“Four hours at the most,” called Hanson Muir, unbuckling his seat belt and clutching his briefcase. “As far as I can tell, there are only two people we can talk to in this town.”

“You call that a town, mate?” The pilot chuckled, shutting down the engines. He pointed to the small shack that housed the runway’s operations facility. Just next to it was a gas pump. Other than the operations shack, a dusty, shrub-filled emptiness surrounded them for what seemed to be miles in every direction. “I’m going to refuel, and I’ll wait for you in the operations shack. And no offense, you hear, but my price goes up if you get me stuck here overnight.”

A pimply, forlorn-looking sailor was waiting for them at the end of the runway where the aircraft had shut down. The reed-thin young man was standing next to a white U.S. Navy staff car, incongruous in this wilderness. A neck-high barbed-wire fence, built to keep large animals off the tarmac, marked the outer boundaries of the runway. As Condley walked toward the car he saw five wild horses grazing lazily in a scrubby field just on the other side of the fence. Near the car a huge iguana startled him from twenty feet away as it suddenly rose up on its tail, its head higher than Condley’s waist, and then scurried into the underbrush.

“I hate those fuckers,” said the sailor, watching the iguana disappear. “It’s like hitting a big, fat alligator when you run over them.”

“Then don’t run over them,” said Condley dryly, as he climbed into the rear seat of the staff car.

“Not much else to do out here. Hitting a horse really fucks up your car.” He held out a hand, shaking Condley’s. “Mr. Condley, right? My name’s Alfred E. Newman. Petty Officer, Third Class. No shit, that’s really my name. I have two very fucked-up and cynical parents.”

The sailor was maybe nineteen years old. He seemed oddly happy to be greeting them. He solicitously closed the car doors for Condley and Muir as they settled into the rear seats. Then he eased into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Where to?” he said. And then he laughed, as if at himself. “That was a joke.”

Condley grinned. “Did you hear the one about the American sailor stuck in the middle of the Australian desert?”

“That’s not a joke,” said the sailor. And then he and Condley laughed together.

The staff car slowly made its way down the dirt trail, finally leaving the airport and turning onto a two-lane paved road that led to Exmouth. “This is Professor Hanson Muir,” said Condley to Alfred E. Newman. “He’s a scientist. An anthropologist, actually.”

“Well, everybody’s got to be something,” said Newman, giving Muir a grudging nod in the rearview mirror.

“How many American military are stationed up here?” asked Condley.