Part 2 (1/2)

The Doctor frowned and considered. I've got him there, I've got him there, thought Butcher. But then the little man spoke up as if reciting a list, ' thought Butcher. But then the little man spoke up as if reciting a list, ' Yellow City Yellow City, h.e.l.l's Inheritance h.e.l.l's Inheritance and and The Falcon of Gibraltar The Falcon of Gibraltar.'

' The Hawk of Gibraltar The Hawk of Gibraltar,' said Butcher immediately, then he bit his tongue.

But he couldn't help it. The man had got the name of his book wrong and putting him right was a reflex reaction. But reflex reactions like that, which betrayed a man's feelings, could end up getting him killed.

'Yes, sorry, I stand corrected,' said the Doctor. ' The Hawk of Gibraltar The Hawk of Gibraltar.'

'Never heard of any of them,' said the girl.

'Really, Ace,' said the Doctor. 'Have a little consideration for the feelings of the poor writer who laboured to pour out all those hundreds of thousands of words.'

'Well, I haven't haven't heard of them,' said Ace. 'Or read them.' She glanced up at Butcher in the mirror and added, 'But then I'm not a big reader,' as if to mollify him. Despite himself, Butcher was stung by her remarks. He remembered a girl in New Orleans, a pretty girl, to whom he'd made a gift of his first novel. He'd asked her what she'd thought of it and she'd been lavish, though unspecific, in her praise. When she wasn't looking he'd pulled the book off her shelf and checked. The twenty dollar bill he'd placed in the book was still where he'd left it, between pages ten and eleven. And she wasn't the type to 11 heard of them,' said Ace. 'Or read them.' She glanced up at Butcher in the mirror and added, 'But then I'm not a big reader,' as if to mollify him. Despite himself, Butcher was stung by her remarks. He remembered a girl in New Orleans, a pretty girl, to whom he'd made a gift of his first novel. He'd asked her what she'd thought of it and she'd been lavish, though unspecific, in her praise. When she wasn't looking he'd pulled the book off her shelf and checked. The twenty dollar bill he'd placed in the book was still where he'd left it, between pages ten and eleven. And she wasn't the type to 11leave money lying unspent. There had only been one conclusion. The shrew hadn't even read as far as the middle of the first chapter. Butcher's experiences as a detective had left him amply cynical about human nature, but in his new role as a writer he seemed to have reacquired his gullibility, like sensitive skin growing over a callous. He had cursed himself as roundly as he'd cursed the girl (whom he promptly stopped seeing) and, spending the twenty dollars on whiskey, he'd resolved never again to trust anyone as far as his writing was concerned. It was a precept he'd honoured. For example, he didn't believe the Doctor had read one word of his work. The man had perhaps memorised the t.i.tles of his books, and managed to parrot them more or less correctly. But that was as far as it went.

Even as Butcher was thinking this, the Doctor leaned forward and said, 'I particularly enjoyed Yellow City Yellow City. I thought it was not only a gripping thriller but a devastating portrait of labour relations in America.'

'A portrait of what?' said Ace.

'Labour relations.'

'Sounds like something that goes on in a maternity ward.'

'Well it was a birth, in a way. But it was the birth of a social movement.

Or, you might say, a socialist movement. The 1920s saw the rise of organised labour in America, the unions.'

'Oh, like strikes and that.'

'Correct,' said the Doctor. 'And it was a violent birth. The vested interests of American industry didn't take kindly to workers demanding their rights. And dynamite, axe handles and shotguns were liberally employed in presenting the employers' counter arguments.'

'Violence on the picket line, eh?' said Ace.

'Indeed. And the Major's novel was a brilliant portrait of a corrupt town at the centre of just such a labour war. Both sides of the argument are presented with stark, cynical detachment and the effect is devastating.' The Doctor grinned at Butcher. 'I thought the anarchist bombing of the casino was particularly inspired. And the internal dissension amongst the Wobblies was splendidly portrayed.'

'The Wobblies?' said Ace.

'A nickname for the Industrial Workers of the World.'

Butcher grunted. All right, maybe the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d had read his books. Or at least one of them. From the back seat the Doctor said, 'But his finest work is probably The Hawk of Gibraltar The Hawk of Gibraltar.'

'Is it an animal story?' said Ace.

'Hardly. The hawk in question is a jewelled statuette on which a number of nefarious parties are attempting to get their hands.'12.

Butcher decided he'd had enough of the literary discussion. He said, 'What was that capsule you gave her?'

There was a pause in the back seat. 'I beg your pardon?'

'You reminded her to take her capsule. She got it out of her purse and swallowed.'

'Oh that,' said the Doctor. 'Fish oil.'

'It tastes revolting revolting,' said Ace.

'But very good for the brain,' said the Doctor.

The winding road took them up onto the mesa above the broken shadows of Los Alamos Canyon. The MPs at the checkpoint recognised Butcher at the wheel of the car and waved them through. 'Well, here we are,' said the Doctor.

The Hill was a dusty, uninspiring place with the makes.h.i.+ft look of a civilian resort that had been requisitioned for military use.

'We're on the Parajito Plateau, are we not, Major?' said the Doctor. Butcher just grunted. He was getting sick of playing chauffeur and tour guide, even if it was a role he'd volunteered himself for.

'Why would anyone want to come here?' said Ace.

'Well, this project is the brainchild of Robert Oppenheimer, and Oppenheimer has fond memories of this place. This mesa.'

'We call it the Hill,' said Butcher.

'Indeed. Anyway, Oppenheimer came here to convalesce when he was a teenager. His parents thought the New Mexico air would do him good.'

Butcher squinted suspiciously at the Doctor. 'How do you know all this?'

'Oppy and I have corresponded a number of times over the years,' said the Doctor. 'Although we've never actually had the pleasure of meeting face to face. An omission I'm hoping to correct today.'

'You and him wrote letters to each other?' said Butcher.

'Yes.'

'This was before the war?'

'Yes.' The Doctor turned to Ace. 'As a young man Oppy often enjoyed riding in this rugged country.'

'I'll bet he did,' said the girl somewhat ambiguously.

They pa.s.sed the glinting water of what looked like a miniature lake. 'That's Ashley Pond,' the Doctor informed her. 'Named after the founder of the school.'

'Whose name was Ashley.'

'Whose name was Ashley Pond,' said the Doctor.

'Marvellous,' said Ace. 'I'm glad somebody has a sense of humour. What is that school you mentioned?'

'The Los Alamos Ranch School. That's what this place used to be.'13.

'What, like a dude ranch?'

'Indeed,' said the Doctor. Ace brightened somewhat. 'Maybe I won't look like such a total clown after all. Do I have to watch out to not step in any horse c.r.a.p?'

'Sadly the horses are largely gone now. Though there are plenty of other things around here we'd be well advised to avoid stepping into,' the Doctor's eyes grew bleak for a moment. 'All of them considerably less safe than horse droppings.'

They pa.s.sed a large, handsome wooden building with log walls. A small second storey to the building was tucked in under the sloping s.h.i.+ngled roof.