“All right, now what is it you want with me?” He spoke in a soft wood wind voice with that peculiar Navajo accent that seemed to give weight to each word.
Ford gestured to the wall with his head. “Your family?”
“Nephews.”
“They’re in the military?”
“Army. One’s stationed in South Korea. The other, Lorenzo, finished a tour in Iraq and now he’s . . .” A hesitation. “Back home.”
“You must be proud of them.”
“I am.”
Another silence. “I hear you’re leading a protest ride against the Isabella project.”
No answer.
“Well, that’s why I’m here. To listen to your concerns.”
Begay crossed his arms. “Too late for listening.”
“Try me.”
Begay uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Nobody asked people around here if we wanted this Isabella. The whole deal was done down in Window Rock. They get the money and we get nothing. They told us there’d be jobs—then you people brought in construction workers from outside. They said it would bring economic development—but you people truck in your food and supplies from Flagstaff. Not once have you folks shopped in our local stores in Blue Gap or Rough Rock. You built your housing in an Anasazi valley, desecrating graves, and took away grazing land that we were still using, without compensation. And now we’re hearing talk about smashing atoms and radiation.”
He placed his big hands on his knees and glared at Ford.
Ford nodded. “I hear you.”
“I’m glad you’re not deaf. You’re so damn ignorant of us, I bet you don’t even know what time it is.” He arched his eyebrows quizzically. “Go ahead—tell me what time you think it is.”
Ford knew he was being set up in some way but played along anyway. “Nine.”
“Wrong!” said Begay triumphantly. It’s ten.“
“Ten?”
“That’s right. Here on the Big Rez, half the year we’re in a different time zone from the rest of Arizona, half the year in the same zone. In the summer, when you enter the Rez, we’re one hour later than the rest of the state. Hours and minutes are a
Ford looked at him evenly. “Mr. Begay, if you’re willing to work with me to make some real changes, I promise you I’ll do all I can. You’ve got some legitimate grievances.”
“Who are you, a scientist?”
“I’m an anthropologist.”
There was a sudden silence. Then Begay eased himself back. A dry laugh shook his frame. “An anthropologist. Like we’re some kind of primitive tribe. Oh, that’s
“They sent me here only because I spent time over in Ramah. What I’d like to do is invite you up to the Isabella project for a tour, to meet Gregory Hazelius, to see what we’re doing, to get acquainted with the team.”
Begay shook his head. “The time for tours is over.” He paused, then asked, almost reluctantly, “What kind of research
“Investigating the Big Bang.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the theory that the universe came into existence thirteen billion years ago in an explosion and has been expanding outward ever since.”
“In other words, you people are shoving your noses into the Creator’s business.”
“The Creator didn’t give us brains for nothing.”
“So you all don’t believe that a Creator made the universe.”
“I’m Catholic, Mr. Begay. In my view, the Big Bang was simply how He did it.”
Begay sighed. “Like I said: enough talk. We’re riding up the mesa on Friday. That’s the message you can take back to your team. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
FORD RODE BALLEW BACK TO WHERE the trail ascended. He looked up at the boulders and crags and cliffs. Now that he knew Ballew could navigate the switchbacks and rough spots, there was no reason to walk. He would ride the old horse.
When they passed through the rock opening at the top of the mesa an hour later, Ballew burst into a trot, eager to get back to the barn. Ford clung to the saddlehorn in a panic, thankful there was nobody around to see what a fool he must look. At around one o’clock Nakai Rock loomed up, and the low bluffs around the valley came into view. As he rode down into the cottonwoods, he heard a harsh laugh and saw a figure walking furiously along the path from Isabella to the settlement.
It was Volkonsky, the computer programmer, his long greasy hair in disarray. He looked haggard and angry, but at the same time he was grinning like a madman.
Ford hauled Ballew to a stop, dismounted quickly, and used the horse to block the trail.
“Hello.”
“Excuse me,” said Volkonsky, trying to dodge around.
“Nice day, don’t you think?”
Volkonsky halted and stared, his face full of furious mirth. “You ask: Is it nice day? And I answer you: Never been better day!”
“Is that so?” Ford asked.
“And why is that your business, Mr. Anthropologist?” He tilted his head, his brown teeth exposed in a grimace of false hilarity.
Ford stepped so close, he could have touched the Russian. “From the way you look, I’d say you’re having anything but a nice day.”
Volkonsky laid a hand on Ford’s shoulder in an exaggerated, mock-friendly way and leaned forward. A wash of liquor and tobacco-laden breath enveloped Ford. “Before, I worry. Now I am fine!” He tilted his head back and roared with harsh laughter, his unshaven Adam’s apple bobbing.
The sound of steps came from behind. Volkonsky straightened abruptly.
“Ah, Peter,” said Wardlaw, approaching down the trail. “And Wyman Ford.
Volkonsky started at the salutation.
“Coming from the Bunker, Peter?” Wardlaw’s words seemed laced with menace.
Volkonsky maintained the manic grin, but Ford now saw uneasiness in his eyes—or was it fear?
“The security log says you were there all night,” Wardlaw continued. “I’m worried about you. I hope you’re getting enough sleep, Peter.”
Silently, Volkonsky stepped past him and walked stiffly down the trail.
Wardlaw turned to Ford as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Nice day for a ride.”
“We were just chatting about that,” said Ford dryly.
“Where’d you go?”
“I went to Blackhorse to meet the medicine man.”
“And?”
“We met.”
Wardlaw shook his head. “That Volkonsky . . . he’s always worked up about something.” He took a step down the trail, then stopped. “He didn’t say anything . . .
“Such as?” Ford asked.
