"It looks like the devil himself walked by here and blew fire on it," Solo said.
"Pity the people who planted the crops and watched this happen overnight. This settles it, Napoleon. We've got to help them."
Solo laughed out loud. "How grand of you to decide to go along with Mr. Waverly. When I make our first report, I'll tell him and make his day happy.
They were coming upon signs of an approaching town. The farmhouses gave way to ranch homes; the fields withdrew to the backs of the properties, leaving dead lawns around forlorn-looking houses.
They had been ordered to stay at the Flower Hotel, the only one in Riverview. Solo guessed it wouldn't be hard to find. Riverview was a town of four thousand people. As Illya swung the car onto the main street, Solo sat back, satisfied. It was just as he had pictured it. One street full of stores that ran for four blocks, crossed a bridge over a narrow river, and resumed being a highway. The Flower Hotel loomed by the bridge, old and brick, rising four stories to make it the tallest building in town. Three church steeples poked their spires up between the trees.
But modern America hadn't passed Riverview by, as it hadn't passed anyplace by. The street was garish with neon signs, and parking meters were lined up and down the curbs of the wide pavement.
Illya drove the car behind the hotel where the sign read, FREE PARKING FOR GUESTS and braked to a stop in one of the yellow-marked parking spaces of the tiny lot. There were a few cars already there. As Solo got stiffly out, unknotting his muscles from the long drive, he checked the lot out of habit. No one was sitting in the cars so there was no danger, but a good percentage of them sported stickers on their rear windows. He sauntered over to a green Ford and checked the sticker. U.S.D.A.
"The Department of Agriculture beat us to it, Illya. I guess we're just an afterthought."
Illya was hefting two suitcases out of the trunk of the car. He plunked them down. "We'll be able to use any help we can get. Here's your suitcase. What did you bring, anyway? You said your suits were lightweight."
"Shirts, my friend. Lots of clean, white shirts. Ever hear of those?" Solo smirked at Illya's ever-present black turtleneck.
"I've brought a couple of my own." Illya's blue eyes smoldered with as much humor as Solo was going to get out of him. "Also a tuxedo, a full dress monkey suit, and a top hat for courting the local beauties on Main Street."
"Ouch." Solo grunted, and bent to pick up his case.
They went into the old-leather smell of the lobby. It was complete with the red-patterned carpet of another era, black leather furniture, and potted palms. The palms were plastic, stuck into real dirt, Solo noticed as he passed one and the pungent scent of soil hit his nostrils.
There was no trouble getting their room. It had freshly-cleaned wallpaper done in a floral pattern, a small rug, and twin beds. A tiny bathroom opened off it, and the windows opposite the beds showed a view of the river and the cement-block factory that squatted there, ugly and sprawling. Solo tipped the bellboy, surprised to find one in the Flower Hotel.
Illya was already checking the room for "bugs" and Solo moved dutifully to help, although he couldn't see the necessity of it. They were unexpected, after all. The room turned up clean.
As they unpacked their clothes and tucked them away in the oak bureau that was big enough to hold a man, Illya voiced the obvious question. "What's the first order of action?"
"Who knows? We've seen the fields already. I think our best bet is to find some access to them. We can't just go out and trespass. I understand that farmers are opposed to that sort of thing. Shotguns, you know."
"And how do we get this access?"
Solo shrugged. He didn't really know. "Poke around - meet somebody who lives on a farm - get invited to a homecooked meal."
"I see." Illya sighed in resignation. "That all adds up to a girl."
Solo brightened. "It could well add up to a girl. And quit making faces. You follow your own prowling way and I'll follow mine. Right now, I have first claim on the shower." He made a quick maneuver for the bathroom, grabbing his robe, and beating Illya. He locked the door behind him on Illya's sour call of:
"Be sure to use plenty of aftershave. It will charm the milkmaids right off their milking stools."
Solo accomplished his routine of showering, shaving, and dressing in ten minutes. The cold water perked him up, brightened the sunny day, and the fresh clothes made him feel himself again. As he pulled on his shirt and trousers and watched them cover the barely healed scars of his night in that other farmhouse, his mind took a more sober bent. Even so, the best he could think to do was go out on the street and get his bearings, see what was happening in the town, where it was happening, and try to pick up a lead.
When he broached this to Illya seriously, Illya agreed. They couldn't call down to the desk and ask for Thrush Headquarters. They had to dig it out for themselves.
"I'll take the car," Illya said, "and drive around to the grain elevators and feed stores to pick up the farmer's gossip if you want to stay in town."
"I'll do better in town," Solo said. "I wouldn't know what I was hearing when it comes to feed and fertilizers."
"Right. But you're going to stick out like crazy in this town; you know that, don't you?"
"You want me to wear overalls? Your idea of American farmers is pretty strange, Illya. I'll manage."
Illya went into the bathroom and closed the door be hind him. Solo called, "It's one o'clock. I'll meet you back here at three." Illya's answering "okay" came through a sudden gush of water from the shower.
Solo checked in the mirror to be sure his pistol was safely tucked away without trace under his arm, straightened his tie for the tenth time, and left the room.
The sun was bright on the street, a presence in itself, and he discovered that July was hot in Michigan. He walked along the sidewalk easily, peering into the display windows, and no one paid him any attention. Other men clad in business suits were on the street, along with housewives dragging their children by the hand. But the sidewalk wasn't crowded. The shops had eaten up the people from the cars parked along the curb. The parallel parking made the street even wider than it needed to be and he liked the sense of space and old ness it implied.
He wandered one side of the street for fifteen minutes, going into a store here and there to pick up pieces of conversation. It got him nowhere. The talk was about buying and selling, and only occasionally about the crop disaster. Even then it was only talk of confusion and fear. When he tried twice to approach some conversing ladies, he was rudely stared at and ignored. The old charm wasn't going to make way for him here.
He strode out of the dime store and back onto the sidewalk. He was awfully alone. Not another pedestrian walked this block with him. The only other living being he saw was a woman steering her little boy into the soda parlor. Then she was gone and he stood still in the sun, rocking on the balls of his feet. A sense of over powering aloneness crept up on him and he pushed it angrily down. This was no dark room; he had both of his eyes, the sun was shining - He damned the unwanted emotion and stepped away from the storefront.