There was a short silence. At last, Scopes smiled. “Very good, Charles. One for you, one for me. Now for the final round.”
The screen cleared, and a new word appeared:
universe
Scopes closed his eyes a moment. “ ‘That the universe is comprehensible is incomprehensible.’ Einstein.”
Levine paused. “You’re not foolish enough to start making up quotes already, are you?”
“Challenge me if you like.”
“I think I’ll let that one pass. ‘Either we are the only intelligent life-form in the universe, or we are not. Either possibility is staggering.’ Carl Sagan.”
“Carl Sagan said that? I don’t believe it.”
“Then challenge me.”
Scopes smiled and shook his head. “ ‘It is inconceivable that the whole universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate sun.’ Byron.”
“ ‘God does not play dice with the universe.’ Einstein.”
Scopes frowned. “Is it legal to use the same source twice in a single topic? That’s the second time you’ve done so.”
Levine shrugged. “Why not?”
“Oh, very well. ‘Not only does God play dice with the universe, but sometimes He throws them where they cannot be seen.’ Hawking.”
“ ‘The more the universe seems comprehensible, the more it also seems pointless.’ Weinberg.“
“Very good,” Scopes said. “I like that one.” He paused. “ True comprehension of the universe is given only to drugged teenagers and senile cosmologists.’ Leary.”
There was a silence.
“Timothy Leary?” Levine asked.
“Of course.”
The silence lengthened. “I don’t think Leary would have said something quite so puerile,” Levine said.
Scopes smiled. “If you doubt it, challenge me.”
Levine waited, thinking. It had been one of Scopes’s favorite stratagems, making up quotations toward the beginning and saving the real ones for later, as a way to play out Levine’s own store of quotations. Levine had known Leary from his Harvard days, and in his gut he felt this quotation sounded wrong. But then, another of Scopes’s tricks had been to use out-of-character quotations as a way to goad Levine into challenging him. He glanced at Scopes, who was staring back, impassively. If he challenged Scopes, and Leary had said it, after all ... He shook the thought from him mind.
The seconds ticked away.
“I challenge you,” Levine said at last.
Scopes started visibly. Levine watched as the color drained from the face of the GeneDyne CEO. He was contemplating—just as Levine had contemplated, years ago—what it meant to have lost on such a vast scale.
“It burns, doesn’t it?” Levine asked.
Scopes remained silent.
“It’s not the losing so much,” Levine continued. “It’s how you lost. You’ll think back on this moment, always. Wondering at how you threw it all away on such a trivial mistake. You won’t be able to forget it, ever. I know I still can’t.”
Still, Scopes did not speak. Half-lost in an overwhelming sense of relief, Levine saw Scopes’s hand twitching and realized—a split second before it happened—that the GeneDyne CEO would never give up his deadly virus. Twenty years ago, when Levine had lost at their ultimate round of the Game, he’d stuck to his word. He’d signed the corn patent and let Scopes grow rich on the discovery, rather than giving the marvelous secret to the world. Now, Scopes had lost, on an even grander scale. ...
Levine grabbed for the ampule just as Scopes’s hands flashed out. Two hands closed around it at once. There was a brief struggle as each man tried to claim it for his own.
“Brent!” Levine cried. “Brent, you gave your word—”
There was a sudden, dull popping sound. Levine felt a sharp sting; then a dampness spread across his palms.
He forced himself to look down.
The viral transport medium, with its deadly suspension of X-FLU II, was spreading in a puddle over the signed contract and running off the table onto the floor, staining the gray carpet black. Levine opened his hand: shards of glass were embedded in his palm, lines of blood diluted by the hot medium running down his wrist. His palm hurt as he flexed it.
He looked up again, watching as Scopes slowly opened his own hand. It, too, was torn and bloody.
Their eyes met.
Carson was tugging at her arm, trying to say something. “Mondragón’s gold,” he gasped at last.
“What about it?” de Vaca whispered.
“Use it.” A spasm of pain crossed his face and he fell back into the sand, where he remained, motionless.
As Nye’s footsteps came closer, she suddenly understood what Carson meant. Digging into her pocket, she pulled out the four coins she’d taken from the cave.
“Nye!” she called. “Here’s something that ought to interest you.”
She lobbed the coins over the rock. The footsteps ceased. Then there was a sharp intake of breath, a whispered curse. The footsteps approached again, and then she could hear his heavy breathing, coming up between the rocks, and she crouched with her head bowed, waiting. Something she knew must be the barrel of Nye’s big rifle was suddenly pressed hard against the base of her skull.
“Count of three,” she heard Nye say, “to tell me where you got these.”
She waited, saying nothing.
“One.”.
She waited.
“Two.”
She sucked in her breath, squeezed her eyes tightly closed.
“Three.”
Nothing happened.
“Look at me,” Nye said at last.
Slowly opening her eyes, she turned around. Nye was standing above her, one booted foot balanced on a rock, his tall form silhouetted against the setting sun. The safari hat and long English coat that before had always seemed so ridiculous to her now seemed utterly terrifying, a strange specter of death in this remote desert. He was holding the gold coin in one hand. His bloodshot eyes dropped to her naked breasts a moment, then moved up again, his face expressionless. He shifted the barrel to her temple. More seconds passed. Turning on his heel, Nye strode back out into the sand. De Vaca waited a moment, then jerked spasmodically at the sound of another shot. There was a deep, wet sighing sound.
He’s killed Roscoe, she thought. Now he’s looking through the saddlebags for more gold.
In a moment, Nye returned. Quickly, he reached down and grabbed de Vaca’s hair, yanking her rudely to her feet. She felt her roots ripping as he jerked her head hard to one side. Then, with a brutal shove, he threw her back against the rocks that rose at the end of the cul-de-sac. He swung the rifle around and jabbed it deep into her stomach. She bent forward, crying out, and he yanked her up again by the hair.
“Listen to me very carefully now. I want to know where you got this coin.”
She dropped her eyes and gestured with her chin to the sand at her feet. He glanced down, saw the dagger, and reached for it. He looked closely at the handle.
“Diego de Mondragón,” he whispered. Then he stepped closer. She had never before seen eyes so bloodshot; the edges of the whites were crimson, almost black.
“You found the treasure,” he hissed.
She nodded.
He swiveled the rifle back toward her face. “Where?”
She looked into his eyes. “If I tell you, you’ll kill me. If I don’t tell you, you’ll kill me. Either way, I’m dead.”
“Bitch. I won’t kill you. I’ll torture you to death.”
“Try it.”
He balled his fist and struck her directly in the face. She felt the shock of impact; then a terrific buzz sounded in her ears and a strange heat rushed into her head. She tipped forward, feeling faint, but he pushed her back against the sharp rock.
“It won’t work,” she said again. “Look at me, Nye.”
He struck her again. The landscape around her turned white and featureless for a moment, and s
he felt blood gush from her mouth. Her sight returned and she raised a hand to her face, realizing she had lost a tooth.
“Where,” he said again.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and remained silent, stiffening for the next blow.
The footsteps moved away, and she heard Nye speaking in a low tone. She could hear the pauses as he waited for somebody else to answer. Who was he talking to? Singer, probably, or one of the Mount Dragon security guards. She felt the slender thread of hope inside her begin to part;, they had been so certain Nye was alone.
The footsteps came back and she slitted open her eyes. Nye was pointing his rifle at Carson’s head.
“Tell me or he dies.”
She took a deep breath now, steadying herself. This, she knew, was going to be the hardest part. “Go ahead and shoot the cabrón,” she said as evenly as possible. “I can’t stand the redneck son of a bitch. And if you do, the gold will be all mine. I’ll never tell you. Except ...”
He swiveled the gun toward her. “Except what?”
“A trade,” she croaked.
She did not feel the blow as the butt of the rifle swung toward her head, but a pool of blackness rushed suddenly up to meet her. Consciousness returned, and with it a searing pain across one side of her skull. She kept her eyes closed. Again, a voice: Nye was still talking to someone. She listened for an answering voice, but it did not come. At last she cracked open her eyes. The sun had set, and it was much darker now, but she was still reasonably certain that he was speaking to no one.
Despite the pain, relief coursed through her. PurBlood was doing its terrible work.
Nye turned toward her, noticed she was conscious. “What kind of trade?” he asked.
She turned away, closing her eyes and bracing for another blow.
“What kind of trade,” she heard him repeat.
“My life,” she said.
There was a silence. “Your life,” he repeated. “I accept.”
“My life isn’t worth shit without a horse, that gun, and water.”
There was a silence, and then another terrible blow came. This time, consciousness returned slowly. Her body felt heavy and full of sleep. Breathing was difficult, and she knew her nose must be broken. She tried to speak without success, and felt herself falling back into the sweet black pool of unconsciousness.
When she came to again, she was lying on soft sand. She tried to raise herself, but white-hot pain flashed through her skull and down her spine. Nye was standing over her, flashlight in hand. He looked worried.
“One more blow like that,” she whispered, “and you’ll kill me, you bastard. Then you’ll never learn where the gold is.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes.
In a few minutes, she spoke again. “It’s a hundred miles from where you think it is.”
“Where?” he cried.
“My life for the gold.”
“Very well. I promise I won’t kill you. Just tell me where the gold is.” He turned suddenly, as if he had heard something. “Yes, yes, I remember,” he said to somebody else. Then he turned back.
“The only way I’ll live,” she whispered, “is with the horse, gun, and water. Without that, I die, and you’ll never know ...” She lapsed into silence.
Nye stared down at her, gripping the coins so fiercely in one hand that his entire arm was shaking. A sound like a whimper escaped from his throat. From the way he was looking at her, she knew her face must look terrible.
“Bring over your horse,” she said.
Nye’s mouth twitched spasmodically. “Tell me now, please—”
“The horse.”
Her eyes closed of their own accord. When she was able to open them again, Nye was gone. She sat up, fighting against the pain in her head. Her nose and throat were full of blood, and she coughed several times, trying to breathe.
She saw Nye reappear at the opening in the rocks, his magnificent horse trailing behind him in the moonlight like a silent shadow.
“Tell me where the treasure is,” he said.
“The horse,” she replied, struggling to her feet and holding out her left hand.
Nye hesitated a moment, then handed her the reins. She grabbed the saddle horn and tried to climb into the saddle, almost falling from dizziness.
“Help me.” He cupped one hand beneath her boot, hoisting her up.
“Now the gun.”
“No,” Nye replied. “You’ll kill me.”
“Give it to me unloaded, then.”
“You’ll double-cross me. You’ll ride ahead and take my treasure.”
“Look at me. Look into my eyes.”
Reluctantly, he looked up at her with his blood-rimmed eyes. Only now, as she looked into those eyes, did she realize how deeply the desire for Mondragón’s treasure ran through him. PurBlood had turned a simple eccentricity into a ruinous obsession. Everything, even his hatred of Carson, was secondary to his need for the treasure. She realized, with a mixture of fear and pity, that she was looking on a broken man.
“I promise, I won’t take your treasure,” she said almost gently. “You can have it, all of it. I just want to get out of here alive. Can’t you see that?”
He unloaded the gun and gave it to her.
“Where,” he urged. “Tell me where.”
There were two water bags tied to the cantle, each one half-full. She unlooped one and gave it to Nye, then began backing Muerto away from him. Obsession or no obsession, she didn’t want him trying to retrieve his gun after she had given him the location.
“Wait! Don’t go. Tell me, please—”
“Listen carefully. You’re to follow our tracks back about ten miles, along the base of the lava. Watch for the spot where we hobbled our horses. You’ll find a hidden cave in the lava there, at the base of the mountains. Inside the cave is a spring. At dawn, the sunlight entering the cave will throw an image against the rear wall in the shape of an eagle, balancing on a needle of fire. Just like on your map. But the wall doesn’t lead all the way to the cave floor; there’s a hidden passage at its base. Follow it. Mondragón’s body, his mule, and his treasure are at the bottom of a cavern.”
He nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, I understand.” He turned to his imaginary companion. “Did you hear that? All this time, I’ve been searching the wrong part of the desert. I’d assumed the mountains on the map were the Cerritos Escondidos. How could I have ...” He turned again to de Vaca. “Back this way ten miles, did you say?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go,” he said to his imaginary companion as he shouldered the water bag. “We’ll split it fifty-fifty. Mum would have insisted.”
He began walking out of the rocks and into the desert.
“Nye” de Vaca called out.
He turned.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Just a boy I knew once,” he said.
“What’s his name?”
“Jonathan.”
“Jonathan who?”
“Jonathan Nye.” He turned and hurried away. She watched him shuffle off, talking excitedly. Soon he had disappeared around a point of lava and into the night.
De Vaca waited several minutes until she was sure he had gone. Then she dismounted and moved slowly toward Carson. He was still unconscious. She felt his pulse: weak and rapid, definitely shocky. Gingerly, she examined the shattered forearm. It was leaking blood, but only slightly. Loosening the tourniquet, she was relieved to see that the severed artery had sealed. Now she had to get him out before gangrene set in.
Carson’s eyes fluttered open.
“Guy!” she said urgently.
The eyes turned, focusing on her slowly.
“Can you stand?”
Whether or not he had heard, she couldn’t be sure. She grabbed him under the arms and tried to pull him up. He struggled feebly, then fell back into the sand. Pouring some water into her hands, she splashed it gently on his face.
“Get up,” she ordered.
Carson st
ruggled to his knees, fell back on his good elbow, struggled up again, grabbed Muerto’s stirrup and pulled himself slowly to his feet. De Vaca helped him clamber onto the horse’s back, careful to keep his damaged arm from being jostled. Carson swayed, cradled his arm, blinked several times. Then he began to topple forward. De Vaca grabbed his chest, steadying him. She was going to have to tie him in place.
Nye had a cotton lead rope fixed to one side of the saddle. Uncoiling it, de Vaca tied the rope around Carson’s chest, leaning him over the saddle horn, wrapping his left arm around the horn and tying it securely in place. As she worked, she realized, with almost complete detachment, that she was shirtless. But it was dark, and she had nothing to cover herself with. Somehow it seemed very, very unimportant.
She began leading Muerto by the reins, walking directly toward the North Star.
* * *
They reached the line camp at dawn: an old adobe house with a tin roof, hidden among a cluster of cottonwood trees. Off to one side was a barn, a windmill and watertank, and a set of weathered corrals. A fresh breeze was cranking the windmill. A horse in the corral whinnied, then a dog began barking at their approach. Soon a young man, wearing red long Johns and a cowboy hat, was standing in the doorway, his mouth open as he stared at this topless woman, covered with blood, leading a magnificent paint horse with a man tied into its saddle.
Scopes stared at Levine, a mingled look of horror and disbelief on his face. At last he stepped away from the table, walked to a narrow panel in a nearby wall, and pressed a button. The panel slid up noiselessly, revealing a small wet bar and sink.
“Don’t rinse your hands,” Levine said quietly. “You’ll send the virus down the drain.”
Scopes hesitated. “You’re right,” he replied. Moistening a hand towel, he dabbed at his palms and picked out a few slivers of glass, then dried his hands carefully. Stepping away from the bar, he returned to the sofa and sat down. His movements seemed odd, hesitant, as if walking had become a suddenly unfamiliar act.
Levine glanced over from the far end of the sofa. “I think you’d better tell me what you know about X-FLU II,” he said quietly.
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