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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

“This place is a good two hours away.  We can’t exactly claim to be lost or separated from our tour group.”

Now Townsend laughed.  “Yes, that would be a stretch.”

“Well,” said Rickards, “not to be a stick in the mud, but do we even need to get close?  The pilot said we could buy pieces of the glass around town.  Why don’t we just get a sample, and you can test that?”

“That’s not how it works.  It’s the energy, not the glass, and whether the same phenomenon happens here as it does in Bolivia.”

“We didn’t see a spire.”

“There may not be a spire,” said Townsend, “but something is clearly occurring here.”

“Because we saw an old run-down shack?”

“Because the glass is here.  Because it exists here, in one spot, surrounded by the largest desert on the planet.  Just the fact that the glass exists shows that something had to create it.”

“Like this energy we think is flowing through the planet.”

“Correct.”

Rickards shook his head and leaned back in his chair.  Had they flown all that way for this?  To sneak out into the desert and take some measurements?

Then what?

The trip was beginning to feel more futile by the hour.  What if this area was too spread out for the energy to do much of anything…except to gradually turn sand into pieces of glass over thousands of years—and nothing more.

Rickards’ thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

He looked at Angela and Townsend.  “Expecting someone?”

Both shook their heads.

He rose from his seat and moved forward, stopping a few feet from the door and listening.

The knock came again.

Rickards glanced back to the other two before scanning the room for something he could use as a weapon.  He quickly stepped away, disappearing and returning from the room’s closet holding an iron in his right hand.

“Are we planning to press them to death?” asked Townsend.

Rickards glared at Townsend before carefully reaching forward and grasping the door handle.  When the third knock sounded, he turned the handle and yanked open the door in one motion, keeping his right hand, the one holding the iron, floating at the ready behind him.

Standing in the empty hallway on the other side of the door was an Arabic woman dressed in pants and a long-sleeved shirt and appearing noticeably disheveled.

57

57

“Can I help you?”

Mona glanced past the man in the doorway and spotted the two others sitting on a couch, a light-brunette woman next to an older, dark-skinned man with a head of white hair.

The American in front of her was larger, probably in his forties and holding a clothes iron in his opposite hand.

“My name is Mona Baraka,” she said cautiously.  “I’m a journalist here in Cairo.  And I need to speak with you.”