Mrs. Morgan did the favor. "Mitch, this is Mr. Trevor Hicks. Mr. Hicks, Mitch Morris. He's our maintenance man and drives the propane truck."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hicks," Morris said in a formal tone. "You're interested in this?"

"He's a writer," Bernice said. "Pretty well known, too."

"I have an idea something is happening near Furnace Creek, something important enough to bring the President here."

"President like from the White House?"

"The same."

"He thinks Stella might be at Furnace Creek," Mrs. Morgan said.

"All the more reason for us to fly over there and find out," Morris said. "Frank Forrest has his Comanche ready to go. We have room for five. Mr. Hicks, are you interested in coming with us?"

Hicks realized he was becoming much too involved. Mrs. Morgan continued her protest about the risks, but Morris paid her only polite attention. His mind was made up.

There was no other way to see what was happening in Furnace Creek. He would be stopped on the highway as everybody else had been.

"There's too many of us here, with a pilot, already," Hicks said.

"Benny doesn't fly," Morris said. "He gets terrible airsick."

Hicks took a shallow, spasmodic breath. "All right," he said.

"It's not far at all. A few minutes there and back."

"I don't like it. Don't do this just for Stella," Mrs. Morgan said. "I'm still trying other ways. Don't get foolish and ..."

"No heroics, no daring rescues," Morris assured her. "Let's go. Mr. Hicks ... ?"

"Yes," Hicks said, following them out the glass door. Mrs. Morgan laid her hands on the countertop and watched them grimly as they climbed into the truck, Benny giving up his shotgun seat to Hicks and sitting in the back.

He had never done anything so stupid in his life. The Piper Comanche's wheels pulled free of the runway and the twin-engine aircraft leaped into the air, leaving the weathered asphalt landing strip and corrugated metal hangar far behind and below.

Mitch Morris turned to regard Hicks and Ron Flagg in the back seat. Frank Forrest, in his mid-sixties and as burly as Morris, banked the plane sharply and brought them around to an easterly direction, then banked again before they had time to catch their breath. Morris hung on to Forrest's seat with a huge, callused hand. "You all right?" he asked Hicks, with barely a glance at Ron.

"Fine," Hicks said, swallowing an anonymous something in his gullet.

"You, Ron?"

"Ain't flown much," Flagg said, his skin pale and damp.

"Frank's an expert. Flew Sabres during the war. Korean War. His daddy flew Buffaloes at Midway. That's where he died, wasn't it, Frank?"

"Goddamn planes were flying coffins," Forrest said.

Hicks felt the Comanche shudder in an updraft from the low hills below. They were flying under five hundred feet. A cinder-covered hill near Shoshone passed below them with breathtaking closeness.

"I hope you don't think we're impetuous," Morris said.