"I've got a pretty good pair of seven-by-fifties," I said. "But as for the front gate, if the guards are doing any kind of a job, we haven't got a chance in the world of getting through-"
"I didn't say through, I said to. Just close enough for you to get a good look with your binoculars. There's been a sort of conference at the ranch. It should be breaking up about now, judging by what I overheard, and I think you might be interested in identifying one or two of the participants as they drive out."
I glanced at her over my shoulder. Even in the gloom of the car, she didn't look much like the well-groomed lady agent with whom I'd expected to make contact. She looked more like a great white huntress after a tough safari; the general impression was one of soiled khakis, sunburned skin, and stringy hair.
"How long have you been hiding out back there?" I asked.
"Two days. I didn't really expect you for another day or two; and I wouldn't have taken off so early with just a two-quart canteen and a couple of candy bars if I hadn't been warned… You remember Jake Lister?"
"The orthopedic man at the ranch?" The rig was picking up speed now on a solid gravel road. "Sure, I remember Dr. Jake. Always thinking up fancy new exercises to inflict on his victims-excuse me, patients. Aside from that, he's a good man. What about him?"
"Well," said Lorna dryly, "apparently Dr. Stern has been happily playing director in his usual trusting and democratic fashion, calling all the help by their first names and insisting they call him Tom. However, Dr. Jake's had a few reservations about some of the people hired lately, in spite of their glowing recommendations and iron-clad security clearances. Maybe being black tends to shake a man's innocent faith in all humanity. Anyway, Dr. Jake got word somehow that things were about to blow, and he tipped me off, since 1 was the only senior agent in residence at the moment. I just had time to change into something durable and grab a few basic supplies and get away. The enemy was closing in with inside help as I sneaked out. There was some shooting. I waited to see if Lister or Stern or somebody would make it clear, but nobody came."
There was a little silence. At last I asked, "What about this conference you mentioned?"
"That happened the next night, last night. Nobody seemed to be chasing me, or even to know I was missing, so I took a chance-I didn't figure you'd be that early, and if you were you could wait-and circled back after lying in the shade of a rock all day with a friendly Gila monster for company. I took up a position on the mesa south of the main ranch buildings and watched. Everything seemed quiet, but the guards weren't our guards any longer. Right after dark, a couple of cars came in. They got the VIP treatment from the help, so I figured it was worth risking a closer look. I made my way down there and crawled to where I could watch the long porch outside the living room, figuring somebody interesting might step out for a breath of fresh, unairconditioned oxygen-" I said, "Around these parts, that porch is known as a portal, ma'am. Accent on the last syllable."
"All right, portal. Anyway, pretty soon, out came guess who?"
There was only one logical answer, considering everything. I said, "A smart political operator who considers himself an intelligence expert, named Herbert Leonard."
"How did you know?" The woman in back sounded disappointed.
"I called Washington today," I said. "I've been kind of out of touch down in Mexico. I was told Herbie'd taken over practically the whole intelligence community in some kind of a fancy power play backed by strong political influence, exact source unknown."
"Yes, of course. Well, Leonard must have learned of the existence of the ranch somehow, and decided that a secret, well-protected installation like that was just the headquarters he needed for his political intrigues. But 1 bet you can't guess the name of the person to whom he was talking."
"Since you put it like that, I won't even try."
"If I said the lady was an elected representative of the US people, with strange political notions and strong presidential ambitions, would that help?"
I whistled softly. "You mean the senatress, herself?"
"I mean the lady senator from Wyoming, the first state to give women the vote." The voice from the back seat was dry. "I mean the gray-haired, motherly old bag who's been giving all women's rights movements a bad name, after they helped elect her, by associating herself with various sinister groups she apparently thinks will help her become the first lady president of the United States. Senator Ellen Love, in her standard costume of dowdy print dress and gold-rimmed glasses, and whether she's a naпve little old lady victimized by a lot of sharp operators, or a pious fraud, doesn't really matter. The final result is the same. I want you to see her for yourself, holding hands with Herbert Leonard, so that if anything happens to me you won't start wondering if maybe I wasn't having hallucinations in the heat."
I didn't try to bring the car near the vantage point I selected, from my memories of the terrain, as the most suitable observation post. For one thing, no road ran close to the spot and I didn't figure the big station wagon was up to any cross-country jeep antics. For another, even if we could have made it, here at the front of the ranch there were more guards, and probably more alert guards, than at the rear, and one of them might hear the sound of the engine. I settled for a two-mile midnight hike.
My two companions made no complaints as we picked our way across the desert, climbing gradually. I just heard an occasional stifled gasp as one of them encountered a cactus in the dark. I met a few sharp thorns myself. Then we were on the ridge overlooking the broad, shallow valley, rising and narrowing to the left. A dirt road ran up the valley and entered the ranch through a gate below us.
There was no guard house or sentry box. Here, it was just an ordinary-looking, padlocked ranch gate in a ranch fence that was just a little higher and sturdier than usual- the kind of fence a rich sportsman might put up who'd stocked his place with exotic game-but if you approached and tried to open it in the wrong manner, or if somebody had passed the wrong word about you or neglected to pass the right one, you'd find yourself subjected to an accurate crossfire from two neighboring elevations. At least that was the way it had been before Leonard took over, and while he'd undoubtedly changed the personnel, it seemed unlikely that he'd made much change in the security procedures on such short notice.
We lay there a while, watching the vacant, light streak of road in the empty, dark wasteland below. At last Martha Borden stirred and glanced my way.
"It doesn't look as if they're coming. Or maybe they've already gone."
I realized this was the first thing she'd said since we sneaked up to the fence together, a good many miles back. Apparently the presence of another woman had an inhibiting effect on her.
"We'll wait a little longer," I said.
"I don't want to seem inquisitive." This was Lorna's voice from the other side of me. "I don't want to pry, but just who is she?"
I said, "I'm sorry. I've been neglecting my social duties. Lorna, meet Nicki, and vice versa. I'm Eric, in case you didn't know."
"Even if I hadn't been told to expect you, there aren't all that many agents six-and-a-third feet tall. But what's she doing here, if I may ask?"
"She's a messenger girl," I said. "She carries the word from Washington, and doles out pieces of it as the spirit moves her."
"How far do you trust her?"
"Almost as far as I trust you," I told Lorna, "which isn't saying a great deal. But not quite as far. A little less."
I was aware of Martha giving me a quick, startled glance, but it was Lorna who spoke: "Why more doubts in her case?"
"Because I know you, by reputation at least. I don't know her, and she does some very peculiar things. For instance, this afternoon, two men came after us in a car. One had a gun. He'd have started shooting if I'd let him get into position. He'd have shot at me, to be sure, but he could easily have hit our girl friend here. She was sitting right beside me. And if he had succeeded in hitting me, I'd undoubtedly have wrecked the station wagon, and she'd probably have been hurt or killed. However, I managed to run the would-be murderers off the road so they piled up fatally. What did our girl do? Did she throw her arms around me and kiss me for saving her life? No, she gave me hell for being a callous assassin. How far would you trust a girl with reactions like that, Lorna?"