Impact

'Where?'

Abbey pointed up.

'I can't even imagine it.'

'The human brain can't imagine it. The numbers are too large. The universe is a hundred and fifty-six billion light-years in diameter--and that's just our part of it. The part we can see.'

'Hmmm.'

'A few years ago the Hubble Space Telescope stared for eleven days at an empty spot of night sky no bigger than a dust speck. Night after night it collected the faintest light from that pinpoint of sky. It was an experiment to see what might be there. You know what it saw?'

'God's left nostril?'

Abbey laughed. 'Ten thousand galaxies. Galaxies never seen before. Each one with five hundred billion stars. And that was just one pinprick of sky, chosen at random.'

'You really believe there's intelligent life elsewhere in the universe?'

'The math requires it.'

'What about God?'

'If there is a God--a real God--it wouldn't be anything like the lameass Jehovah dreamed up by shepherds tending their flocks. The God who made this would be . . . magnificent beyond all comprehension.' Abbey took another sip. The wine was opening up. She could really get used to drinking fine wine. Maybe she should go back to college and become a doctor after all. The thought immediately soured her mood.

'So what are we going to do with this meteorite if we find it?'

'Sell it on eBay. Don't overcook that meat.'

Jackie took the steaks off, put them on paper plates, passed one to Abbey. They ate for a few minutes in silence.

'Come on, Abbey. Stop kidding yourself. You really think we're going to find it? It's a wild-goose chase, like when we went looking for Dixie Bull's treasure.'

'What's the matter--not having any fun?'

Jackie took a small sip of wine and cooler. 'All we've been doing is dragging our asses through the woods. And that chase on Ripp Island scared the crap out of me. This isn't the adventure I thought it would be.'

'We can't give up now.'

Jackie shook her head. 'Your father's going to have a shit-fit about you stealing his boat.'

'Borrowing.'

'He'll kick you out of the house and you can forget going back to college.'

'Who said I want to go back to college?' Abbey said hotly.

'Come on, Abbey, of course you have to go back to college. You're like the smartest person I know.'

'I get enough of this shit from my father without you piling it on.'

'There's no meteorite,' said Jackie defiantly.

Abbey tipped up the bottle, finished the wine, and ended up with a mouthful of sediment. She spat it over the side. 'There is a meteorite and we're going to find it.'

The sound of three measured gunshots came rolling across the water and all was silent again.

'Sounds like the yahoos are out tonight,' said Abbey.

24

Ford noticed a strange silence in the jungle as they approached the edge of the valley. The forest at the margins of the blowdown zone had been abandoned by life. A light smoky haze drifted through the trees, bringing with it the smell of burning gasoline, dynamite, and rotting human flesh. The heat grew as they approached the clearing, and Ford could hear but not yet see the activity ahead: the clank of iron on stone, the shouts of soldiers, the occasional gunshot and cry.

The tree trunks thinned and light loomed up beyond. They had reached the clearing. Beyond, hundreds of trees lay on the ground, flattened from the explosion, torn and shattered, stripped of leaves. The mine area itself was a scene out of the busiest and lowest circle of hell . . . a hive of monstrous activity.

Ford turned to Khon and looked him over one last time. The Cambodian looked the part of a miner--filthy face, ragged clothes, the scabs and sores they had doctored on his arms using mud and red dye from tree bark. He was still fat but it now looked more like the product of disease.

'You look good,' said Ford, adopting a light tone.

Khon's grim face softened. Ford held out his hand, grasped Khon's. 'Take care. And . . . thanks.'

'I survived the Khmer Rouge once,' said Khon cheerfully. 'I can do it again.'

The little round man made his way through the fallen timber and out into the cleared area, limping toward the line of miners. A soldier shouted at him and shoved him into line, gesturing with his weapon. Khon stumbled forward, as if drugged, and vanished into the shuffling masses.

Ford checked his watch: six hours before he made his move.

Over the next hours, Ford circled around the camp observing the routine. As noon approached, he moved carefully to the head of the valley, avoiding the patrols, and from a small hill observed the white house where Brother Number Six held court. The man had spent the entire morning on the verandah in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe and gazing on the scene below with a smile of contentment, like an old grandpa watching his grandchildren play in the backyard. Various soldiers came and went, bringing reports, taking orders, and taking turns standing guard. Ford's attention was drawn to a skinny, gloomy-looking man with bags under his eyes, a bent frame, and hangdog face who never seemed to leave Six's side. He seemed to be an amanuensis of some kind, leaning over and speaking into the man's ear, listening and taking notes.

At noon, a manservant in white came out of the house and passed around drinks. Ford watched the two men, Six and his advisor, sipping and chatting like guests at a garden party. The time passed slowly. Lunchtime at the mine arrived, and the ragged lines of humans gathered around the cooking fires, each receiving a ball of rice in a banana leaf. Five minutes, and then back to work.

As Ford watched the camp, he realized that an elite group of guards in pressed uniforms seemed to be guarding the rest of the soldiers. There were about two dozen of them patrolling the perimeter of the camp, heavily armed with Chinese-made AK-47 knockoffs, RPGs, M16s, and Vietnam War-era 60mm light mortars. Guards guarding guards. Maybe, Ford thought, it would be like the Wizard of Oz: all you had to do was kill a few--or one--and everyone else would fall into line.

At one o'clock sharp, Ford rose from his hiding place and walked toward the valley on an open trail, making noise and whistling. When he came within a few hundred yards of the white house, a burst of gunfire shredded the leaves above his head and sent him to the ground. A moment later three soldiers converged, yelling in a hill language. One held a gun to his head while the others roughly searched his clothing. Finding him unarmed, they jerked him to his feet, pulling his hands behind him and tying them, and pushing him forward along the trail. In a few minutes he was standing on the verandah, in front of Brother Number Six.

If Six was surprised to see him, he didn't show it. He rose from his rocking chair and strolled over, examining Ford as if he were a piece of interesting sculpture, his birdlike head bobbing up and down. Ford examined his captor in turn. The man was dressed like a French colonial official in an embroidered white silk shirt, khaki shorts, knee- high black socks, and wingtips. He was smoking latakia in an expensive English Comoy pipe, generating fragrant blue clouds of smoke. His face was delicate, almost feminine, a puckered scar above his left eyebrow. As he circled Ford, he smacked his red, girlish lips, his white hair slicked back with Vitalis.