As he helped Oppy start down the steps he could see Groves standing anxiously at the base of the tower. When Oppy reached the ground, he shook off whatever the general was saying and shuffled toward the sedan. As soon as the two men were in the back, the car set off toward South-10,000. The only figure among the two jeeps left was Eberly, trudging miserably in the mud, keeping his vigil.

Joe returned to the shed and opened his palm. “Harry Gold,” said black letters. Putting the book in Oppy’s jacket pocket, he’d considered, just for a moment, planting the card. Such moments were short. He laid the stub on the FM receiver because his pants were damp from the rain. Another bolt hit close by. The bulb in the shed went blue and died.

Rain increased to triple time. Waltz time, Joe thought. Inside the shed it was dark, but all around the tower lightning glowed like the stems of flowers in a black garden. He used spare rope off the floor to tie the yellow wands, serpent heads up, to the detonator boxes. The Voice of America had briefly signed off, and for the first time the site radio could communicate on a clear frequency. Base Camp asked if anyone had any information about a missing mess tent. Early breakfast was being served, and the French toast and powdered eggs were getting wet.

Joe felt unexpected pleasure seeing the wands stand on their makeshift altar. As lightning closed in on the tower, the shed seemed to rise and plunge into each crash. The fierce, brief glow at the door made the sphere levitate and the wands, bright as gold, jump to life. The shadow on the wall was a head of coiled hair wearing a crown of wands. A dancer’s shadow, kicking up thunder.

Everyone insisted he was Indian, so, why not? Put some finery on the atom, a brace of electric snakes, and let it dance on hundred-foot legs. Dance in the desert and shake the earth. He wished he knew the right prayer or song; there had to be some music for this, or something he could improvise. Good music and good religion, he guessed, were both born in times of stress. Roberto would be proud.

It was about seven hours to the Mexican border, staying under the speed limit. Traffic between El Paso and Juarez was an all-night affair. Anna would be putting Ben and Roberto on the trolley for Juarez about now, or driving them across. It would be safer for her to stay over the border herself. He could picture her in a serape.

“Thirty minutes to Zero Hour,” the receiver said.

He strapped on his belt and .45 and decided, orders or no orders, it was time to go. “This desert’s jumpin’,” he hummed. Lightning hit east of the tower, but the flash at the door was blocked by a man in a poncho.