Crawling across the Bay Bridge, expensive foreign cars surrounded him, BMWs and Mercedes with conservative paint jobs, Porsches in blazing tasteless colors. They all kept a car length from Todd's heavy Ford pickup that could squash them in a second. He rolled up the windows after choking down some of the noxious fumes. Toward the horizon, even the air had a gray-brown tinge.

Wearing new polyester slacks-bought for the impending arraignment-instead of his usual jeans, Todd was hot and uncomfortable. He hoped he would make a good impression; he had even polished his boots. He seemed to squeak when he moved, and he had nicked himself shaving.

He wasn't supposed to do anything but stand and look innocent-and get there on time. Oilstar's lawyers would handle the rest, but that didn't put him at ease. He'd never even met them.

Through gaps in the bridge guard rails, he caught glimpses of the glittering water underneath. Oil still shone on the surface, but it seemed spa.r.s.e now, clumpier. Dozens of recovery boats dotted the black lake, nibbling at the perimeter. Alex's little Prometheus bugs seemed to be working.

The traffic inched ahead. Todd had the urge to pound his fist on the loud horn of his truck, but that would make him look as bad as the other city jerks. A charcoal-gray Mercedes in front of him belched bluish smoke from its diesel engine; in the car beside him he could see a woman squinting in her rear-view mirror, applying makeup; behind him, a man read the newspaper while driving, casting an occasional glance at the road.

Todd leaned forward and turned up the radio. The country & western DJ spent more time jabbering than playing music. He wished the guy would just shut up and get on with the tunes.

"-unusually high number of breakdowns, making traffic on all Bay Area freeways a real mess. Two cars stalled or out of gas on the Golden Gate Bridge, one on the Baysh.o.r.e freeway, three on the San Mateo Bridge. Dumbarton's clear-so far. You cowhands must have had one rough weekend to forget to fill up your cars! The rest of you all, be prepared for a long ride into the City."

Finally, the DJ played a new Weird Al single, "The Wreck of the Oilstar Zoroaster Oilstar Zoroaster" to the tune of an old Gordon Lightfoot song. Todd slapped the steering wheel and guffawed.

He glanced at his watch; in Wyoming it would have taken him less than twenty minutes to cover twice the distance. He tried not to let it get to him. Short of ramming the car up front, there was little he could do about it.

Another ten minutes pa.s.sed before he moved far enough ahead to see the amber, blue, and red lights of a CHP cruiser. Three new vehicles cluttered the right-hand lane: a wine-colored Lexus, a Honda Accord, and a Mistubishi something-or-other. What the heck was going on here-nails in the road? A pileup? New cars didn't just break down by themselves, all at the same time. Smiling to himself, he muttered, "Next time, buy American!"

Traffic muscled its way past, like an arm-wrestling match between aggressive drivers. Todd moved his big truck into the gap and gritted his teeth. Other cars moved out of his way, and eventually traffic accelerated to its normal hectic pace.

The confusing maze of exits off the bridge came up soon, shooting streams of traffic in every direction like silver b.a.l.l.s in a pinball game. Todd got the panicky sensation of not knowing where he was going, with too many cars around him to forgive mistakes. He finally spotted a green-and-white sign directing him to the Civic Center turnoff, and he sighed in relief. He craned his neck and noticed two other cars-a van and a VW Beetle stalled on the exit ramp. Must be a good day for towing services.

Once off the freeway, he began fighting stoplights, crazy intersections, and idiots double-parked right in the lanes of traffic. He kept glancing down at the folded map on the pa.s.senger seat, trying to find his next turn, but he could barely keep track of all the streets he pa.s.sed. At each forced stop, he rechecked his route. He looked at his watch, a solid Timex he had owned for ten years, helplessly watching the minutes tick away. Jeez, he thought he had left himself plenty of time.

In one intersection, two business-suited men pushed a car out of the street toward a gas station. Todd wondered if everyone had gone wacko . . . or crazier than usual. Maybe the fumes from the oil spill were causing brain damage.

When he reached the courthouse, an imposing white structure that looked exactly like a movie-lot version of a hall of justice, Todd found a place to park with surprisingly little difficulty. He wondered if part of the workforce had stayed home; was today one of those weird government holidays celebrated only by banks, post offices, and n.o.body else? He checked his Timex again; his hearing was scheduled to start in six minutes.

Todd and Alex had separate hearings, separate lawyers, all paid for by Oilstar. The Oilstar lawyers were probably p.i.s.sing their pants right now waiting for him. Todd had no desire to show up late and be slapped with contempt charges. He slammed the door of his Ford and began jogging along the sidewalk to the large judicial building. His cowboy boots clomped on the concrete.

Inside, striding down an echoing courthouse hallway that had dozens of doors on each side, he turned the wrong way before he managed to locate the hearing chamber. People were lined up in the halls, arguing with various officials and guards. Some seemed incensed about sudden cancellations. Todd self-consciously combed his sweaty hair, swallowed, and hurried through the swinging door. When he stepped into the room, he paused, breathless and puzzled.

Bare beige walls, theater-like seats, and pale wood accented the chamber. The judge's desk was empty, though, and even the lights were not fully turned up. Two security guards spoke in low tones at the front of the room; one wore a blue turban. An old man slouched in the back of the chamber, wearing a tan trenchcoat and working on a crossword puzzle.

"Where the heck is everybody?" Todd said. He remembered the ominous words in his arrest warrant: "Reckless endangerment of human life and property; illegal dispersal of a possible toxic substance; disregard for public safety." Had his hearing been canceled, or rescheduled? Why hadn't anybody let him know? Where were the Oilstar lawyers?

The guards looked up as he approached. "Can I help you?" The blue turbaned towel-head was dressed in a crisp brown uniform, a gold badge, and a nametag that read ORENIO.

"I'm here for the hearing. What's going on?"

Orenio shrugged. "A lot of cancellations this morning, sir. Didn't you see what's happening on the streets?"

"I thought you all would be used to traffic by now."

"Never been this bad, no," Orenio said. He looked Todd up and down, taking in the cowboy boots, polyester slacks, and bolo tie. "It is a mess out there."

Todd frowned. "What about my arraignment?"

"It will certainly be rescheduled. No judge. Where is your own lawyer, sir?"

Todd shook his head in bewilderment. "What a circus!"

Orenio nodded quickly, as if his chin were having a spasm. "Judge called from her car phone to cancel this morning's hearings-we have had a bulletin out for the past half hour on all stations. Something is very strange out there. Very strange."

The other guard rolled his eyes as if it were an old argument between them.

Todd wondered if he should fill out a form, leave some sort of record that he had come to the hearing, but the clerks at the windows were swamped, and he had no intention of waiting in line. He hated lines. He just wanted to leave. . . .

Back in his truck, Todd tried to navigate his way to the Bay Bridge as he drove, counting seconds until he could escape from the noise and the smell and the chaos. He had a splitting headache, and he wanted an ice-cold Coors. He pa.s.sed a young dark-haired man parked in a loading zone, hunched over the steering wheel as he tried and tried to get the engine of his delivery truck to turn over.

Flicking on the radio, Todd caught a fragment of a sentence. The DJ was still still talking! Someone had accused Oilstar-oh, brother!-of releasing a bad batch of gasoline that was causing all the cars to stall at once. He supposed that made a certain amount of paranoid sense, since people always wanted a handy, simplistic explanation for all the world's ills. Maybe ghosts or s.p.a.ce aliens had contaminated the gas. Ever since the Zoroaster spill, Oilstar bashing had been a popular pastime for the media. talking! Someone had accused Oilstar-oh, brother!-of releasing a bad batch of gasoline that was causing all the cars to stall at once. He supposed that made a certain amount of paranoid sense, since people always wanted a handy, simplistic explanation for all the world's ills. Maybe ghosts or s.p.a.ce aliens had contaminated the gas. Ever since the Zoroaster spill, Oilstar bashing had been a popular pastime for the media.

When the DJ kept talking, Todd switched off the radio and drove in silence toward the Oilstar refinery to check in.

Chapter 23.

The Manzano mountains at the northeastern end of the Kirtland Air Force Base did little to block the desert wind. Behind the scrubby foothills on a conical volcanic rise, the 11.5-foot diameter telescope was just a blob in the dust storm. Brigadier General Bayclock thought how ironic it was that they were trying to show off a far-seeing observatory, when they could barely see a hundred feet themselves. But the weather didn't see fit to cooperate with the general's orders.

On the mountaintop, Bayclock stood stiffly for the cameras, hating every second of the bulls.h.i.t. No marching band, no sunshine-it was turning out to be a crummy ceremony. Albuquerque Mayor David Reinski and a Department of Energy rep, Lance Nedermyer, hovered behind him.

The star of the show was Speaker of the House Jeffrey Mayeaux, who had flown from Washington, D.C., to observe the ceremony, since technology transfer was one of the Speaker's pet projects. Mayeaux seemed to be in his element, not bothered by the weather and making the best of the cameras; his att.i.tude impressed Bayclock.

The p.i.s.s-poor visibility disappointed Bayclock. He had overhauled the base, working all personnel double-time to pick up every sc.r.a.p of litter, straighten every bush, repaint every building, wax every floor for Mayeaux's visit-and this d.a.m.ned dust storm had ruined everything.

Mayeaux's comments for the cameras had sounded as if they were scripted. Bayclock had seen plenty of that rah-rah bulls.h.i.t in print before. The Speaker somehow managed to shake hands with anyone who pa.s.sed within striking distance. He smiled so much his teeth were probably getting sand-blasted.

The tech-transfer ceremony at the Air Force telescope facility was over, and the dozen official partic.i.p.ants, wearing dust-spattered uniforms and suits, shielded their faces. Nedermyer fiddled with a pair of clip-on sungla.s.ses. Local reporters hung around like overgrown puppies.

"This way, Mr. Speaker," Bayclock said, gesturing toward the minivans that would shuttle them back to the headquarters building. Mayeaux was the highest-level government official Bayclock had ever hosted at the base. The Speaker of the House wasn't directly responsible for Bayclock's orders, but reporters fell over themselves to follow the Louisiana politician like circus spectators. He let scandals wash over him as if they were silly challenges.

Lance Nedermyer stood between Bayclock and Mayeaux, looking out of place in his dark suit and wing-tipped shoes. His tie flapped in the wind. He raised his voice much louder than necessary. "The new-technology telescope will be an indispensable part of our research down at White Sands, Mr. Speaker, tracking the smallsats. I apologize that the project director, Dr. Lockwood, couldn't make the ceremony. Apparently he had other priorities."

The tracking and logistical support for the solar-power receiving station down at White Sands fell under Nedermyer's purview. Scientists and jerkoffs Scientists and jerkoffs, Bayclock thought, all talk and big ideas and never anything tangible to show for it all talk and big ideas and never anything tangible to show for it. "The Air Force is also cooperating fully in this venture," Bayclock added.

"Yes," Mayeaux said, turning a shrewd glance toward Bayclock. "I was very interested to read about that in the briefing materials, along with some of the top-notch defense work you're doing here at the base. Your people are concentrating on directed-energy technology now, General? I was most impressed to read about that drone plane you shot down in the 1970s."

Bayclock tried to hide his embarra.s.sment. Mayeaux must have flipped through the briefing materials and memorized an item or two just so he could drop appropriate comments in conversation. Bayclock wished he had picked a different example, though. Long before Kirtland had been put under his command, propeller-heads at the base's research arm had tested a laser to shoot down aircraft-and decades later he still didn't have a working laser-weapon in any of his planes.

"Uh, yes sir," Bayclock said. "We're developing another laser to fit in an aircraft that can fly above most of the atmosphere and destroy ballistic missiles. We're also researching high-power microwaves. They held an interesting test the other day." And d.a.m.n near shot down a fuel-tanker airplane And d.a.m.n near shot down a fuel-tanker airplane. "We've even got a bunch of doomettes working on Star Trek-style plasma weapons-compact toroids, they call them."

Nedermyer bent closer as he pushed into the conversation. "Uh, bear in mind, though, Mr. Speaker, that the R&D phase of new concepts is sometimes rather prolonged."

Bayclock himself held no hope that the Buck Rogers weapons would work within the next fifty years, but he didn't say that. He couldn't get excited about anything he wasn't able to strap onto an F22 today.

Mayeaux nodded. "Even though results sometimes seem a long time forthcoming, we must continue to invest in basic research for our own survival as a nation." He smiled and shook Bayclock's hand with a grip that was as firm and dry as an adobe brick. Impressive. Bayclock's previous experience with career politicians had been that their handshakes were sweaty and slimy, and the lack of pressure was equalled only by their lack of trustworthiness. Mayeaux wasn't afraid to meet his gaze.

"Without fundamental weapons research, we wouldn't have even a breech-loaded rifle, not to mention the latest high-tech weapons. Our jet fighters are the best in the world, thanks to scientists like yours pushing the envelope. Let them know we appreciate it."

Bayclock narrowed his eyes as he grudgingly considered the point. Without the techno-nerds, Bayclock himself would never have been able to pull a fighter into a nine-gee turn, to keep a bandit in his sights with a night infra-red tracker/pointer, and pull off a supersonic air-to-air kill. That was worth something, wasn't it? Every man had his job to do; as much as he hated to admit it, Bayclock had no problem with that.

Mayor David Reinski accompanied them to the waiting shuttle van. He had come ostensibly to represent the University of New Mexico, but he seemed cowed by the Speaker's presence. Nedermyer, on the other hand, couldn't stop talking. As they climbed into the back of the minivan, Nedermyer took off his gla.s.ses and brushed his florid face. His lacquered hair stuck out in stiff chunks from the whipping wind. His midriff had started to go to fat, probably from babysitting too many desks. The driver, a young Hispanic lieutenant, slid the van's heavy door shut with a thump. The sudden silence sounded loud in Bayclock's ears.

"Glad that's over," Mayeaux said with a smile. "I've enjoyed visiting your facility, General, but you can keep your desert wind. I'm getting on a plane to San Diego instead. I've requested the Naval base commander there to arrange for pleasant weather, along with a little New Orleans-style hospitality."

They all chuckled. The armed forces often provided free flights to high-level government types for on-site "research," if they agreed to stop by the bases for a bit of PR. Bayclock said, "Too bad your family couldn't come with you, Mr. Speaker."

Mayeaux shrugged. "d.a.m.n shame, isn't it? They're spending some time back home. My wife keeps herself so busy with social causes she rarely gets a chance to accompany me." They buckled their seatbelts as the lieutenant swung up into the driver's seat. The wind rattled the windows.

Mayeaux turned to Nedermyer. "From what I've heard, that solar-power experiment at White Sands could have a big impact. My staff tells me this Lockwood fellow is quite the miracle worker."

Nedermyer smiled tightly. "Don't believe everything your staff tells you, Mr. Speaker. Between the microwave farm and the railgun satellite launcher at White Sands, DOE has some hard funding decisions to make. You of all people know we can't throw money at everything."

Bayclock raised an eyebrow. A DOE person who was not afraid to speak his mind? He nodded to himself, making a mental note. "I've received orders from high up to logistically support the White Sands operation. It seems to have top priority."

Now Nedermyer turned to him. "People and priorities change, General." Bayclock wondered what Nedermyer's private agenda might be.

"We all have our own priorities, gentlemen," Mayeaux said in a voice as smooth and hard and cold as polished granite. "And now that we've met, I think we'll be able to work well together in the future . . . whatever might come up."

Chapter 24.

After driving for hours in the rental Mazda, Spencer Lockwood pa.s.sed the bleak, low hills r.i.m.m.i.n.g the Central Valley and headed east into oil country. The arrow-straight roads across the flatlands reminded him of rural farm lanes, with crops on either side and clods of mud on the pavement left behind by lumbering farm machinery. He kept the air conditioning turned up high, rolling up the windows to seal out the thick farm smells.

Spencer grabbed a fast-food hamburger in Bakersfield for a late dinner, then checked into the least expensive room he could find. He didn't care about TV or telephones or adult movies. Without much interest, he flipped through the yellowed Gideon material in the nightstand drawer and went to bed early, stretching out on the lumpy mattress, listening to the rise and fall of traffic noises outside, and feeling tension drain from him as he let his mind wander. He had wanted the road trip to think, and so he concentrated on what next to do with his project, now that his Sandia excursion had failed miserably.

Twenty more completed solar-power smallsats sat in storage at the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena. Scheduling their launch aboard one of the shuttle flights had always been problematic, as was using a Delta Clipper or even one of the Pegasus rockets.

Sandia's prototype railgun on Oscura Peak seemed a viable alternative for launching smallsats, but the rails needed to be extended so the satellite could reach a proper orbit. Unlike delicate s.p.a.ce probes or megachannel communications satellites, the smallsats were simple energy collectors with microwave transmitters. They could withstand the huge acceleration of an electromagneti catapult. Perhaps the railgun people would be interested in teaming up for a test case, once they upgraded their equipment; but that might take years.

He finally drifted off to sleep without coming up with any new ideas.

Spencer woke up refreshed, though a bit stiff. Unfolding the road map of California, he saw that it wouldn't take him much out of his way to cut through Death Valley National Monument-a place he had always wanted to see. He would never make the trip otherwise, and he'd always resent never taking the time if he skipped it now. "What the heck," he said, "I'm doing the rest of this road trip on impulse."

He made a quick call to Rita Fellenstein to inform her he was going to be a little later than he thought; she knew better than to bring up any business and just left him alone.

The previous night had been chilly, and the white Mazda chugged and grunted as he tried to start it. When the engine finally caught, Spencer sniffed a sulfurous odor, muttered to himself about the "Bakersfield stench," then drove off.

He wound past gra.s.sy hummocks studded with an a.r.s.enal of oil pumps toiling away. The road plunged through Kern Canyon, sheer cliffs covered with wildflowers rising on either side. The river boiling with spring thaw and the rugged rocks made for spectacular scenery, but horrific driving conditions. Other trucks and cars took the curves wide, usually not bothering to check if someone might be in the oncoming lane. He hugged the cliff wall as he drove, sitting bolt upright.

Despite the challenging road, Spencer found his thoughts returning to his high school days when a girl named Sandy-an odd name, considering that her hair was coal black-had taken the bright nerdy kid under her wing as a social welfare project.

Sandy was the older sister of one of Spencer's equally nerdy buddies. She talked Spencer into trading his black-rimmed gla.s.ses for hard contact lenses. She convinced him to go to a hair stylist to get his hair cut, rather than having his mother do it. She ruthlessly went through his closet like a guard weeding out prisoners; she paid no attention to his protests as she tossed out threadbare plaid shirts he had worn since junior high, corduroy pants that rode too high above his ankles, shirts with pen-stained pockets-and then she took him shopping.

Spencer rapidly developed a crush on Sandy, but she had no romantic interest in her "project"; she just wanted to see if she could turn an ugly duckling into a swan. He was content to wait, knowing that someday that special girl would come into his life. Newly charged with self-confidence, he entered college as a different person. From that point on, he had Sandy to thank for his success in life as much as his mentor Dr. Seth Mansfield. Now if he could just find the girl with the sunburned nose . . . .

After about an hour of mountain driving Spencer approached a gas station with a house trailer behind it. A sign at the side of the road announced "d.i.c.k Morgret's LAST CHANCE Gas Station." He glanced at his fuel gauge, surprised to see he had only about a quarter of a tank left. He had filled up in Bakersfield the night before, and he had been traveling only a few hours. "Stupid rental car!" he muttered. Or had someone siphoned his tank?

He decelerated swiftly and pulled into the station's gravel drive. A breeze kicked up dust, obscuring a Marlboro sign rocking back and forth on metal feet. The place looked abandoned, but as soon as Spencer stopped the car, the plywood door of the house trailer creaked open, and an old man in coveralls clomped down the metal steps. The man-Morgret himself?-raised a hand in greeting, then picked up a bucket and squeegee next to the cigarette sign.

Spencer glanced at the pumps, saw no Self-Serve sign, and waited for the old man to come over. He popped the gas tank.

"Morning," Morgret said. "Fill her up? Or are you just one of those p.i.s.s-heads wanting directions?"

Spencer couldn't stop himself from laughing. "No, give me all the gas you can fit in the tank."

Morgret grinned again, exposing brown teeth. "For that, you get your windshield washed. You're going to have plenty of bugs splattered across it once you get down to the desert. It's b.u.t.terfly season, and the air is full of them."

Morgret yanked the hose from the pump and slid the metal nozzle into Spencer's gas tank. His weathered face puckered up at the rotten smell. "What you got in there, son?"

Spencer shrugged, distracted by the surrounding mountains and the isolation. "It's a rental car." Horses ambled across a scrubby clearing in the distance, and he wondered if it was a wild herd. He hadn't had a chance to look at the scenery without risking driving off a cliff. "Is this really the last gas station before you get out of the mountains?"

Morgret chuckled. "Nah, there's another one twenty miles down the road, before you hit Highway 395. The sign makes for good business, though."

"I bet."

Morgret left the pump while he grabbed the dripping squeegee and slathered the windshield. "n.o.body reads close enough. Sign says d.i.c.k Morgret's d.i.c.k Morgret's Last Chance. This station is Last Chance. This station is my my last chance-I got nothing but this house trailer, squatter's rights on this land, and a pretty d.a.m.n shaky line of credit with the oil company. If this place goes belly up, I might as well do the same." He finished the windshield, then went back to squirt a few more cents into the tank to round out the dollar. "Twenty one bucks." last chance-I got nothing but this house trailer, squatter's rights on this land, and a pretty d.a.m.n shaky line of credit with the oil company. If this place goes belly up, I might as well do the same." He finished the windshield, then went back to squirt a few more cents into the tank to round out the dollar. "Twenty one bucks."

As Spencer paid him, Morgret said, "You get that car checked, you hear? Don't like that funny smell. Something's wrong with your catalytic converter, I bet."

Spencer nodded. "I'll report it when I turn in the car."

As he drove off, Spencer saw the old man sniff the nozzle on his pump, then shuffle back toward his house trailer.

Only a few hours later, Spencer stared at the gas gauge in disbelief, then managed to wrestle the dying Mazda Protege off the road to the gravelly shoulder. For the last ten miles the rental car sounded like it was gargling gasoline. He wondered if it had a slow leak in the gas tank.

Feeling as desolate as the landscape around him, Spencer opened the car door and stepped out onto the road, shading his eyes against the afternoon sun.

It was the worst place in the world for a car to break down.