soft sheet of blackness, and through it he had been able to see the light outside as a wall of tiny, bright dots. Something black had now been pulled over the entire world once again, letting only light dots through; something that cast a cool black shade over everything.
Only one of the holes was larger; almost as large as the burning disk that blinded his eyes. But he could look at this hole in the darkness. It let in enough light so he could see, and it did not hurt his eyes. He felt no fear of it.
He continued down the rocky slope of the foothill toward the desert floor below…
Lt. Barlow was not in the best of moods. He'd planned on spending a cozy night in bed with his girl, Joan. Certainly not sitting in the Jolly staring at a video screen.
The huge HH-53 helicopter was equipped with the new Pave Low night rescue system. Barlow felt he'd already spent half his life flying around in the dead of night, staring at a red screen, testing and evaluating the infrared tracking system. And now this…
The flight from Edwards to Death Valley had been routine. One-hundred-and-thirty-seven miles. Over Randsburg and Trona — right through the corridor between the Naval Weapons Center at China Lake to the west and the Naval Weapons Range and Fort Irwin Military Reservation to the east. Both he and his copilot had kept their video display screens on — overlayed with red plastic to preserve their night vision. The whole damned cockpit had a reddish glow. He'd watched the terrain slip by below, looking like a giant red negative.
It had been a suddenly mounted mission over and above his regular schedule. And an urgent one. “Get your bird up to Death Valley and search for a man on the loose in the area. He may try to evade — so keep your eyes on your screen. Report his location when you spot him, but do not try to apprehend.” He wondered who the guy was — and what he'd done that it was so all-fired important to get him. He hoped it was worth losing a night with Joan. But he doubted it.
They were flying over the barren foothills just southeast of Furnace Creek. On his eerily red screen the rocky ground below looked totally alien, utterly still. They'd been on the job a couple of hours. They'd seen nothing.
Barlow kept his eyes glued to the video display. Occasionally he'd work the slew switch on the console below the screen, changing the system's field of view.
Still nothing.
On either side of the big Jolly two Para-Rescue Jumpers, secured by their safety straps, were hanging out the doors watching the ground. With their thick, protuding night-vision goggles they looked like visitors from outer space ogling Mother Earth with great, luminous green eyes.
Barlow was aware of one of the flight engineers standing behind him, watching over his shoulder. He was newly assigned to the project and still fascinated with the Pave Low. Hell, it was a slightly incredible gizmo — able to turn the dead black night into crimson day.
Suddenly one of the PJs called on the intercom. “Sir! I think I saw something move. Three o'clock. 200 yards.”
Barlow banked the Jolly and turned toward the indicated area. He watch his screen intently. He knew his copilot would also have his eyes glued to his own screen. The rocky terrain below looked eerily unearthly as it moved across the red video display.
Nothing.
Suddenly his copilot sang out. “There! Two o'clock.”
Barlow at once made a slight course correction. He stared at the screen. And he saw it. A shadowy, indistinct form scurrying behind a large rock formation. He banked sharply and doubled back to hover low over the spot.
Suddenly a dark shape bolted from cover and raced away in panic, leaping across the rocky ground.
“Shit!” Barlow exclaimed. “Just a wild ass.” Turning his view turret he watched the little burro streaking to safety. He changed course and headed down toward the flat valley floor…
Tom looked up in alarm. The night silence was being disturbed by a deep, growling sound that seemed to beat the air. Far in the distance a misshapen, dark shadow with a huge, faintly glowing red eye was hurtling through the air headed straight for him. Following his first impulse he began to run from it.
The huge, red-eyed beast in the air was rapidly roaring closer. Terror-stricken, Tom searched for a place to hide as he scrambled down the rocky slope. In the dark he saw a craggy outcropping. At once he headed for it…
From the doorway a PJ called. “Movement, sir.” He sounded uncertain. “I — think. Eleven o'clock. 400 yards.”
Barlow headed for the spot. Another damned donkey, he thought, disgruntled. He circled the spot.
Nothing.
Not a damned thing…
Tom lay huddled, pressed against the rock outcropping, melting into the black shadow at the base. He didn't move, petrified with terror at this new, unknown meance. The huge-red-eyed monster was flailing the air directly over him — roaring its rage as it searched for him. Instinctively he knew that his only safety lay in complete immobility. He fought the urge to run in panic. He forced his body to lie motionless. Only his heart heat wildly…
“Nothing down there,” Barlow grumbled. “Let's try the next sector.”
He banked — and gaining altitude the big jolly flew off…
For a while Tom lay still, trembling, listening to the whop-whop of the big chopper disappearing in the distance. The confusing, vague stirrings of familiarity meant nothing to him. They only disturbed him and he quickly forgot them. At last the night silence returned.
Cautiously he emerged from his hiding place — and continued down toward the valley floor…
The ground was dotted with dry vegetation. Tom crouched among the brittle bushes. He looked up at the luminous disc high above that bathed the world in a soft bluish light.
And there was another light.
Warily he kept his eyes on it as he crept through the desert brush. It was different from the other lights. It was soft and yellow. It came through a square hole in a big square rock sitting by itself a short distance from the foothills. Nearby, the solid black of many tall, gently swaying shapes lay over the lighter desert floor and the horizon. He knew what they were; he had seen them before. They were tall, bushy plants on long, sturdy legs. They were no menace.
He crept farther down toward the lone, square rock. He worked his mouth. It felt dry and hot. His cracked lips hurt with a sharp pain when he moved them. Cautiously, silently, he moved on. Unerring instinct told him that water could be found nearby…
Juan, head wrangler of the Furnace Creek Stables, was not in a particularly good mood. He had almost backed out of the deal with his friend Lupe. He had almost kept the lame old nag. But Lupe was still coming up with more dinero than the glue factory. Still, a deal was a deal, and the sack of oranges, dammit! had been part of it. He did not for a moment believe Lupe's lizard-brained story of a weirdo hombre stowaway eating them all. Estúpido!
He was sitting at the wooden table in the adobe hut that served as both bunkhouse and harness room for the stables, working on a broken bridle. He glanced at the two other wranglers with him. Gracias a Dios! there were not many turistas in the valley during the summer, so there was a chance to bring the equipment up to usable standards. He dipped his work-worn fingers in a can of saddle soap and began to work it into the leather…
Tom was crouched behind a clump of withered sagebrush. He peered into the gloomy half-light. Ahead of him, behind an open barrier made of a few slender, long timbers running parallel to the sand, he could make out the dark shapes of several large beasts. The smell coming from them reminded him of the moving cave. It was familiar and he felt reassured. Quietly he crept closer.