Most of the priests were old men; they would have to spirit away altars, prayer sticks, stones, fetishes—a lot to carry off a cliff. Joe put in some silence for respect before saying, “Well, this is a very ignorant person, Roberto. What do you want to do with him?”

“Shoot him.”

“Dear God,” Fuchs muttered.

“That’s an idea,” Joe granted.

“Dear God,” Fuchs muttered again.

“Are you religious?” Roberto asked him.

“His father is a minister,” Anna answered.

“Mormon?” Roberto asked. “We have a lot of Mormons here.”

“Lutheran,” Fuchs said.

“That’s interesting. Don’t you think that’s interesting, Roberto?” Joe inquired.

“If he’s a missionary, that’s worse,” Roberto said.

“That’s right,” Joe conceded.

“I am a scientist,” Fuchs pleaded. “I don’t believe in God.”

“You’ll have to admit there is some contradiction in what you say from one moment to the next,” Joe told Fuchs. “It’s too bad that you don’t believe in God, because there is another way out, aside from being shot. You could become a member.”

“A member?” Fuchs asked.

“That’s how a lot of priests join,” Joe said. “If they happen to stumble on a ceremony, they have to join. That way they never reveal the secrets.”

“Like the Communist Party,” Anna said.

“The Party cannot be compared to Indian medicine men howling on a cliff,” Fuchs answered.

“Where does the Party howl?” Joe asked.

“It is not relevant.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“Why spy on Indians?” Anna asked.

“Why are you siding with these ignorants? Why are you with the Indians? Why are you all against me?” Fuchs demanded. Spittle jumped toward Roberto. “You stupid, little blind man, you wouldn’t dare pull that trigger.”

For some time Joe had assumed that Roberto wouldn’t pull the trigger, so he was caught flat on his seat when Roberto’s finger squeezed the shotgun trigger shut. The spurred hammer rose and snapped, sending a metallic click the length of the empty barrel and into Fuchs. The physicist’s face went green and puttyish, and his next breath came as a moan.

“Fascinating,” Anna said.

Fuchs moaned more deeply, like a cello. Roberto broke the shotgun open. The first barrel was empty, but in the second barrel was the brass eye of an unfired shell. Roberto pulled the shell out, fumbled for Fuchs’ shirt and dropped it inside it.

“Roberto.” Joe shook his head.

“This will make him more religious or more polite, I think,” Roberto said.

Joe considered throwing the shotgun down off the shelf, but a new one would cost its owner twelve or thirteen dollars from Ward’s.

“Got any more shells?” he asked Roberto.

“No.”

“They coming back for you?”

“Sure.” Roberto was cheerful, as if he’d hosted a social event. “You better be going before they get here.”

“Yeah.”

“It was good meeting you,” Roberto told Anna. “I’ll see you and Joe again.”

“Anything seems possible.”