arrived. He threw a questioning glance at Paul Beale, who knew all about such things. Paul nodded and said: “Good idea.”
“All right,” Priest said. “Get your stuff.”
Melanie went off.
“How will we sign the message?” Star said. “We need a name.”
Song said: “Something that symbolizes a peace-loving group who have been driven to take extreme measures.”
“I know,” Priest said. “We’ll call ourselves the Hammer of Eden.”
It was just before midnight on the first of May.
* * *
Priest became tense as he reached the outskirts of San Antonio. In the original plan, Mario would have driven the truck as far as the airport. But now Priest was alone as he entered the maze of freeways that encircled the city, and he began to sweat.
There was no way he could read a map.
When he had to drive an unfamiliar road, he always took Star with him to navigate. She and the other Rice Eaters knew he could not read. The last time he drove alone on strange roads had been in the late autumn of 1972, when he fled from Los Angeles and finished up, by accident, at the commune in Silver River Valley. He had not cared where he went then. In fact, he would have been happy to die. But now he wanted to live.
Even road signs were difficult for him. If he stopped and concentrated for a while, he could tell the difference between “East” and “West” or “North” and “South.” Despite his remarkable ability to calculate in his head, he could not read numbers without staring hard and thinking long. With an effort, he could recognize signs for Route 10: a stick with a circle. But there was a lot of other stuff on road signs that meant nothing to him and confused the picture.
He tried to stay calm, but it was difficult. He liked to be in control. He was maddened by the sense of helplessness and bewilderment that came over him when he lost his way. He knew by the sun which way was north. When he felt he might be going wrong, he pulled into the next gas station or shopping mall and asked for directions. He hated doing it, for people noticed the seismic vibrator—it was a big rig, and the machinery on the back looked kind of intriguing—and there was a danger he would be remembered. But he had to take the risk.
And the directions were not always helpful. Gas station attendants would say things like “Yeah, easy, just follow Corpus Christi Highway until you see a sign for Brooks Air Force Base.”
Priest just forced himself to remain calm, keep asking questions, and hide his frustration and anxiety. He played the part of a friendly but stupid truck driver, the kind of person who would be forgotten by the next day. And eventually he got out of San Antonio on the right road, sending up prayers of thanks to whatever gods might be listening.
A few minutes later, passing through a small town, he was relieved to see the blue Honda parked at a McDonald’s restaurant.
He hugged Star gratefully. “What the hell happened?” she said worriedly. “I expected you a couple of hours ago!”
He decided not to tell her he had killed Mario. “I got lost in San Antonio,” he said.
“I was afraid of that. When I came through I was surprised how complicated the freeway system was.”
“I guess it’s not half as bad as San Francisco, but I know San Francisco.”
“Well, you’re here now. Let’s order coffee and get you calmed down.”
Priest bought a beanburger and got a free plastic clown, which he put carefully in his pocket for his six-year-old son, Smiler.
When they drove on, Star took the wheel of the truck. They planned to drive nonstop all the way to California. It would take at least two days and nights, maybe more. One would sleep while the other drove. They had some amphetamines to combat drowsiness.
They left the Honda in the McDonald’s lot. As they pulled away, Star handed Priest a paper bag, saying: “I got you a present.”
Inside was a pair of scissors and a battery-powered electric
“All right,” Priest said. “Get your stuff.”
Melanie went off.
“How will we sign the message?” Star said. “We need a name.”
Song said: “Something that symbolizes a peace-loving group who have been driven to take extreme measures.”
“I know,” Priest said. “We’ll call ourselves the Hammer of Eden.”
It was just before midnight on the first of May.
* * *
Priest became tense as he reached the outskirts of San Antonio. In the original plan, Mario would have driven the truck as far as the airport. But now Priest was alone as he entered the maze of freeways that encircled the city, and he began to sweat.
There was no way he could read a map.
When he had to drive an unfamiliar road, he always took Star with him to navigate. She and the other Rice Eaters knew he could not read. The last time he drove alone on strange roads had been in the late autumn of 1972, when he fled from Los Angeles and finished up, by accident, at the commune in Silver River Valley. He had not cared where he went then. In fact, he would have been happy to die. But now he wanted to live.
Even road signs were difficult for him. If he stopped and concentrated for a while, he could tell the difference between “East” and “West” or “North” and “South.” Despite his remarkable ability to calculate in his head, he could not read numbers without staring hard and thinking long. With an effort, he could recognize signs for Route 10: a stick with a circle. But there was a lot of other stuff on road signs that meant nothing to him and confused the picture.
He tried to stay calm, but it was difficult. He liked to be in control. He was maddened by the sense of helplessness and bewilderment that came over him when he lost his way. He knew by the sun which way was north. When he felt he might be going wrong, he pulled into the next gas station or shopping mall and asked for directions. He hated doing it, for people noticed the seismic vibrator—it was a big rig, and the machinery on the back looked kind of intriguing—and there was a danger he would be remembered. But he had to take the risk.
And the directions were not always helpful. Gas station attendants would say things like “Yeah, easy, just follow Corpus Christi Highway until you see a sign for Brooks Air Force Base.”
Priest just forced himself to remain calm, keep asking questions, and hide his frustration and anxiety. He played the part of a friendly but stupid truck driver, the kind of person who would be forgotten by the next day. And eventually he got out of San Antonio on the right road, sending up prayers of thanks to whatever gods might be listening.
A few minutes later, passing through a small town, he was relieved to see the blue Honda parked at a McDonald’s restaurant.
He hugged Star gratefully. “What the hell happened?” she said worriedly. “I expected you a couple of hours ago!”
He decided not to tell her he had killed Mario. “I got lost in San Antonio,” he said.
“I was afraid of that. When I came through I was surprised how complicated the freeway system was.”
“I guess it’s not half as bad as San Francisco, but I know San Francisco.”
“Well, you’re here now. Let’s order coffee and get you calmed down.”
Priest bought a beanburger and got a free plastic clown, which he put carefully in his pocket for his six-year-old son, Smiler.
When they drove on, Star took the wheel of the truck. They planned to drive nonstop all the way to California. It would take at least two days and nights, maybe more. One would sleep while the other drove. They had some amphetamines to combat drowsiness.
They left the Honda in the McDonald’s lot. As they pulled away, Star handed Priest a paper bag, saying: “I got you a present.”
Inside was a pair of scissors and a battery-powered electric
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