It’s not an easy request to grant. The environmental laws place equally strict controls on airborne vehicular usage as on ground traffic. Getting a helicopter means special authorizations, permits, justifications, all sprinkled liberally with bribes. Not to mention the difficulty involved in scouting up a helicopter with both an adequate supply of fuel and an ample allotment of flight time remaining this late in the month. “You’re sure you know where he is?” Carrerra asks, subtly pressing for details of a more reassuring nature.

“Almost positive,” she responds succinctly.

It’s not exactly the amplification he wanted, nor the encouragement, either. Everything weighed in the balance, Carrerra decides he has no choice but to go along with her. “I’ll call you back.”

Sixty minutes later, the vidphone buzzes. “Be at the airport in half an hour,” Carrerra tells her.

The helicopter, a three seat Bell Python, is a war surplus Army model, still painted its original camouflage colors, brown, green and black, the coloration of the Amazon rain forest. The words U. S. ARMY in black have been amateurishly over painted with a golden legend, C. Lukas, Cropdusting. Large silver canisters have been welded to the helicopter’s main frame above its skids. The two bladed turbo-ended rotor whirls noisily overhead.

Only Sarah and the pilot are in the craft. Coach Carrerra wanted to come along, too, but Sarah pointed out that there were only three seats. One of them would be necessary for transporting T.K. Since she refused to divulge their ultimate destination, she had to go along to give directions. Reluctantly, Carrerra stayed behind.

As the pilot passes over Dos Palos, Sarah gives him his first clue to his final destination. “Is there an old road of any sort leading from here to Armona?” she asks. He rotates in his seat and gives her a quizzical look. “Yeah, there’s old Route Ninety-Nine out there. I don’t know what kind of shape it’s in. Ain’t been used for years.” He sticks his tongue into his cheeks for a spell before be goes on. “Don’t let me tell you your business, ma’am, but if you’re looking for somebody, you ain’t gonna find him between here and Armona. That’s all government farmland. First off, they got a fence all the way around it to keep people out. Secondly, must be seventy five miles to Armona. That’s quite a ways to pedal a bike.”

She thought it prudent to keep from him the fact they were hunting a man in a car, not on a bike. “Just fly it.” Shrugging, he threads his fingers back into the control sockets. The helicopter tilts over on its side in response. “You’re the boss.”