Others said that the men driving the SUVs were Indians or maybe Mongolians. Gamay won- dered if she had stumbled into the local insane asylum, a thought that was reinforced when the cashier mumbled something about 'aliens.' 'Aliens?' Gamay said.
The cashier blinked through thick, round-framed glasses, her eyes growing wider. 'It's like that secret UFO place in the States, Area Fifty-one, like they show on The X-Files.'
'I seen a UFO once when I was hunting near the old plant,' in- terjected a man who could have been a hundred years old. 'Big sil- ver thing all lit up.'
'Hell, Joe,' said the skinny woman, 'I've seen you so lit up you've probably seen purple elephants.'
'Yup,' the man said with a gap-toothed grin. 'Seen them, too.' The restaurant filled with laughter.
Gamay smiled sweetly and said to the cashier, 'We'd love to tell our friends back home that we saw a UFO base. Is it far from here?'
'Maybe twenty miles,' the cashier said. She gave Gamay directions to the plant. Gamay thanked the young woman, put a ten-dollar bill in the empty tip jar, scooped up the coffees and headed out the door.
Paul was leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest. He took the coffee she offered him. 'Any luck?'
Gamay glanced back at the store. 'I'm not sure. I seem to have run into the cast of Twin Pea/y. In the last few minutes, I've learned that this part of the world is home to Eskimos who drive big black SUVs, a UFO base and purple elephants.'
'That explains it,' he said with mock seriousness. 'While you
were inside, a bunch of big critters the color of plums came thun- dering by here.'
'After what I heard, I'm not surprised,' she said, slipping behind the wheel.
'Think the locals were having a little fun at the expense of a tourist?' Paul said, getting into the passenger side.
'I'll let you know after we find big silver things around Area Fifty-one.' Seeing the quizzical expression on her husband's face, she laughed and said, 'I'll explain on the way.'
They drove past the turnoff that led to the town center and har- bor, into an area of heavy pine forest. Even with the cashier's de- tailed directions, which included every stump and stone for miles, they almost missed the turnoff. There was no sign marking the en- trance. Only the hard-packed ruts showing fairly recent use distin- guished the way from any of the other fire roads that cut into the thick woods.
About a half mile from the main road, they pulled over. The cashier had advised Gamay to park at a clearing near a big glacial boulder and to walk through the woods. A few townspeople who had driven close to the plant's gates had been intercepted and rudely turned away. The Eskimos or whatever they were probably had hid- den cameras.
Gamay and Paul left the car and made their way through the woods parallel to the road for about an eighth of a mile, until they could see the sun glinting off a high chain-link fence. A black cable ran along the top of the fence, indicating that the razor wire was electrified. No cameras were visible, although it was possible that they were disguised.
'What now?' Gamay said.
'We can fish or cut bait,' Paul replied.
'I never liked cutting bait.'
'Me, neither. Let's fish.'
Paul stepped out of the woods into the cleared grassy swath around the fence. His sharp eye noticed a thin, almost-invisible wire at ankle height. He pointed to the ground. Trip wire. He snapped a dead branch off a nearby tree and dropped it on the wire, then he slipped back into the woods. He and Gamay flattened out belly-first on the pine needle carpeting.
Soon they heard the sound of a motor, and a black SUV lumbered to a stop on the other side of the fence. The door opened, and fierce- looking pure white Samoyeds as big as lions lunged out and ran up to the fence. The snuffling dogs were followed a moment later by a swarthy, round-faced guard in a black uniform. He cradled a leveled assault rifle in his hands.
While the dogs dashed back and forth along the fence, the guard suspiciously eyed the woods. He saw the branch lying on the trip wire. In an unintelligible language, he mumbled into a hand radio, then he moved on. The dogs may have sensed the two human beings in the woods. They growled and stood stiff-legged, staring at the trees that hid the Trouts. The guard yelled at them, and they jumped back into the SUV. Then he drove off.
'Not bad time,' Paul said, checking his watch. 'Ninety seconds.' 'Maybe it's time we got out of here,' Gamay said. 'They'll be sending someone to clear away that branch.'
The Trouts melted back into the woods. Walking and trotting, they returned to their rental car. Minutes later, they were on the main road.
Gamay shook her head in wonderment. 'That guard, did he look like an Eskimo to you?'
'Yeah, kinda, I guess. Never ran into many Eskimos back on old Cape Cod.'
'What's an Eskimo doing this far south, selling Eskimo Pies?'
'The only thing that guy and his puppy dogs were selling was a quick trip to the morgue. Let's see what's going on in the big city.'
Gamay nodded, and a few minutes later she was taking the turnoff that led to town. The village was hardly quaint, and she could see why it was only a footnote in the travel guide. The houses were pro- tected against the weather by asphalt shingles of drab green and faded maroon, and the roofs were covered with aluminum to allow the snow to slide off. There were few people or cars around. Some of the shops in the minuscule business section posted signs that said they were closed until further notice, and the town had an abandoned look. The harbor was picturesque, as the tour book said, but it was empty of boats, adding to the town's forlorn aspect.
The fish pier was deserted except for a ragged flock of sleeping gulls. Gamay spotted a restaurant/bar neon sign in a small square building overlooking the harbor. Paul suggested that she grab a table and order him fish and chips while he meandered around and tried to find someone who could tell him about the Oceanus plant.
Gamay stepped into the yeasty atmosphere of the restaurant and saw that the place was vacant except for a heavyset bartender and one customer. She took a table with a view of the harbor. The bartender came over for her order. Like the people she'd met in the general store, he proved to be a friendly type. He apologized for not having fish and chips, but said the grilled ham and cheese sandwich was pretty good. Gamay said that would be fine and ordered two sand- wiches along with a Molson. She liked the Canadian beer because it was stronger than the American brew.
Gamay was sipping her beer, admiring the fly-specked ceiling, the torn-fishnet-and-weathered-lobster-buoy decorations on the wall, when the man sitting at the bar slid off his stool. Apparently, he had taken the sight of an attractive woman drinking alone in a bar at mid- day as an invitation. He sidled over with a beer bottle in his hand and ran his eyes over Camay's red hair and lithe, athletic body. Unable to see her wedding ring because her left hand was resting on her knee, he figured Gamay was fair game.
'Good mornin', ' he said, with an amiable smile. 'Mind if I join you.
Gamay wasn't put off by the direct approach. She moved well among men because she had a talent for thinking like they do. With her tall, slim figure and long, swirled-up hair, it was hard to believe that Gamay had been a tomboy, running with a gang of boys, build- ing tree houses, playing baseball in the streets of Racine. She was an expert marksman as well, thanks to her father, who'd taught her to shoot skeet.
'Be my guest,' Gamay said casually, and waved him into a chair. 'My name's Mike Neal,' he said. Neal was in his forties. He was dressed in work clothes and wore shin-high black rubber boots. With his dark, rugged profile and thick, black hair, Neal would have had classic good looks if not for a weakness around the mouth and a ruby nose colored by too much booze. 'You sound American.' 'I am.' She extended her hand and introduced herself. 'Pretty name,' Neal said, impressed by the firmness of Gamay's grip. Like the general store cashier, he said, 'Just passing through?'
Gamay nodded. 'I've always wanted to see the Maritime Provinces. Are you a fisherman?'
'Yep.' He pointed out the window and, with unrestrained pride, said, 'That's my beauty over there at the boatyard dock. The Tiffany.
Named her after my old girlfriend. We broke up last year, but it's bad luck to change the name of a boat.'
'Are you taking a day off from fishing?'
'Not exactly. Boat shop did some work on my engine. They won't release Tiffany until I pay them. Afraid I'd
