They'd put her in a jump suit, several sizes too large. They'd told her to stay inside no more than five seconds. They'd instructed her not to breathe or she'd freeze her lungs — and they'd told her not to touch anything or she'd stick to it and would have to be cut loose.
She'd followed Tom through the air locks into the test chamber. She'd hardly been aware of the huge engine suspended in the starkly lit room. She had felt the freezing cold penetrate her skin, her flesh, down to her very bones in the few seconds she'd stayed inside. It had been incredible — frightening…
When they'd walked outside into the Florida day, they were still so cold that in an instant the moisture in the air condensed all over them, turning them completely white. They'd eyed one another. They looked like animated snowmen. Tom had laughed. He had seemed to her like a boy showing off his newest toy. It was the first time she knew that she loved him…
Again she looked up at the burning sun. She turned to Paul. “Do you really think he has a chance?” she asked quietly.
“Of course. We'll find him.” He thought he sounded confident. “I promise.”
“In time?”
He nodded. He said nothing. He was afraid he could not be convincing. It was quite possible Tom had already perished out there. Somewhere.
He stood up. “I'll check with Hays,” he said. He walked over to the Sergeant. “Any contact?” he asked. He knew it was a totally unnecessary question.
“Only cross-traffic, sir. Some of the units are just moving into position.”
“Let me know as soon as all units are ready.” Another superfluous remark. He felt disgusted with himself. The tension was getting to him.
“Yes, sir,” Hays said, unruffled.
Paul walked over to Ward and Gordon. Hays looked at the radio. Nothing. He contemplated Wilson sitting on the ground next to the scout.
“How the hell can you feed your face in heat like this?” he asked. “You're gobbling up that stuff like a vacuum cleaner with teeth.”
Wilson looked up. “Me? Weather don't bother me none.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Hey, man, I was once at a base where it got fifty below in the winter and a hundred and thirty in the summer.”
“Shit, man!”
“You don't have to believe me, Sarge. But — like it's the only base I've been at where the chaplain went AWOL.”
“Go choke the chicken, you bull jockey!” Hays exclaimed with mild exasperation.
Wilson grinned, and looked with interest at a spoonful of food from the can. “Say — what is this here stuff?” he asked.
Hays raised a surprised eyebrow. “You never had C-ration before?”
“No-o-o… Can't say I have.”
“Where the hell did you get it?”
“It was in the Ranger emergency stores.”
“Shoe leather and glue,” Hays said dryly.
“Oh.” Wilson sounded relieved. “I thought it might be something I couldn't eat.”
The radio sputtered. Hays at once gave it his full attention.
“Armadillo One… Armadillo One… This is Ranger One… Come in… Come in…”
Paul came hurrying over. He listened intently. Hays spoke on the mike. “Ranger one… Ranger One… Go ahead.”
“All units in position… Repeat. All units in position.”
Hays glanced at Paul. He nodded quickly.
“Roger, Ranger One. Out.” Hays replaced the mike.
“Mount up!” Paul called. “You've got your sectors. Let's go!”
It was just past 1600 hours when Ranger Adams came barreling down the road toward the gas station in the little desert village of Stove Pipe Wells. The place was an oasis, lush with metal signs and wooden billboards rather than date palms and well poles. In profusion they sprouted everywhere: GAS — SNACKS — TELEPHONE — CABINS — POINTS OF INTEREST — and the ever present COCA-COLA. A squat, fat Coke dispenser stood next to a tall, slender telephone booth, looking like a square, utilitarian Abbott and Costello.
A man started across the roadway from the station. Adams leaned on the horn — and, startled, the man jumped back. He glared after the disappearing Ranger truck, and with a booted foot he angrily kicked an empty Coke can, sending it spinning across the road.
Adams stepped on the gas. His new position was at Mud Canyon, a few miles ahead. He'd make it OK…
Tom was instantly awake. He had been dozing fitfully in the shade of the rocks, refreshed by the moisture squeezed from the pulp of the crushed cacti. He did not know what danger had alerted him, but instinctively he pressed into the little crevice that had sheltered him.
He listened. All was quiet.
He had begun to relax when a tiny new sound caught his attention. He searched for it. Only a few feet away he located the source. A small creature, no bigger than a mouthful, scurried across the sand — and stopped.
Tom was intent on it. It was alive — was it something that could be eaten? Slowly he reached out a hand toward it.
The little creature scurried away on many legs — just a few inches. Again it stopped. It arched a long, curved tail over its body, a needle-sharp stinger pointing forward, and waved two tiny pincer-clawed legs in front of it.
Tom was fascinated. Again he reached toward the scorpion. Slowly. Closer… Closer… Close enough to pounce…
Suddenly he stiffened. The deep growl of a motor intruded upon the silence. The small life was instantly forgotten, and it scuttled into the safety of the crevice. Tom listened. The hated sound of his enemies was getting louder as it drew closer. Anger rose in him. And fear. He did not know how to tell them apart.
He sprang to his feet. He glanced toward the desert, from which this new threat was approaching, and, hugging the rocks, he ran for the steep, rugged mountains and at once began to climb the jagged cliffside…
Ranger Gordon turned his jeep off the main road onto the dirt road leading toward the foothills. He was alone in the vehicle. He preferred it that way. He had tried to reason out where that pilot they were chasing might have holed up. The canyon leading to the Natural Bridge seemed a good bet. Water rushing down the canyon through the ages had gradually undercut the softer rock and formed a massive natural bridge some fifty feet above the wash, and the steep sides of the ravine had been scoured into grottoes, arches and spillways — perfect for hiding. He crossed the broad expanse of the alluvial fan and stopped at the entrance to the canyon. He looked around. He searched the hills with his binoculars and turned the jeep into the gorge. The narrow dirt road snaked between craggy rock walls — steep, but not unscalable.
He drove slowly, carefully. He came to a sharp bend in the road where a rock outcropping all but strangled the passage. He stopped before it. For a moment he sat listening; then he dismounted and walked a few steps toward the bend, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel.
Again he stopped. He listened. Nothing…
He was just about to turn back when he froze. From the other side of the rock outcropping came the rustle of small stones trickling down the precipitous slope. He listened, watchfully. A faint scraping sound reached him.
Quickly, silently, he ran back to his jeep. He leaned into the front seat and brought out a shotgun that had been slung under the dashboard. Gun at the ready, he returned to the rock outcropping.
Cautiously he began to walk around the bend. Suddenly the figure of a man came tumbling down the slope in a torrent of small rocks and crashed heavily onto the road directly in front of Gordon. He jumped back. Instinctively he brought up his gun — and froze. He stared at the young man sprawled in the dirt, gaping wide-eyed up at him.