Ill Wind Part 9

The horses were familiar with the terrain, slowing as the grade got steeper. It took twenty minutes to reach the top of the hill behind Alex's ranch; from the crest Todd could see lights dotting the valley, houses separated by acres of land instead of the endless crowding of San Francisco.

Todd broke the silence. "I could almost settle down here. You can't tell we're so close to the city."

Alex's expression was unreadable in the failing light. "If you'd like, Todd, you can come up and ride the horses whenever you want. You'd take better care of them than I do."

Todd sat upright in the saddle, and for a moment the words clogged in his throat before he finally said, "Really? That would be great!" His voice sounded high-pitched with excitement. He felt a big grin spreading across his face.

"Only if you promise to treat the horses right, though. I'm no good at it anymore."

"That's an easy promise to keep!"

Alex's shadowy face wore a lost smile. "Erin and I spent afternoons riding after I got home from work, then we used to race back to the house, even at night. She loved playing the daredevil." His words faltered.

Todd waited for Alex to continue, but when Alex spoke again, he changed the subject. "I was in grad school in the sixties before I ever got close to a horse. Marcia, my wife, talked me into taking her on a riding picnic." He laughed for the first time all night. "I was a real greenhorn, and the horses knew it. As soon as we were out of sight of the stable, my horse halted and started eating gra.s.s. Wouldn't move no matter what I did."

Todd let Alex talk, beginning to see the man in another light. He wondered how much time Alex spent moping around the house feeling sorry for himself and what had happened to his family.

Todd remembered times in his life when he had dwelled on things he couldn't change. When his high-school sweetheart Kelly had dumped him for some guy joining the Navy, he had spent months frustrated and hurt, constantly reminded of happier days, the emotional landmines found in sc.r.a.pbooks and old junk drawers. But Todd also knew bad times could be wrapped up and put away, for a little while at least. He had let loose, riding off and doing stunts on his horse at his parents' ranch, until his dad had threatened to ground him. Alex needed to let loose too.

Shaking the reins and kicking his mount with his heels, Todd caused Ren to rear up suddenly. A stupid idea with a strange horse, he knew, but just being on horseback again exhilarated him. He felt the power in the horse's muscles, and a flash of delight surged through him. He held on and felt the joy of life tingle from his head down to the heels of his boots.

Alex looked over his shoulder, startled at the commotion, and his horse backed away.

Todd pulled back on the reins. "Come on, Alex. Race you back!" He didn't wait for an answer. Todd slapped Ren's side with an encouraging yell. "Yeeee-hah!" The palomino took off, as if remembering an old game.

Todd could hear only the sound of his horse crashing through the brush, galloping through the tall dry gra.s.s. His eyes had grown used to the evening light. Todd clucked at Ren, but he had left Alex behind. The older man must be in no mood to be reminded of the past.

The grade leveled, and Todd slowed his horse. Immediately, the sound of another horse galloping came from behind him.

Todd urged Ren into motion again, but Stimpy bore down to overtake Todd's horse. Alex crouched low over the saddle, urging the quarter-horse to greater speed. Todd saw a focused expression on the man's face.

The two of them rode faster through the clearing, charging toward the stables in the home stretch. Both horses ran full out, filled with exuberance. By the time they crossed the clearing and reached the corral, Alex was three lengths ahead of Todd.

Acknowledging his defeat with a laugh, Todd reined the horse to a halt, swung down, and patted Ren on the neck. He laughed again, feeling warm inside. He panted. "What a ride!"

Alex brought Stimpy around, chuckling for a moment. "That was dangerous, you know."

"Ren knew the way." Todd reached out to grab Stimpy's bridle for Alex to dismount. "Like you said, this wasn't the first time these guys have raced in the evening." He patted Stimpy. "You're pretty good in the saddle, Alex. I took you for a gentleman rancher-the type to keep a couple of horses, maybe ride them once in a while without really knowing what he's doing. I guess was wrong."

Alex shook his head and stiffly swung down from the chocolate-brown horse. His face looked stormy with sudden doubt, as if something had collapsed inside of him. His shoulders drooped, and he held onto the saddle horn as if to steady himself.

Todd scrambled down from Ren. "Hey, Alex! You sure you're all right? You look like something's really bothering you. Worried about whether your Prometheus bug is gonna work?"

Alex shook his head as he turned to lead Stimpy back toward the stable. "No, that's not it at all. I . . . I was just enjoying myself, and I didn't know what to do with the feeling. It's been a long time." He fidgeted, keeping himself turned away from Todd. "I think you'd better go. I've got a lot of cleaning up to do and . . . and I've got a lot of things to think about."

Todd scuffed his boot in the dirt. "Sure, Alex. Thanks for letting me stay a while."

"No, Todd. Thank you." Alex turned back to him, gripping the bridle of the chocolate horse. "You come up here again soon to ride these horses. Promise." Behind his gla.s.ses, Alex's pale eyes fixed on him. "I mean it. That's important to me."

"Sure," said Todd. "I promise. I always keep my promises."

Chapter 18.

Spencer Lockwood fumbled through the glove compartment and pulled out the map of California from the rental car packet. It didn't show many details, but he needed only the major highways to find his way back home.

His return flight to Albuquerque did not take off until the next day, but Spencer had no intention of waiting in Livermore. He would only sit in a stuffy hotel room and read a few of the journals he had brought with him, go to bed early, fight traffic back to the San Francisco airport, then fly on to New Mexico.

Or he could drive drive most of the way back in the same time. It looked like a straightforward trip, a long, peaceful drive. most of the way back in the same time. It looked like a straightforward trip, a long, peaceful drive.

At Caltech in his grad-student days, Spencer and his buddies would hop into the car and take a road trip for the weekend, heading for the San Gabriel Mountains, Palm Springs, or Tijuana. It had been years since he'd done that.

Spencer relished the prospect of having no distractions, being able to think things out. Driving refreshed him, and the hum of the wheels on the highway gave him a sense of freedom.

He'd cancel his flight, then return the car at the Albuquerque airport. Grinning, Spencer checked the gas gauge-still three-quarters full. He cycled the radio through its "seek" mode twice, searching for surfin' music, and finally settled for an Oldies station. He turned the car east onto Interstate 580.

The broad landscape seemed to open its arms to welcome him. The five-lane highway wound upward into line of gra.s.sy hills that rose like battlements on Livermore's eastern flank. The Altamont range held something special, one of his favorite sights each time he came to Sandia in Livermore. Stretching for miles across the mountains stood thousands of wind turbines, row upon row. The world's largest wind farm captured gusts whipping over the range, spinning white aluminum blades and generating power.

As he cruised along, he craned his head to stare at several different types of windmill, the standard sunflower shape, three-bladed wind turbines, whiplike two-bladed propellers that spun around in a blur. Vertical-axis Darrieus wind turbines stood near the freeway like giant eggbeaters stirred by the breeze.

Tax incentives for alternative energy development had made most of the Altamont windmills feasible during the Reagan administration; when the tax credits ended, many investors sold their windmills, and some of the turbines had fallen into disrepair. The sprawling wind farm still generated a great deal of power, though, which was sold to the state electrical grid.

The windmills were set up much the way Spencer's microwave antenna farm would work in White Sands. Windmills in the east; solar-power satellites in the southwest. Oil spill to the west. Oil spill to the west. Spencer smiled: the future would have its way, sooner or later. Spencer smiled: the future would have its way, sooner or later.

The car raced onward, leaving the windmills behind.

The Central Valley lay like a swath of the Great Plains down the middle of California.

Without a panicky chaos of cars around him, Spencer liked to drive and let his mind wander. He enjoyed daydreaming while racing down a desert highway, surrounded by the sprawling horizon, wide-open s.p.a.ces. It was how he brainstormed, throwing out crazy ideas to himself until he found something that made sense.

And he wasn't going to let this road trip go to waste.

He thought of his smallsats...o...b..ting over the antenna farm. The technology of the collectors was nothing new. Silicon photovoltaic cells had been around since 1954, when the prototypes achieved only a 6% energy conversion from direct sunlight. The energy crisis in the 1970s turned an enormous research effort toward developing "clean and inexhaustible" solar power, pushing photovoltaic cells up to 20% efficiencies. In 1989 a concentrator solar cell used lenses to focus sunlight onto the cell surface, yielding even higher efficiencies. Gallium-a.r.s.enide and other types of photovoltaic materials also showed promise. Unlike electric generators, solar cells had no moving parts and could operate indefinitely if they were protected from damage. And they produced no pollution.

But widespread application of ground-based solar energy had always been hindered by its cost-up to a thousand times more than electricity generated by oil, coal, or hydroelectric plants.

Now that he had successfully demonstrated the technique of staggering focused microwave beams from low orbit, though, Spencer's team had solved that problem. But there were practical considerations as to how many smallsats they could loft, and how many antenna farms could be scattered across the landscape.

The only way to convince people was to complete the experiments, get the facility providing real power for real people. It wouldn't be difficult to hook up to New Mexico's main power grid.

Spencer's team had operated on shoestring budgets before. Life in grad school, even with Professor Mansfield's generous help, had taught him how to make do. Thanks to the lukewarm review from Lance Nedermyer, Spencer's gang back at White Sands retained only the minimum amount of money to keep going-"maintenance budget" the Department of Energy called it. Just enough to keep the lights on and the custodians employed. But ingenious use of resources could always counterbalance budget cutbacks. They could even sell sell electricity to the Public Service Company of New Mexico. electricity to the Public Service Company of New Mexico.

Spencer intended to keep calling his own shots, performing the research he could afford. It was the type of challenge he enjoyed.

He pushed down on the Mazda's accelerator, listening to the engine hum louder, but the landscape was so vast it crawled by. He couldn't wait to get back to White Sands.

Chapter 19.

Pretending to study from a stolen calculus textbook, Connor Brooks sat at an open-air table at the Stanford student union and looked for his next mark. Campus was easy pickings.

He shook his s.h.a.ggy head. Serves the rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds right! Teach them a lesson they won't learn in their snooty cla.s.ses. Serves the rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds right! Teach them a lesson they won't learn in their snooty cla.s.ses.

In the first few hours after the Zoroaster Zoroaster wreck, Connor had thought himself doomed. His original plan had been to hide on the gigantic tanker and then sneak off when it reached the Oilstar terminal; but that lunatic Uma had rammed the ship into the bridge. Then the b.u.t.thead had tried to blame everything on him! wreck, Connor had thought himself doomed. His original plan had been to hide on the gigantic tanker and then sneak off when it reached the Oilstar terminal; but that lunatic Uma had rammed the ship into the bridge. Then the b.u.t.thead had tried to blame everything on him!

But the Coast Guard and the news media saw right through that flimsy excuse. A captain was responsible for his ship. Uma never should have left the bridge, fire alarms or no fire alarms, and he never should have been such a fascist in the first place-it was only a matter of time before his crew rebelled. Besides, tankers like the Zoroaster Zoroaster should carry better safety mechanisms, collision-avoidance systems so that some Captain b.u.t.thead couldn't ram into a bridge. should carry better safety mechanisms, collision-avoidance systems so that some Captain b.u.t.thead couldn't ram into a bridge. Some people just never learn. Some people just never learn.

He kept his gaze moving, scoping the various groups of pimply-faced kids. The meaningless equations in the math book blurred under his eyes. People really made sense out of this stuff? The students relaxed under red-and-white striped umbrellas, drinking beer and eating pizza. Some sat alone. He kept an eye on one kid with long, limp brown hair and a sorry attempt at a moustache. The kid shot down one imported beer after another as he read a fat cla.s.sic-looking novel. Sooner or later the kid would have to get up and head for the bathroom.

About one time in five, the idiots left their backpacks unattended. Connor enjoyed giving somebody else a few hard knocks for a change.

After another fifteen minutes, the kid spread his paperback novel out on the table, squashed the spine with the palm of his hand to make sure it lay flat, then stood up. He rubbed the small of his back, scratched his shoulderblades, then shuffled toward the gla.s.s doors leading inside to the restrooms.

He left the backpack sitting at his place.

Connor shook his head at the kid's stupidity. Feigning a yawn, he stood up, leaving the calculus book on the table. Someone would eventually pick it up. Looking as natural as could be, Connor strolled inside one door of the union, then out another door, circling back to the abandoned table as if it was his own. Don't look at me. I just forgot this stuff. Don't look at me. I just forgot this stuff.

The fat book face-down on the table said Anthem Anthem by Ayn Rand. Gee, just the type of light fluff everybody wanted to read while sitting out on the Union patio on a sunny late-spring afternoon. With a glance around, Connor shouldered the kid's pack, then as an afterthought, he lifted up the book, flipped a few pages to lose the kid's place, then set it back down again, smiling. by Ayn Rand. Gee, just the type of light fluff everybody wanted to read while sitting out on the Union patio on a sunny late-spring afternoon. With a glance around, Connor shouldered the kid's pack, then as an afterthought, he lifted up the book, flipped a few pages to lose the kid's place, then set it back down again, smiling.

Moving quickly, but not hurriedly, he walked away. As he moved, Connor fondled the backpack; the slick nylon fabric slid across his fingertips. Mom and Dad probably bought it for the kid just before the semester started.

He sauntered around the side of the building, past a stained concrete loading ramp by the cafeteria and two dark green dumpsters surrounded by the cloying sweet-sour smell of old garbage. Sometimes it was fun to sit and watch the expressions of loss and confusion when the suckers came out to find their belongings gone, but Connor didn't feel like it today. He'd been hanging out at Stanford for days, and the campus cops would catch onto his game sooner or later. He wanted to get out of the Bay Area as soon as possible.

He sat down on the tile lip of the dry fountain and unshouldered the pack. From this vantage point, Connor glanced up at the wandering students going in and out of the Union to use the photocopy machines and the pay phones. Still no sign of the kid. Maybe he had to take a c.r.a.p.

Connor unzipped the pack and found three new spiral notebooks with white covers and a red Stanford Bookstore logo. Inside, the kid had taken crisp, meticulous notes about Melville's use of metaphors. Connor dropped the notebooks on the ground.

In the front pocket Connor found a chocolate-chip granola bar, which he stuffed into his shirt pocket. He rummaged among a handful of pens and pencils, two pizza coupons, and just at the point of giving up, he found a twenty dollar bill taped to the fabric in back. It wasn't the kid's wallet, probably "emergency cash" that worried parents insisted their son keep "in case something happens." Well, Connor needed it more than the kid did. Twenty bucks was twenty bucks.

Abandoning the pack, he got up and wandered down the mall, past poster vendors, jewelry makers with their wares displayed on rickety tables, someone selling ca.s.settes from the Stanford Men's Choir. He smelled new-mown gra.s.s in the air.

People milled about, but none of the college babes returned his looks. Although he kept himself reasonably clean, Connor was starting to look homeless. He had found a few dorms with open showers, and-like everything else-if he looked as if he knew what he was doing, n.o.body thought to stop him.

Connor had set his sights on going back to northern Arizona. His parents lived in Flagstaff, but he hadn't spoken a word to his mother and father in twelve years. But he could walk in with a toothsome Prodigal Son grin on his face. What was the old saying? Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in. Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in. He wanted to settle down for a while, figure out where to go next. He wanted to settle down for a while, figure out where to go next.

Connor found a kiosk with bulletins advertising student films playing in auditoriums, religious campus crusades, roommates wanted, tutoring services. He scrutinized the displays when something caught his eye. A flyer stood out, on vibrant pink paper with a handwritten message photocopied onto it: DRIVE MY CAR TO ATLANTA FOR $500.

Connor drew in a deep breath. Finally, something he could use! Glancing at the address, he yanked off the flyer.

The dorm was called Roble Hall-p.r.o.nounced "Row-BLEE" by the person who answered the phone-and Connor Brooks found it by wandering around campus for an hour.

The three-story dorm rose, a towering sandstone edifice covered with ivy, like something straight out of the movies. The doors were painted white; the inside smelled like a damp old attic; the olive-green carpet was worn and threadbare. He went up the wrong staircase, came back down to a lounge filled with beat-up sofas that looked like they had been stolen from the Salvation Army, then backtracked until he found the room he was looking for.

"Yo!" the student said, opening the door. "You the guy who wants to drive my car? I'm Dave Hensch."

What a p.r.i.c.k. Hensch looked like a cut-out from the Mystery Date Game: V-neck sweater over a spotless white shirt, tan slacks, loafers. His mouse-brown hair was cut short, and his face had a baby-pink flush that suggested he still scrubbed behind his ears.

Connor offered Hensch his best smile, stroked back his lank blond hair, and extended his hand. He tried not to show his scorn for this preppie idiot. "Hi, I'm Connor. Nice to meet you."

Hensch led him into the small room with rickety wooden furniture painted a sticky brown, a single bed with a red ribbed bedspread. "I'll be flying back to Atlanta at the end of the summer, and I need to have my car waiting for me. It's a long drive-you sure you're up to it? No cla.s.ses this semester?"

Connor sat down on the hard wooden chair by the narrow desk, looking comfortable because that always put the suckers at ease. In the metal trash can, an old banana peel masked the nursing-home smell in the room. "I'm taking a break this semester. And I've got relatives in Atlanta I haven't seen in years. Besides, seeing the country is the best education."

Hensch nodded. "Yeah, I know. My parents made me spend a summer in Europe for the same reason."

Connor stifled a snort. He started to feel impatient. "So, Dave, what kind of car is it?"

"An old AMC Gremlin." Hensch looked embarra.s.sed. "Don't laugh. It's probably the crummiest car on campus, but it was my first set of wheels. I've spent more on repairs than the car ever cost me but, hey, I'm attached to it. Can you drive a stick?"

"Sure thing. I'm ready to leave at any time." He put a concerned tone in his voice. "You sure you can get by without your car for the next few weeks?"

Hensch dismissed the thought. "I can always just rent one if I need it, right?"

"I suppose." Rich b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Serves you right. Rich b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Serves you right.

Hensch turned to the window. "Yesterday a few buddies and I took the car up to look at the oil spill, sort of as a going away bash. We wanted to be able to say we saw it firsthand, you know? Have you been there?"

"Yeah, I saw it up close." Connor rubbed his hands together. "Now, you'll pay the money up front, right? That's the way these things usually work. I keep receipts and get reimbursed for my actual expenses of gas and lodging and stuff when I get to Atlanta?" He was making this up, but it sounded reasonable.

"That doesn't give me much security," Hensch said, looking doubtful. Bright points of red appeared on his skin, as if it embarra.s.sed him to be negotiating money. "I understood that it's usually done half and half. You get the rest of the cash when you deliver the car."

Connor shrugged, then decided to press his luck. "That's okay by me, if it makes you feel more comfortable. But could you at least loan me a hundred against the expenses? You know how much I'm going to spend just on gas to drive across the country, and it would be a hardship to do it all out of pocket."

Hensch paused, then pulled out his wallet, sliding several bills out, flipping through as if he was used to counting fifty-dollar bills. "How about three hundred? That's half plus an extra fifty. Good enough?"

"You got a deal, my friend." Connor reached out to take the cash and shake Hensch's hand.

"Oh, and I'll need to see your driver's license for ID. Got any accidents on your driving record?"

Connor froze for just a moment. This would be the test. He had a driver's license, of course, but his name had been plastered around the papers ever since he had skipped out on the Zoroaster Zoroaster wreck. What if Hensch recognized him? wreck. What if Hensch recognized him?