"Not yet. I've only begun to soak up the atmosphere."
"There's nothing here to see," she insisted.
"Patience, Gloryanna." Solo pried her hand loose. "A few more minutes."
"Well, I'm leaving! I'll go find - you know who. He'll pay attention."
Gloryanna was stamping out the door before Solo could stop her. He let her go. Women seemed to be running out on him right and left lately, but it was always running to safety, so he felt relieved when she disappeared.
"Hates competition, doesn't she?" Galaxy said, tossing her long hair over her shoulder.
Mr. Saturn came forward with all of his commanding height. "Since your friend has left, Mr. Solo, perhaps you'd better follow. We have work to do and we're not open for business."
"Don't you dare kick him out, Saturn," Galaxy said. "He's the first human being I've seen in a week and I feel like having a talk."
Saturn waved his long-fingered, white hands. "Do it outside, then. All of our equipment is in here - costumes and everything - and I prefer not to have strangers wandering about."
Galaxy took off, too, and Solo had nothing to do but trail after her. Luckily she went through the length of the barn, so he had his chance to check around. Near the end of the building there was a door set in the wall, low, with steps leading down to it. It had to go under ground, into the hill on the other side. He spotted some freshly dug dirt at the edges.
"Where does that go?" he asked Galaxy innocently.
She didn't pause in her swaying steps. "To a root cellar or something. How should I know? I wasn't raised on a farm."
A new root cellar beside an old barn? He underlined the door on his mental list of things to examine more closely. There could be a shiny new laboratory down there. So far, that door and the paper were his only gains. Plus the fact that no one had yet made a hostile move.
They went down a ladder to ground level, where Solo saw abandoned stalls and stanchions for cows, and then stepped out into the sun. The brown fields were empty before them. Galaxy leaned against the barn, letting the sun bathe her face with gold. She already had a deep tan. Solo stared at her, at the empty fields, and back at her. Now was probably his best chance to investigate her and find out if he had a real bird in the hand or just some more window dressing. She could be part of the plot, or a pawn.
"How did you come to accept this job?" he asked, turning his interest in her full-on to make her talk.
"That wasn't hard. Their dancer ran off somewhere, I got a hurry-up call, rushed out here, and - vacationsville!
"You haven't performed yet?"
"Only on the streets of the town."
"I don't understand," Solo said.
"Every time I go into town, it seems to be a performance." She rolled her head back and forth, spreading the sun's rays evenly. "I have an audience just watching me obey the traffic light or walk down the street."
"I can understand that." Through the soft caress she gave him on the cheek, he continued the questions. "You've never performed with Saturn, then? Not anywhere?"
"Not once. We no sooner made our grand entrance when this drought came and killed our ticket sales."
"It's no drought, Galaxy."
"Then, whatever else it is that farmers are always fighting." She closed her dark eyes, bored. "A plague of locusts, maybe."
He thrust home the final test. "Not locusts, either. Perhaps thrushes."
"Well, birds, then. Honestly, Napoleon, I didn't come out here to talk about farming. I hate this place and I hate the sun and I want to come back to life. I thought you might help."
Solo took her arm and guided her into the shade on the other side of the barn. Her answers had run true. Even through the mention of Thrush. His work was obviously finished here for the moment. He was standing just opposite the place where the inside door led underground, and there was nothing to be seen from outside. The cellar, or whatever, was entirely under the barn hill and had no windows. He checked his watch. He'd better give Illya another hour for his prowling with the balloon. He sat down on the brown grass and pulled the woman down beside him.
"You've decided to pay me some attention, after all?" She smiled. "I really think you prefer big blondes."
"Not at all. It's hot and I'm tired and this is a peculiar setting. If you want my avid attention, why not do a little dance for me, love?"
"All right, Napoleon, but I'm warning you - what I start, no one else can finish."
Solo leaned against the barn and watched her begin the swaying and undulating that had first led him into the dismal little nightclub to see her perform. It was a perfect picture. The sun, the heat, the dark beauty of a dancer - he could squint and imagine the dead fields to be Arabian sand. He forced himself to relax and enjoy it, beating a rhythm for her. Illya was somewhere be hind that grove of walnut trees about five acres away, chasing balloons. And Illya had to have his time.
Chapter 11
"Illya Draws the Short Straw"
ILLYA SPED AWAY from the Flower Hotel, beating Solo and Gloryanna. When he reached the gateway to the big estate, he went on by, hunting for a place to hide the car. If the estate was crawling with Thrush agents, he wanted to remain anonymous as long as possible.
A quarter of a mile down the road he found a sign that read CATTLE CROSSING. By it was a little lane. He turned off there and made a sharp left to stop the car behind a high stand of sumac. He got out, already overly hot from being on the sunbaked road. He longed to abandon his jacket but didn't dare. He needed his pistol and the coat to cover it.
Following the cattle lane, he went onto the brown land. It was bare of trees. He had nowhere to hide if he needed it so he walked nonchalantly, hands swinging, his mouth pursed, ready to whistle an innocent tune. But he didn't whistle. He listened.
There was little to hear. Not even the sounds of birds. They had all left the fields and taken to the woods. He didn't blame them. Birds weren't meant for dead brown stalks lying on the ground.
He came to a fence, went through the ramshackle gate, closing it dutifully behind him, and headed for the barn roof he could barely make out and the grove of walnut trees. If the balloon was there, it was low and well hidden.
He strode along, forcing his legs to be fluid although his stomach was tensing wickedly. There was danger here somewhere. He felt it on his skin, on the nape of his neck.
He reached the walnut trees and buried himself in them, drawing some relaxed breaths as he was no longer an open target. The grove was two hundred feet deep and he traversed it quickly, liking the shade. He inevitably came to the end and in front of him was another field, barren and unearthly. Settled in the center was the balloon.
It was a giant, striped red, black, and gold, with a golden basket slung beneath. Tethered securely by two heavy ropes, it swayed as the breeze pushed it one way and then another. It was alone. That was his main concern.
He started across the withered grass and the balloon seemed peculiarly alive swaying before him. No one tended it, which was a bad sign. If it wasn't worth tending, then it probably wasn't worth investigating. But the golden stardust had to be the method of spreading the chemical. It made sense, and so little in this affair did make sense. First there had been Dundee, then Adams on his own terrible tangent, then these ruined farmlands. If everything led to the Cosmic Theater balloon, it was worthy of Thrush.