tell, the television news was right: bark beetles and drought hadn’t needed any help.
Maria Atcitty, the chapter president, came up. “Nice turnout,” she said.
“Better than I thought. You coming?”
Atcitty laughed. “Anything to get me out of the office.”
“Where’s your horse?”
“Are you nuts? I’m driving.”
Begay went back to watching the motley collection of horseflesh gathering for the protest ride. Aside from a couple of fine quarterhorses and an Arab, they were mostly reservation canners, unshod, skinny, white-eyed. The scene reminded him of his uncle Silvers’s place over at Toh Ateen. Silvers had taught him the Blessing Way, but he’d also been a bronc rider, working the Santa Fe–Amarillo rodeo circuit until he busted his back. Afterward he kept a ragged bunch of horses for the kids to ride; that’s where Begay had learned all he knew about horses.
He shook his head. It seemed like such a long time ago. Uncle Silvers was gone, the old ways were dying, and the kids nowadays couldn’t ride or speak the language. Begay was the only one old Uncle Silvers had been able to talk into learning the Blessing Way.
The ride was more than a protest about the Isabella project; it was about recapturing a way of life that was rapidly disappearing. It was about their traditions, their language, and their land, about taking responsibility for their destiny.
A decrepit Isuzu pickup pulled up, pulling a stock trailer too big for it. With a whoop, a rangy man hopped out, wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off. He pumped one skinny arm into the air, hollered again, and went around to unload the horse.
“Willy Becenti’s here,” said Atcitty.
“Hard to miss Willy.”
The horse, already saddled, stepped down onto the dirt. Becenti brought him around and tied him to the tongue of the trailer.
“He’s packing.”
“I see it.”
“You going to let him bring that?”
Begay considered that for a moment. Willy was excitable, but he had a good heart and was solid as a rock when he wasn’t drinking. There’d be no liquor on this ride—that was one rule Begay was going to enforce.
“Willy’ll be all right.”
“What if things get nasty?” asked Maria.
“Things aren’t going to get nasty. I met a couple of the scientists yesterday. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Atcitty said, “Which ones did you meet?”
“That one who calls himself an anthropologist, Ford, and the assistant director, a woman named Mercer.”
Atcitty nodded. “Same ones I met.” A moment passed and she said, “You sure this is a good idea, this protest ride?”
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
38
KEN DOLBY LOOKED AT HIS WATCH. Six o’clock P.M. He turned back to the screen and checked the temperature on the bad magnet. It was holding steady, well within the tolerance range. He moused through several pages of software controls for Isabella. All systems were go, everything running perfectly. Power was at 80 percent.
It was a perfect night for a run. with Isabella diverting a large percentage of the megawattage of the RM- West Grid for its own use, even the smallest disruption—a lightning strike, blown transformer, downed lines—could cause a cascade. But it was a cool evening over much of the Southwest, the ACs were turned off, there were no storms and little wind.
Dolby had a feeling in his gut—that tonight, they’d solve the problem. Tonight was the night Isabella would shine to perfection.
“Ken, bring it up to eighty-five,” said Hazelius from his leather seat at the center of the Bridge.
Dolby glanced over at St. Vincent, monitoring the power flows. The leprechaun-like man gave him a thumbs- up and winked.
“Gotcha.”
At the very edge of perceptibility he could feel the faint vibration that marked the immense flow of power. The two beams of protons and antiprotons, circulating in opposite directions at unimaginable speed, still had not been brought into contact. That would happen at 90 percent power. Once they were brought into contact, it took a lot more power, a lot more time, and an exquisite level of fine-tuning to bring the system up to 100 percent.
The power gauges rose smoothly to 85 percent.
“Lovely night for a run,” said St. Vincent.
Dolby nodded, glad that St. Vincent was handling the power flows. He was a quiet, agreeable old fellow who seldom said a word, but he handled power the way a conductor handles a symphony orchestra, with exactness and great finesse. All without breaking a sweat.
“Eighty-five percent,” Dolby said.
“Alan?” asked Hazelius. “How are the servers?”
“Everything fine over here.”
Hazelius went around the room for perhaps the fiftieth time, soliciting answers from the team. So far, it was a textbook run.
Dolby reviewed his systems. Everything was working according to specs. The only glitch was the warm magnet, but by “warm” they were talking about only three one-hundredths of a degree warmer than it should be.
Isabella was settling in at 85 percent, while Rae Chen made tiny adjustments to the beams. Glancing idly around the room, Dolby thought about the group Hazelius had brought together. Take Edelstein, for example. Dolby suspected he might be even smarter than Hazelius—but a kind of weird-smart. Edelstein was a little scary, like his brain was half-alien. And what was it with the rattlesnakes? A weird frigging hobby. Then there was Corcoran, who looked like Darryl Hannah. She wasn’t really his type, too tall and abrasive. Way too pretty and too blond to be as smart as she obviously was . . . It was a brilliant group, even the robot Cecchini, who always seemed to be on the verge of going postal. Except for Innes. He was an earnest guy who tried hard but didn’t have the candlepower to illuminate much more than the well-trodden middle of the room. How could Hazelius take the man and his little rap sessions so seriously? Or was Hazelius just going along with DOE regs? Were all psychologists like Innes, spinning their neat little theories without a shred of empirical evidence? He was a man who saw everything and understood nothing. Innes reminded Dolby of that pop-psychology-spouting truck driver his mother had dated after his father’s death, a decent guy who double-chinned you half to death with advice from the latest self-improvement bestseller.
Then there was Rae Chen. She was smart as hell but totally laid-back about it. Someone had said she’d been a champion skateboarder as a kid. She looked like a Berkeley free-love type, fun, easy, uncomplicated. Or was she really uncomplicated? It was hard to tell with Asians. Either way, he’d love to get something going with her. He glanced over at her, bent over her console so intently, her black hair hanging down like a waterfall, and he imagined her without clothes . . . .
Hazelius’s voice broke in.
“We’re ready to go to ninety, Ken.”
“Sure thing.”
“Alan? When we’ve stabilized at ninety, I want you to be ready to switch over the p5 595s all at once, ganged and linked.”
Edelstein nodded.
Dolby moved the sliders, watched Isabella respond. This was it. This was the night. Everything in his life had led up to this point. He felt the deep vibration of the power as it increased. It was like the whole mountain was energized. It purred like a Bentley. God, how he loved this machine.
39
