“Nobody loves a wise-ass.”

“I know,” he admitted.

Smith and Hayduke stood on the brink of five hundred feet of naked gravity. That yawning abyss which calls men to sleep. But they were looking not down at death but southward at life, or at least at a turmoil of dust and activity. Whine of motors, snort and growl of distant diesels.

“The new road,” Smith explained.

“Uh huh.” Hayduke raised his field glasses and studied the scene, some three miles off. “Big operation,” he mumbled. “Euclids, D-Nines, haulers, scrapers, loaders, backhoes, drills, tankers. What a beautiful fucking layout.”

Doc and Bonnie came up, flowers in their hair. Far off south in the dust, sunlight flashed on glass, on bright steel.

“What’s going on down there?” Doc said.

“That’s the new road they’re working on,” Smith said.

“What’s wrong with the old road?”

“The old road is too old,” Smith explained, “It crawls up and down hills and goes in and out of draws and works around the head of canyons and it ain’t paved and it generally takes too long to get anywhere. This new road will save folks ten minutes from Blanding to Natural Bridges.”

“It’s a county road?” Doc asked.

“It’s built for the benefit of certain companies that operate in this county, but it’s not a county road, it’s a state road. It’s to help out the poor fellas that own the uranium mines and the truck fleets and the marinas on Lake Powell, that’s what it’s for. They gotta eat too.”

“I see,” said Doc. “Let me have a look, George.”

Hayduke passed the field glasses to the doctor, who took a long look, puffing on his Marsh-Wheeling.

“Busy busy busy,” he said. He returned the glasses to Hayduke. “Men, we have work to do tonight.”

“Me too,” Bonnie said.

“You too.”

One thin scream came floating down, like a feather, from the silver-clouded sky. Hawk. Redtail, solitaire, one hawk passing far above the red reef, above the waves of Triassic sandstone, with a live snake clutched in its talons. The snake wriggled, casually, as it was borne away to a different world. Lunchtime.

After a little something themselves the gang got back in Smith’s truck and drove two miles closer, over the rock and through the brush, in low range and four-wheel drive, to a high point overlooking the project more directly. Smith parked the truck in the shade of the largest pinyon pine available, which was not big enough to effectively conceal it.

Netting, Hayduke thought; we need camouflage netting. He made a note in his notebook.

Now the three men and the girl worked their way to the rim again, to the edge of the big drop-off. Out of habit Hayduke led the way, crawling forward on hands and knees, then on his belly the last few yards to their observation point. Were such precautions necessary? Probably not, so early in their game; the Enemy, after all, was not aware yet that Hayduke & Co. existed. The Enemy, in fact, still fondly imagined that he enjoyed the favor of the American public, with no exceptions.