     "A crypto-calvinist," said Charles, splashing water on his face from the kitchen tap. As he dried himself on the dish towel, he happened to glance out the window. "What time is it?"

     Jesus looked at his watch. "Just after twelve."

     "Would you look at that!"

     "Yes, I saw it as I drove from the place where we left the truck. It is an early dusk."

     "That sets the smog program back ten years, I'd say. Look over there. It looks like India ink pouring into the sky."

     "It reminds me of Ploesti, after the Allies paid their visit. I tell you we shot down hundreds of the bastards, but, as you say, 'India ink in the sky.' Such a beautiful refinery. I think it will burn for days." Hans nodded in confirmation.

     "What about the beer, Jesus? I thought you said on the roof."

     "It will be if you bring it up with you."

     "Very funny."

     "Well, how do you expect me to carry the beer and the lobster mayonnaise?"

     "The what?" Charles opened the refrigerator. "Hans, look at this."

     "A verdammtes feast!"

     "I apologize, Jesus. If you'd like us to carry the beer, the lobster and yourself up to the roof, just say so."

     "No, just bring the radio."

     "... The toll of deaths has still to be concluded following the refinery holocaust which blocked the coast highway for five hours this morning. Fire department officials are still uncertain as to the cause of this disaster. At this moment, firemen are battling the flames raging through tinder-dry brush toward luxurious canyon residential areas. Traffic has been slowed in the Bay Area due to the smoky pall, and driving with headlights is requested.

     Earlier today, three Black Panthers were killed and one seriously injured when two unidentified caucasians shot them in a gun battle which flared about five miles from the scene of today's refinery disaster. The two men ran amok with others when the refinery exploded. There was no apparent motive for the killings as police have yet determined. The search for these men is being continued.

     National Guard units have isolated southwestern sections of Oakland after an outbreak of arson and looting last night which burned down most of the businesses in that area. Negro leaders are calling for black youths to obey the Governor's curfew order. Sniper fire has been reported, however, and persons are advised to remain clear of these areas until order has been restored.

     Snipers today halted noon rush-hour traffic on the Nimitz Freeway. No fatalities were reported, but traffic is snarled and motorists are requested to use alternate routes.

     And now, a word from our sponsor ..."

     Jesus leaned forward and switched off the radio. "Nothing at all. Maybe the Governor thinks the refinery was some kind of prank, or a coincidence."

     "You left the leaflets," said Charles, "so he should have enough to go on, and when the wreckage cools off, they'll be able to find the rocket fragments and deduce that the I.R.A. isn't just a one-shot outfit."

     "You think they are already working on it?"

     "You can bet your life they are. They've already sifted through their government provocateur organizations, like the Black Panthers, checked out the dossiers on the others, made discreet enquiries about foreign agencies, and now they're probably filtering questions up through the C.I.A. echelons to find out if those boys are working a caper. Then, of course, there are the D.I.A., the N.S.A., the F.B.I. and who knows what else."

     "Diablos!"

     "You shouldn't smoke so much," Charles admonished.

     "One of the few vices permitted a priest."

     "Yes, but now that you're not a priest, I suggest a few other vices may be in order so you can keep your health. Moderation in all things."

     "Ach, what time is it?" Hans sat up in his chair and stretched.

     "Nearly three o'clock," said Charles.

     "But it's almost dark."

     "Thanks to us."

     "Did the Governor say anything on the radio?" "For a politician, he's been very quiet."

     "He has ignored our request, then."

     "That's what it looks like."

     "So, we must continue with our bill of entertainment."

     "Right." Charles finished his beer and stood up. "Well, I'm off to Los Angeles."

     "See you tomorrow, Carlitos. Don't forget the keys to the Volkswagen."

-------------------------

     Charles parked the camper on a side street near the International Airport, and quickly got out to strip the masking tape off the door panels. The name concealed by the tape was the same as the one on his white overalls, that of the airport's sanitary firm.

     He drove into the immense parking lot, skirting the mass of cars simmering in the heat of a smoggy afternoon, bypassing the fantastic array of airlines, each competing, each losing money, each subsidized heavily by the taxpayer, each pumping tons of pollution into the atmosphere. In the center of this gigantic con game he saw the airport restaurant, a phoney space age artifact which could only have been stolen from an early Flash Gordon production, a glaring tribute to fashion rather than function. Still, he thought, it was fitting. The food they served was also fake.

     The guard waved him through the gate and he drove in, backed up to the control tower building's service entrance and began to unload the shiny new waste receptacles, just like the ones in all the air terminal buildings. The guard, a negro, seemed to have time on his hands. He sauntered over to Charles who was busy setting the time fuses.

     "Hi ya." He chewed his gum noisily.

     "Hi. Pretty warm, huh?" Charles pushed the swinging cover, arming the last charge.

     "Sure is. You new on the job, ain't cha?"

     "Yeah. I'm really not supposed to be out here. Union rules ya know, but somebody's got to deliver these or the night crew'll blow their stacks."

     "More trash cans, huh?"

     A jet roared overhead, drowning out any conversation. Charles had the six trash receptacles lined up in a neat row, like soldiers ready for inspection. He hoped they were going to pass inspection, for at least two hours. He tilted one and rolled his warehouse man's dolly under it, trying not to show how heavy it was.

     "Yeah, night shift say they have to sweep up. Papers on the floor, you know. They say the other ones are getting filled up too fast. Need some more. Would you mind holding the door?"

     "New, come right ahead." Good naturedly, the guard opened the double doors and put down the stops.

     A horn sounded at the gate.

     "Jest shut 'em when you leave," said the guard, going back to his post.

     "Thanks."

     Working rapidly, he deployed the trash cans into their designated positions, checked them against the diagram which Hans had given him, and looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes to catch his plane.

     He dashed out of the building, kicked up the door stops at the entrance, slammed the doors on the camper and started the engine. "Take it easy, man." He waved to the guard at the gate.

     "Yeah, take care. Like don't drink the water and don't breathe the air." The guard waved back at him.

     Charles laughed, wondering where the guard had heard that. He parked the Volkswagen in a loading zone, peeled off the coveralls, shook the wrinkles out of his suit, and grabbed his empty briefcase off the seat. After making a final check that there was nothing left behind to indicate the course of the next few hours, he sprinted off to the air terminal, a businessman in a hurry.

     He confirmed his reservation for Oakland and submitted to the scrutiny of a metal detector before boarding the plane. In case of capture, his only friend was a cyanide capsule.

     The 'fasten seat belt - no smoking' sign lit up and he relaxed.

     The Volkswagen was a masterpiece, he thought; fake license plates, parts scavenged from wrecking yards. Hans did good work, all right. An hour to go.

     "Like a sweet, Sir?" The stewardess smiled, offering him a tray of cellophane-wrapped hard candies.

     "Yes, thanks. What flavor do you recommend?"

-------------------------

     Hans parked the pickup truck in the vast parking lot, just in sight of the control tower. He looked at his watch and was satisfied. A car drove up beside him, Jesus in his old Ford. He double-parked, leaving his engine running, got out and came over to Hans.

     "No sign of Charles?" Jesus' eyes were watering from the smog. "I hope he has not had any difficulties."

     "Nor do I. He is essential. We have over half an hour. Cigarette?" Hans shook two from his pack.

     "Thanks."

     A big jet broke the sound barrier above them.

     Hans lit Jesus' cigarette. "The bastards are guarding the planes, but they forgot about the airports."

     "I hope we used enough explosive."

     "All we had, but it should be enough to knock out the control towers in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Too bad we didn't have more."

     "But shouldn't two towers be enough?"

     "No. I have calculated that we must knock out at least three to make sure the system breaks down. You see, each airport has a 'stack' of planes circling overhead, sometimes more than twenty at once."

     "Like vultures circling over a dying animal." Jesus chuckled.

     "Very poetic, but listen, when the tower goes, the planes will not be able to land, especially at this time of year, when there is ground fog. In another hour it will be dark. With luck, the mist should thicken."

     Jesus surveyed the sea of cars in the parking lot. "I hope I don't forget how to get out of here."

     "You won't. Besides, you don't have Kleine Bertha in your car."

     "Someone is coming."

     "It's Charles. Perfect timing!"

     He came running up to them, the very picture of the harried young executive. "Sorry I took so long."

     "Not at all. You are just in time for the party." Hans started the truck, set the hand brake and left the engine idling.

     Jesus kept watch while they pulled back a tarpaulin covering what looked like a section of gas main.

     "No, move the baseplate a little more. So, ganz gut."

     "A beautiful sunset," said Charles. "Mine should have gone off by now."

     "Then we can begin as soon as we have set up."

     They raised the heavy tube into place and locked it into the swivel on the baseplate. Charles watched the tube move slightly as Hans turned the traversing screw.

     "That should be on target."

     "If you say so."

     "Well, a little more deflection, then. Those parking area lights and the mist are not ideal for range-finding."

     Charles cradled a round for firing.

     "Observer!" shouted Hans, as he sighted across the muzzle.

     "Sí Señor. I am observing."

     "Tell me where it goes. Charles, are the bombs ready?"

     "Fuses all set. Ready whenever you say."

     "Fire!"

     The tube belched yellow flame and there was a tearing sound in the air. Charles and Hans peered in the direction of the control tower. Suddenly there was a great flash and a puff of smoke. The explosion resounded in the blowing mist.

     Jesus came running from his observation post atop a nearby car. "Short! One mil depression." He ran back to the car.

     Hans turned the elevation screw. "One mil depression. Fire!"

     The tower was burning. Large chunks of material fell from the structure. The second shell caused the great radar mast to lean over and the third caused it to topple. High voltage electrical apparatus exploded with blue and green flashes and showers of yellow sparks, turning the misty evening into a weird technicolor day. The air smelled of cordite and hot oil from the mortar.

     Quickly, Charles and Hans lowered the tube onto the truck bed, jumped out and assisted Jesus in tying down the tarp.

     "Let Hans lead the way, Jesus. I'll go in your car."

     Slowly, with lights on low beam, they drove out of the parking lot, the air shrill with sirens. When they had gained the freeway, they came abreast and held a steady speed so that they occupied two of the four northbound lanes.

     "Ouch! These tetrahedrons are sharp." Charles sucked his bleeding finger.

     "I'm glad you have made sure," said Jesus, his eyes on the road ahead.

     "These are vicious. No matter how they land, there's one hollow spike standing up. Okay, let Hans know we're ready."

     As soon as there was a clear space in front of them, Jesus waved to Hans who sped on ahead. "I'm ready to begin the run."

     "Okay, now!"

     Jesus turned diagonally, crossing all four lanes while Charles scattered the tetrahedrons from the window, taking care that they fell clear of the car. They returned to the first lane and made the run again.

     "That's it. All gone. Don't look, but a semi-trailer rig has just hit one. Oh, oh. There he goes. He's turned over."

     Jesus glanced in the rear view mirror. "Yes, a big one. Nothing behind us now. Just a lot of headlights taking off in all directions. I don't think anyone will be following us, but I'll take the usual evasive action."

     Charles stuck his head out the window and looked for signs of traffic control aircraft. "Nothing." He checked the magazine of his Sterling.

     After many twists and turns, they came to a hitchhiker beside the road, and stopped.

     "We're not allowed to take riders. This is a company car," said Jesus.

     "Good evening, Hans. Shall we park here?"

     "Yes, quickly. Both of you into the truck. We are late."

     Hans wasted no time in rounding the curves of the narrow, winding road, turning off at the preselected site and stopping abruptly. "I don't think the truck will be seen from the road."

     Charles looked out at the darkened shrubbery, listening to the crickets. "I hope the local teenagers don't decide to have their evening orgy down here."

     "They shouldn't. It's a week night," said Jesus.

     "You learn American customs very quickly."

     "Jesus, help me with the tools. Charles, bring the frog. Orgies must wait."

     "On my honor, I've never tried it in a car."

     "Amazing! You must be the most unusual American in the country."

     "Why do you think campers have become so popular? Oops!" Charles lost his footing, grabbed for a nearby eucalyptus branch, missed, and slid down the dusty incline in a seated position, holding the cast steel frog in his lap. He came to rest on the sandy bottom of the arroyo.

     "You okay?" asked Jesus.

     "Yes, damn it! There goes another expensive suit. Ouch!"

     "What's the matter?"

     "Rocks in my shoes." Charles dusted himself off.

     "Why didn't you drop the frog? Did you think it would break?"

     "I didn't want it to get dirty."

     "Shut up, you two."

     Over the crickets in the brush they heard the klaxon of a diesel locomotive, followed by the growl of the engines. A few minutes more, and the growl became a whine as the traction motors began to brake.

     "He's over the hump and starting the downgrade." Charles checked to see that his Sterling was in working order. "That should be the first one. They've taken to sending a short train of empties ahead of the big ones because of all the rail defects and sabotage."

     Hans looked up at the track. "We're fortunate there is a new moon tonight. As it is, we will be in full view from the road. We must work quickly."

     "We'll have to work quickly if we're going to catch the big one." Charles kicked the frog. "It sure weighs enough."

     Jesus looked at his watch and yawned. "Sangre de Cristo. Look at the time! If we were paid up members of the Terrorists' Union we wouldn't have to put in such long hours."

     Charles laughed. "It has been a busy week, all right. After tonight, the Governor will be yelling for the Marines."

     "Why do that, when all he has to do is pay us? Is he such a fathead?"

     "It looks like it, along with the small group of crooks who put him in office."

     Above them, on the other side of the arroyo, the rail joints popped and the ties began to creak. The rumble of the wheels grew louder, and suddenly the locomotive rounded the curve, its cyclopean headlight sweeping the track and verges of the right-of-way. The pilot train sped around the curve, lunged across the trestle over the dry canyon and was quickly lost to view.

     Hans slapped Charles on the back. "Let's go!"

     Panting and stumbling, they scrambled up the embankment, the smell of fuel oil and creosote strong as they knelt upon the line. Working quickly, they placed the frog on the outside rail of the curve and firmly bolted the clamps.

     Jesus tapped the frog with his wrench. "I thought it was a piece of modern sculpture when I first saw it. What does it do, exactly, aside from derailing the train?"

     Charles smiled. "Well, it serves as an art object and a conversation piece, but when it's used like this, it deftly raises the flange of the leading wheel, pulling it and the one opposite off the rails and onto the ties."

     "And if the train is going fast?"

     "That's when the railroad go