Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [144]
Rather, he laid his chin on his wrist and gazed out over the long terrain before him. The vaporous ghost was back out there, hovering. Otherwise nothing but eternal desert. Yucca spires and the long curve of the horizon beyond.
Impossible to tell where the mirage began and sanity ended, or was it the other way around? Kip trembled, much like the pulsating desert before him, either from fever or fear, it hardly mattered which. He might have fallen asleep for half an hour, baking like mortal meat under the early scorching bulb of sun.
The gentleman in the uniform who appeared beside him had a soft sweet face. That was surprising. There were others, all with guns. The closest said, in a stiff low voice, “Sir, you are trespassing highly restricted military space. I need you to identify yourself and tell me what you’re doing here.”
Sometimes words just come out of one’s mouth. Kip’s were, “Don’t you think it’s strange that feet smell and noses run?”
Nothing.
One of the others advised the man crouched beside this desert comedian, “Better give him some water.”
“Not thirsty, thanks anyway. But would you mind helping me stand up? I don’t seem to be able to do it myself.”
The sweet-faced one grasped his hand and hoisted him to his feet.
“I’ll just be on my way, then.”
“Why don’t you do us all the honor of being serious.”
Kip brushed the seat of his pants, a dizzying gesture that nearly toppled him. How many years had it been since he’d purposely forgotten his serial number? A shame.
“How’d you get in here?” another MP asked, reaching out to steady him.
Kip waited through a silence which under the particular circumstances could truly be termed deafening, before answering without humor, “Through the keyhole, like Peter Pan.” His feet weren’t on. Must have fallen off. He looked down but couldn’t see that far. Maybe he lost an eye along the way, too. Really could use that drink of water, but he sensed he missed his rightful chance.
“You are aware you’re trespassing on government property?”
“Must mean we both are.”
These ventures in levity weren’t flying.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
“All right, okay. You understand you’re in violation of the law and will be arrested for trespass.”
Kip kept looking for his feet.
“Can you tell me what the others are doing here?”
Now he looked around. Delfino must not have been dissuaded by Kip’s haphazard decision to take his place. But who were these others? “I don’t see any others. Have I multiplied?” Indeed, he was seeing three, five, nine faces where there was only one. Well, no, there were several others, apparently discussing what to do with him. “You talk amongst yourselves,” he said. “I’ve got to move on.”
“All right, sir, but first would you mind if we had a look at that map? Might be able to help point you in the right direction.”
“Do I look lost?”
No one answered, and Kip saw impatience souring the ranger’s countenance. He handed them what they wanted.
“I didn’t think so. You know, I was just like you boys once.”
The tall fellow studied Kip’s map. A thirty-by-sixty-minute series quadrangle of the Oscura Mountains, N3330. Highway patrol had discovered an abandoned pickup truck on Route 380, just south of Lonnie Moon Peak, by an access road that cut into the range toward Workman Ridge and the radio installation at Bug Peak. Registered to a Delfino Montoya; this was most likely their guy. No map annotations that might clue them in on his motives, that is if he had any, or the identities of the others, though