"Furnace Creek," he said, smiling. "On the edge of Death Valley proper, not far from Nevada actually . . ." But not very close to Vandenberg—across the state from it, in fact. He switched disks and keyed in a request for Automobile Club of Southern California information. The computer found a year-old listing. "1995L Brief: Furnace Creek Inn. 67 units. Golf, riding. Long-established, picturesque location overlooking Death Valley. Three stars."

Hicks thought for a moment, very much aware that the facts were not coming together perfectly. Operating solely on instinct, he picked up the phone, punched a button for an outside line, and requested the area code for Furnace Creek. It was the same as San Diego's although it was hundreds of miles north-northeast. Shaking his head, he called information and asked for the number of Furnace Creek Inn. A mechanical voice informed him, and he jotted it down, whistling.

The phone rang three times. A sleepy-voiced, young-sounding girl answered. Hicks checked his watch again, for the fourth time in ten minutes. For the first time, he actually paid attention to the dials. One-fifteen P.M. He hadn't slept all night. "Reservations, please."

"That's me," the girl said.

"I'd like to book a room for tomorrow."

"I'm sorry, sir, we can't do that. We're completely full."

"Can I make a reservation for your dining room, then?"

"The inn is closed for the next few days, sir."

"Big traveling party?" Hicks asked, his smile broadening. "Special reservations?"

"I can't tell you that, sir."

"Why not?"

"I'm not allowed to give out that information now."

Hicks could almost see the girl biting her lip. "Thank you." He hung up and fell back on the bed, suddenly exhausted.

Who else would have tracked this down?

"Can't sleep," he resolved, sitting up again. He called room service and asked for coffee and a substantial breakfast—ham, eggs, whatever they had. The clerk offered a three-egg concoction with ham and bell peppers mixed in—a Denver omelet, as if pigs and peppers might be special to that city. He agreed, held down the button, and called the downstairs travel agency listed in the hotel directory.

The agent, an efficient-sounding woman, informed him that there was a private airstrip near Furnace Creek, but the closest he could fly in commercially would be Las Vegas.

"I'll take a seat on the next flight out," he said. She gave him the flight number and departure time—about an hour from now, cutting it close—and the gate number at Lindbergh Field, and asked if he would need a rental car.

"Yes, indeed. Unless I can fly directly in."

"No, sir. Only small airfields out that way, no commuter flight service. The drive between Vegas and Furnace Creek will take about two or three hours," she said, adding, "if you're like everybody else who drives on the desert."

"Madmen all, eh?" he asked.

"Madwomen, too," the agent said briskly.