Thunderhead Page 5

  Nora took a deep breath. “Is there any way we might cooperate in getting some radar coverage? You see—”

  “No, there is no way,” said Watkins, his voice growing nasal in irritation. “I’ve got a list a mile long of people waiting for radar coverage: geologists, rain forest biologists, agricultural scientists, you name it.”

  “I see,” said Nora, trying to keep her voice even. “And what about the application process for such coverage?”

  “We’re backed up two years with applications. And I’m too swamped to talk to you about it. The shuttle Republic is in orbit right now, as you probably know.”

  “It’s rather important, Dr. Watkins. We believe—”

  “Everything’s important. Now, will you excuse me? Write if you want that application.”

  “And the address—?” Nora stopped as she realized she was talking to a dial tone.

  “Arrogant prick!” she shouted. “I’m glad my brother boned your girlfriend!” She slammed the phone into its cradle.

  Then she paused, staring speculatively at the phone. Dr. Watkins’s extension had been 2330.

  Reaching again, she slowly and deliberately dialed a long-distance number. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Give me extension 2331, please.”

  6

  * * *

  WITH A HEAVY SIGH, PETER HOLROYD SETTLED himself on the old tractor-style seat, turned the right handgrip to retard the spark advance, and kicked the engine into ferocious life. He sat for a minute, letting the motorcycle warm up. Then he dropped into first, turned out of the complex into the California Boulevard traffic, and headed west toward Ambassador Auditorium. A thin haze hung over the San Gabriel Mountains. As usual, his eyes—raw from a long day of poring over massive computer screens and false-color images—smarted in the ozone. Free of the purified atmosphere of the complex, his nose began to run freely, and he hawked a generous blob of phlegm onto the blacktop. A small plastic image of the Michelin tire mascot had been glued to the gas tank, and he reached down to rub its fat belly. “O God of California traffic,” he intoned, “grant me safe passage, free of rain, loose gravel, and tight drivers.”

  Ten blocks and twenty minutes later, he nosed the old motorcycle south, heading for Atlantic Boulevard and his Monterey Park neighborhood. Traffic was easier here, and he shifted into third for the first time since starting the engine, letting the wind blow away the heat of the cylinders beneath him. His thoughts returned once again to the persistent archaeologist who had kept him on the line for such a long time that morning. In his mind, he saw a dumpy, mousy-looking academic with chopped-off hair and no social graces. He had promised nothing except a meeting. A meeting far from JPL, of course—if Watkins got even a whiff of extracurricular dealings, he’d be in deep shit. But these hints of a lost city had intrigued him more than he wanted to admit. Holroyd hadn’t had much luck with women, and the thought that one—mousy or not—was willing to drop everything and drive all the way from Santa Fe to meet with him was flattering. Besides, she’d promised to pay for dinner.

  After a brief, easy run, the streets grew more congested and aggressively urban. Another three blocks, another three lights, and he nosed up onto the sidewalk beside a row of four-story buildings. Pulling a brown bag from beneath the bungee cord on the rear fender, he craned his neck up toward his apartment. Ancient yellow curtains twitched limply in the hot, fitful breeze. They were a bequest of a previous tenant and had never felt air conditioning. Snorting again, Holroyd angled across the street and headed toward the intersection, where the sign for Al’s Pizza glowed against the gathering dusk.

  He glanced around and slid into his usual booth, enjoying the chill air of the restaurant. The traffic had made him late, but the place was still empty. Holroyd tried to decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved.

  Al himself came over, a small, impossibly hirsute man. “Good evening, professor!” he cried. “Nice night, eh?”

  “Sure,” said Holroyd. Over Al’s hair-matted shoulder, he could see a small television, its grainy image struggling through a film of grease. It was always tuned to CNN, and the sound was always off. There was an image of the shuttle Republic, showing an astronaut floating upside down, tethered by a white cord, the magnificent blue orb of Earth as a backdrop. He felt a quick familiar feeling of longing and turned back to Al’s cheerful face.

  Al slapped the table with a floury hand. “What tonight? We’ve got good anchovy pizza, coming out in five minutes. You like anchovy?”

  Holroyd hesitated a moment. Probably she’d thought better of making such a long trip; after all, he hadn’t exactly been encouraging on the telephone. “I love anchovies,” he said. “Bring me two slices.”

  “Angelo! Two slices anchovy for the professor!” Al cried as he swept back behind the counter. Holroyd watched him walk away, then reached for the paper bag and dumped the contents onto the tabletop. A notebook, two blue high-lighters, and paperback copies of The White Nile, Aku Aku, and Lansing’s Endurance fell out. With a sigh, he fanned the pages of Endurance, located the paper clip, and settled back.

  He heard the familiar squeal of the pizza parlor door and caught a glimpse of a young woman struggling through, lugging a large portfolio case. She had unusual bronze-colored hair that broke in waves over her shoulders, and penetrating hazel eyes. Her body was slim, and as she dragged the case through the door he couldn’t help but notice a shapely rear. She turned and he looked up quickly, guiltily, only to be arrested by her face: smart, restless, impatient.

  This couldn’t be her.

  The woman glanced up and the hazel eyes met his. He quickly shut the book and smoothed a hand over his hair, made unruly by the motorcycle ride. The woman walked straight toward him, dumped her portfolio on the table, and slid into the far side of the booth with a cool rustle of her long legs. She brushed back the copper-colored hair. Her skin was tan, and he noticed a scattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose.

  “Hi,” she said. “Are you Peter Holroyd?”

  He nodded. And experienced a moment of panic. This was not the frowsy scholar he’d expected: this woman was lovely.

  “I’m Nora Kelly.” She extended her hand.

  Holroyd hesitated a moment. Then he put the book down and shook the proffered hand. The fingers were cool and unexpectedly strong.

  “Sorry to corner you like this. Thanks for meeting with me.”

  Holroyd tried a smile. “Well, your story was interesting. But a little vague. I’m interested in hearing more about this lost city in the desert.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it has to be vague for the time being. You can understand the need for secrecy.”

  “Then I’m not sure what I can do for you,” Holroyd said. “It’s like I told you on the phone. All those requests have to go through my boss.” He hesitated. “I’m just here to learn a little more.”

  “Your boss would be Dr. Watkins. Yes, I talked to him, too. Real nice guy. Modest, too. I like that in a man. Too bad he couldn’t spare me more than nine seconds.”

  Holroyd began to laugh, then quickly stifled himself. “So what’s your position at the Institute?” he asked, shifting in the booth.

  “I’m an assistant professor.”

  “Assistant professor,” Holroyd repeated. “And you’re the one in charge of the expedition? Or is there someone else?”

  The woman gave him a penetrating look. “I’m kind of at the same level you are. Fairly low down on the totem pole, not really in control of my own destiny. This,” she patted her portfolio, “could change all that.”

  Holroyd wasn’t sure if he should be offended. “So when exactly do you need the data? It might speed things up if the Institute’s president contacted my boss directly—he’s always impressed by big names.” He mentally kicked himself for sounding a disparaging note about his boss. You never knew when something like that might find its way back, and Watkins was not the forgiving type.

  She leaned toward him. “Mr. Holroyd, I’ve got
a confession to make. I’m not working right now with the complete support of the Institute. The fact is, they won’t even consider an expedition to find this city until I bring them proof. That’s why I need your help.”

  “Why are you so interested in finding this city?”

  “Because it could be the greatest archaeological discovery of our time.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Al appeared, bearing two huge slices of pizza dense with anchovies. He slid them under Holroyd’s nose. A salty aroma wafted upward.

  “Not on the portfolio!” the woman cried. Taken aback by the sudden tone of command, Al scooped the slices onto a neighboring table, apologizing profusely as he backed away.

  “And bring me an iced tea, please!” she called after him, then turned back to Holroyd. “Look, Peter—can I call you Peter?—I didn’t drive all the way here to waste your time on some dime-a-dozen digsite.” She drew closer, and Holroyd caught a faint clean scent of shampoo. “Ever hear of Coronado, the Spanish explorer? He came into the Southwest in 1540, looking for the Seven Cities of Gold. A friar had gone north years before, looking for souls to save, and he returned with a huge, drilled emerald crystal and stories of lost cities. But when Coronado himself came northward, he found only the mud pueblos of the Indian tribes of New Mexico, none of whom had gold or wealth. But at a place called Cicuye, the Indians told him about a city of priests, called Quivira, where they ate from plates of gold and drank from golden goblets. Of course, this drove Coronado and his men into a frenzy.”

  The tea came, and she cracked the plastic seal from the cap and took a sip. “Some of the natives told him Quivira was way to the east, in present-day Texas. Others said it was in Kansas. So Coronado and his army went eastward. But when he got to Kansas, the Indians said Quivira was far to the west, in the country of the Red Stones. Eventually, Coronado returned to Mexico, a broken man, convinced he’d been chasing a chimera.”

  “Interesting,” Holroyd said. “But it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Coronado wasn’t the only one to hear these stories. In 1776, two Spanish friars, Escalante and Dominguez, traveled westward from Santa Fe, trying to blaze an overland route to California. I’ve got their report here somewhere.” She dug into her portfolio, retrieved a creased sheet of paper, and began reading.

  Our Paiute guides took us through difficult country, by what seemed to us a perverse route, northward instead of westward. When we remarked upon this, the response was that the Paiutes never traveled through the country to the west. Asked the reason, they became sullen and silent. Halfway through our journey, near the Crossing of the Fathers on the Colorado River, half of them deserted. It was never clear from the rest exactly what lay to the west that caused such strong emotion. One spoke of a great city, destroyed because the priests there had enslaved the world, and tried to usurp the power of the sun itself. Others hinted darkly of a slumbering evil which they dared not awaken.

  She replaced the sheet of paper. “And that’s not all. In 1824, an American mountain man by the name of Josiah Blake was captured by Ute Indians. In those days, exceptionally brave captives were sometimes offered a choice between death or joining the tribe. Blake naturally joined the tribe. He later married a Ute woman. Utes are nomadic, and at certain times of the year they would venture deep into the Utah canyon country. Once, in a particularly remote area west of the Escalante, a Ute pointed toward the setting sun and mentioned that in that direction lay a ruined city of fabulous wealth. The Utes never ventured any closer, but they gave Blake an engraved turquoise disk that had supposedly come from the city. When he finally got back to white civilization ten years later, he swore that one day he would find this lost place. Eventually, he went back to look for it and was never seen again.”

  She took another sip of tea and placed the bottle carefully beside the portfolio. “Today, people assume these are all just myths, or maybe lies told by the Indians. But I don’t think it was either a myth or a lie. The location of the lost city is too consistent across all of the stories. I believe the reason nobody has ever found this city is because it is hidden in the most remote section of the lower 48. Like other Anasazi cities, it was probably built high up on a cliff, in an alcove or under an overhang. Or perhaps it’s simply been buried in drifting sand. And that’s where you come in. You’ve got what I need, Peter. A radar system that can pinpoint the city.”

  Despite himself, Holroyd found himself drawn into the story and its promise of adventure. He cleared his throat, searching for a note of reasonableness. “Excuse me for saying it, but this is rather a long shot. First of all, if the city is hidden, no radar could see it.”

  “But I understand your Terrestrial Imager can see through sand as well as clouds and darkness.”

  “That’s correct. But not rock. If it’s under a ledge, forget it. Second—”

  “But I don’t want you to find the city itself. Just the road leading up to it. Here, look at this.” She opened her portfolio and pulled out a small map of the Southwest, overlain with several thin, straight lines. “A thousand years ago, the Anasazi built this mysterious road system, connecting their large cities. These are the roads that have been mapped. Each one leads to or from a major city. Your radar could surely see those roads from space. Right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I have an old report—a letter, actually—that states there is a similar road leading into this warren of canyons. I’m certain it leads to the lost city of Quivira. If we could trace that road on a satellite image, we’d know where to look.”

  Holroyd spread his hands. “But it’s not that simple. There’s the waiting list. I’m sure Watkins must have told you about that, he loves to talk about it. There’s two years’ worth of applications for—”

  “Yes, he told me all about that. But who actually decides what the radar examines?”

  “Well, the imaging applications are prioritized by urgency and date of receipt. I take the pending jobs, and—”

  “You.” Nora nodded in satisfaction.

  Holroyd fell silent.

  “I’m sorry.” Nora said suddenly. “Your dinner’s getting cold.” She replaced the map in her portfolio as Holroyd gathered up the congealing slices of pizza. “So it would be a simple matter to, say, push one of the applications to the top of the queue?”

  “I suppose.” Holroyd sank his teeth into the pizza, barely tasting it.

  “See? I fill out an application, you move it to the top of the pile, and we get our images.”

  Holroyd swallowed hard. “And just what do you think Dr. Watkins, or the boys at NASA, would think of my ordering an orbit change for the space shuttle just so it could fly over your area? Why should I help you with this? I’d be risking my ass—I mean, my job.”

  Nora looked at him. “Because I think you’re more than just some bean-counting drone. Because I think you’ve got the same kind of fire in your gut that I’ve got. To find something that’s been lost for centuries.” She gestured at the table. “Why else would you be reading these books? Each one of them is about discovering the unknown. Finding Quivira would be like discovering those cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde. Only greater.”

  Holroyd hesitated.

  “I can’t,” he said after a moment, in a very quiet voice. “You’re asking for the impossible.” He realized with a thrill of fear that, for an instant, he’d actually been considering how he could help her. But the whole idea was crazy. This woman had no proof, no credentials, nothing.

  And yet he found himself unaccountably drawn in by her, by her passion and excitement. He had been to Mesa Verde as a child. The memory of those vast silent ruins still haunted him. He looked around, trying to collect his thoughts. He glanced at Nora, gazing back at him expectantly. He’d never seen hair quite that color, a burnished coppery sheen, almost metallic. Then his view moved back to the little image on the television screen of the Republic floating in space.

  “It’s not impossible,” Nora said in an unde
rtone. “You give me the application, I fill it out, and you do what you have to do.”

  But Holroyd was still staring at the image: the shining ivory shuttle drifting through space, the stars hard as diamonds, the earth endless miles below. It was always like that. The excitement of discovery that he had longed for growing up, the chance to explore a new planet or fly to the moon—all those dreams had withered in a cubicle at JPL, while he watched someone else’s adventure unfold on a dirty monitor.

  Then he realized with a start that Nora had been staring at him. “When did you join JPL?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Eight years ago,” he said, “right out of graduate school.”

  “Why?”

  He stopped, surprised by the bluntness of the question. “Well,” he said, “I always wanted to be part of the exploration of space.”

  “I bet you grew up wanting to be the first man on the moon.”

  Holroyd blushed. “I was a little late for that. But I did have dreams of going to Mars.”

  “And now they’re up there, orbiting the earth, and you’re sitting here in a greasy pizza parlor.”

  It was as if she had read his mind. Holroyd felt a surge of resentment. “Look, I’m doing just fine. Those guys wouldn’t be up there if it weren’t for me and others like me.”

  Nora nodded. “But it’s not quite the same thing, is it?” she said softly.

  Holroyd remained silent.

  “What I’m offering is a chance for you to be part of what might be the greatest archaeological discovery since King Tut.”

  “Yeah,” said Holroyd. “And my part would be to do for you just what I do for Watkins: crunch some data and let someone else run with it. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

  But the woman never took her hazel eyes from his. She was silent, and it seemed to Holroyd that she was making some kind of private decision.

  “Maybe I can offer you more than that,” she said at last, her voice still low.