There was another loud hum-that of all the batteries losing power at once. Abruptly the electrical flow cut off. As one, the batteries thudded back to the earthen floor.
Leaning against the door frame, Roote took a deep, cleansing breath. He seemed stronger now. More in control.
Hooded eyes settled on Arthur Ford.
"That's better," Roote drawled with a smile. "You got more of them things?"
"Those were the last ones," Ford admitted nervously.
Roote closed his eyes for a moment. His head was clearing. Even so, he still needed more power. "They got generators around here?" he asked.
"Not that I've seen," Ford said.
The private opened his eyes. They settled on Ford's jeep, which the ufologist had parked just outside the open door of the hut.
"Over there," Roote ordered, pointing with his chin.
Ford knew enough not to refuse.
Grabbing Roote by one arm, he helped the hobbling killer out into the dying sunlight. He leaned Roote against the fender of the jeep.
"Open her up," Roote commanded.
Roote's intention was clear. And it was just as clear to Ford that he was helpless to stop him. Reluctantly he lifted the hood of the jeep high into the warm evening air.
Like some sort of perverse faith healer, Roote laid hands on the battery while it was still hooked into the engine. He drained it in a sparking instant.
Although he said nothing, Ford looked dispirited as he dropped the hood back into place. "You-all had best call Triple-A," Roote slurred through his Cheshire cat grin. "Any more cars?" Ford nodded.
"The Camp Earthers keep them on the other side of the huts. Near the road." The killer pushed away from the jeep. He accepted Ford's assistance, though he was almost strong enough to stand on his own.
"Let's go power walkin'," Elizu Roote enthused.
As dusk settled around them, the two men struck off across Camp Earth.
BETA RAM RACED through the growing twilight up the winding path to Camp Earth.
Even though he had lost his tail several miles before, his heart still thudded in his chest. The sedan had chased him all the way from Las Cruces to the Caballo foothills. The entire time his pursuers were behind him, Beta had the distinct impression that they could have overtaken him at any moment. The driver of the other car-whoever he was-matched Beta's every move flawlessly. It was as if the two vehicles were wired to the same steering wheel and gas pedal.
He was dead. It could have been anyone: Squiltas, Army, any of a number of shadow government agencies. They were going to get him. No doubt about it.
But then the miracle happened. Thick billowing clouds of gray-white smoke began to pour from his pursuers' hood. It was as though Salvion had personally intervened to save Beta.
They had broken off. Fallen back.
As they pulled over to the side of the road, Beta had stomped down even harder on the gas pedal of his rickety truck. His only thought was to put as much distance as possible between himself and the two strange men.
It was stupid, he told himself in retrospect, to have taken the direction he had. They wanted him to lead them to Camp Earth. He had practically done that.
Beta remonstrated himself as he drove rapidly up the steady, boulder-lined incline, a plume of heavy dust rising in his wake. Stacks of batteries bounced against his tailgate, threatening to break free.
Even as he chastised himself, he was shifting the blame. It was Arthur Ford's fault. Him and that alien of his.
After all, when pursued by the government, where else would Beta have gone? Camp Earth represented safety to him. It was his haven from the doomed world. Of course he would go there when in danger.
Beta had gone into town hundreds of times without any problem. The Squiltas and their Association of Evil were afraid of Salvion. And since they knew the Being of Light protected Beta RAM, they left Beta and his followers alone. Because of the divine protection afforded Beta by Salvion, the Camp Earth leader had for years avoided a pitched laser battle every time he went to the local Safeway for toilet paper. The only difference this day was Roote.
For some reason, they were after Arthur Ford's alien friend. They'd followed Beta in order to reach their prize. As he raced along the twisting mountain road, Beta RAM was beginning to regret not turning Roote over to the authorities.
A sudden bounce. A twist in the road.
Beta turned the steering wheel sharply, taking the curve in a great skid of dust and sand. Flooring the gas once more, he lurched ahead. As the truck closed in on his encampment, he caught a flash of light in his rearview mirror. For a sick moment he thought that the government men were back. But when he looked at the sliver of mirror that was held in its casing by strips of ratty gray duct tape, he realized that it was much, much worse.
There was light all right. Lights. But they weren't on the ground. They were in the blackening sky behind him.
Running lights. From an alien spacecraft!
Blaming Ford and Roote, Beta RAM slammed both feet firmly on the gas pedal. The truck was already moving at a dangerously high speed on the mountain trail.
Its speed failed to increase one jot. While its panicked driver screamed in terror, the battered truck raced closer to the camp. Ahead of the hostile starship.
Behind Beta RAM, the Fort Joy Army helicopter roared forward in hot pursuit.
HAROLD SMITH PICKED UP the phone on the first ring.
"Report," his lemony voice commanded. "We've got a truck matching the description you gave us, sir," came the crisp reply.
The colonel who reported to him didn't know that the man he was speaking to was in a lab on base.
"Where?"
"Near Caballo Lake Percha, northwest of Grama. He's moving fast. Chopper's hanging back for now. Should we concentrate our search in that-"
Smith considered. "No," he said finally. "Recall the others. Have only the one helicopter follow the vehicle back to its camp. When the location is confirmed, call me."
"Yes, sir."
They both cut the connection at the same time.
After Smith had placed the cell phone next to his computer, he tapped the plastic case with one idle finger.
He knew from a strong instinct honed by years of experience that this was the truck Remo had been following.
Smith even knew the owner's name. He had gotten the credit-card records from the Las Cruces House Warehouse store. The vehicle belonged to one Beta RAM.
The name appeared on the bar screen of his laptop computer. Smith's face pinched in displeasure as he read the obviously invented appellation.