“That’s not what I mean,” she said.
“What? Can’t hear you.”
“The sub-station,” the woman shouted. “The sub-station. Radio the sub-station, tell them to shut down.”
GOLIATH began to rise again — the tub, the seven-story powerhouse, the twelve-story A-frames, the fifteen-story twin masts, the twenty-two-story double-based convergent boom. The red lights squinted from the strain, the strobe light flashed like a neural synapse on the point of apoplexy, the independent spotlights roved and probed and peered about, dimming slightly as the lifting cylinders drew — with extravagant greed — upon the power supply. Again the mass of iron, of steel, of power, of howling majesty, shifted itself backward, another fourteen feet, toward the south edge of the Neck. Toward the brink.
“Ginny, Ginny! What happened to my brains?” Bishop Love snatched the portable Motorola from the rangerette’s outstretched hand. He pushed the microphone button. Holding the mike close to his mouth, shielding it with his free hand from the uproar to the east, he called his sub-station guard.
“Big Smoki, Big Smoki, calling Bunker Two. Come in, Bunker Two.”
He released the button. They heard the crackle of static, then a fuzzy voice, androidal, in response. “Big Smoki, this is Bunker Two.”
“That you, Henderson?”
“That’s me, sir.”
“Shut off the power.”
“What? Can’t read you, Bishop.”
“Shut it off. Close it down. Quick, quick.” The Bishop stared above the walkie-talkie toward the big machine in its suit of lights, setting itself down in a floating haze of sandstone molecules, shattered trees, glittering pink sparks of friction. Two more steps, maybe three — and the edge.
No immediate answer from Bunker Two.
“You read me, Bunker Two? Acknowledge, goddamnit.”
A rasp of static. “Ten-four, Bishop, ten-four. Yes sir. We read you. But …”
“So shut off the power. Right now! Some lunatic’s hijacked the Super-G.E.M. You read me?”
“We read you, Bishop, but …”
“No buts. This is urgent. Cut that master switch.” The Bishop felt the sweat dripping from his brow, his neck, his eyebrows. He wiped his eyelids with a thick forefinger. “Bunker Two, I’m talkin’ to you!”
“Sure’d like to oblige, Bishop, but I got a problem here. Two of’em. A big one and a small one. Pointing guns at me.”
“What?”
“Yep. Man and woman. Wearing Halloween masks. Some kind of A-rab robes. She calls him Yasser.”
“ Yes sir? What the hell you — who are they?”
“Yes, yeah, that’s right. He calls her Golda, that’s all I can tell you. In fact I better sign off right now, sir, that woman’s giving me the cut-off sign. Bunker Two, ten-seven for now.”
Dead air on the radio. Bishop Love stared at his sweetheart; she stared at him. Beyond, above, unapproachable, GOLIATH bellowed in pain and ecstasy, cranking up his big shoes for another playful, awkward lurch toward self-destruction. Such excess, such extreme, extravagant, exuberant, exhausting emotion.
“What do we do, Ginny? That machine cost Syn-Fuels thirty-seven million dollars. Thirty-seven million!”
The dazzling spotlight illuminated his drawn and sweating face, her softer, sweeter, far more human face. All brides are beautiful — even GS-7 career-track Bureau of Land Management government rangers.
She smiled. She opened both arms toward him. “Let it go, Dudley. It’s only another piece of iron. Forget it. Let it go. Let’s get married.”
He glanced toward the machine — one more big step to make — then looked back at Ginny Dick, his darling, his sexpot, his second mate, his happiness, his woman, his affianced, his bride-to-be, his once and future, last and final, never-to-be-sundered absolute eternal and immortal other wife.
He stepped forward, took the strong young ranger in his arms, embraced and kissed her deep and long in the full glare of publicity, full in the eyes of friends and buddies, guards and employees, under the brazen eyes of mad GOLIATH.
Love, love, love. Sunk in their embrace, lips melting in one like Super Glue, eyes closed in a lingering swoon of joy, they even missed the high point of the show, the final push of GOLIATH’S big feet, the fatal backward step upon the south edge of the Neck, the high rim of the canyon wall.
Yielding beneath the unendurable weight, the rim rock cracked. Slipped. Faulted. Spalled loose. Crumbled to a thousand falling boulders, each one a bomb. Sank into the moonlight and the darkness below. Dropping through space in silence.
The spotlights of the Super-G.E.M. swung wild toward the stars. The spider eyes blinked. The flashing strobe described a crazy intermittent arc across the blue of the night. The six-conductor 350 MCM trail cable slithered like a python out of nightmares over the stone, smashing through trees, and glided over the rim’s edge in leashed pursuit of its master. Would the sub-station on its steel skids be yanked two miles to follow? Would the thousand-mile-long interstate EHV powerline be uprooted and pulled along with the sub-station? And what about the generating station at Page, Arizona (Shithead Capital of Coconino County), the cities of Saint George, Utah, Las Vegas, Nevada, Los Angeles, California, integral components of the spiderweb of power, tied by a million webs of fabric, copper and steel to powerline, sub-station, six-conductor trail cable — would they too, the entire great gross buzzing inferno of moronic trash, be dragged from its asphalt bases, would the whole absurd ephemeral system come bouncing over the mountains and skating across the desert to follow the leader, LORD GOLIATH, into the welcoming abyss of well-earned oblivion?
Not likely. No doubt some weak link would snap first. But it was possible. It is possible. It will be possible. If not today then tomorrow. If not tomorrow then, for sure, the day after.
Meanwhile,
GOLIATH fell.
He fell.
And as he fell he sang this song, in brutal pre-recorded basso-profundo carefree tones:
HO-HO SAY CA-HAN YOU SEE
BY THE DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT …
“Suicide, suicide,” the Ace man marveled. “But what a way to go.” Nevertheless: he kept his eyes peeled. He kept his eyeballs skinned, watching the moonlight and shadows on the rock, at the far east end of the Neck, where the Super-G.E.M. of Arizona had left its last track. Under the spectacular glory of ultimate mechanico-disaster, the Ace security guard looked for a tiny human figure, maybe two or three of them, hustling off to an imaginary safety. He was already on his feet, jogging forward, when in fact he saw them, and sounded the cry of pursuit.
WHAT SO PROUDLY WE HAILED
[Dopplerian diminuendo …]
AT THE TWILIGHT’S —
“C’est splendide!” the journalist rejoiced, watching from his dark hole, scribbling, recording it all, “c’est très absolutely fucking magnifique!”
28
How They Done It
Only an hour earlier five figures on horseback were moving through the sagebrush at a brisk trot, headed for the Neck. Evening. Shadows long across the mesa plain. Nighthawks rising in the air, fluttering like bats in chase of bugs. A vast and forlorn sunset flared across the western sky, blood-red beyond a haze of windborne dust.
They rode in single file, following a primitive trail hardly better than a cowpath through the brush, between the pygmy trees of pinyon pine and juniper, brushing the open seedpods of Yucca elata on their five-foot stalks. The man in the lead, riding his favorite bay mare, was lank lean bright-eyed frightened beaknosed country boy of middle age wearing the filthy green coveralls of an auto mechanic, a black billed cap on his head, a big red bandanna around his neck. He was followed hard at heels by a stout broad burly brute with a black bandanna over nose and mouth, a greasy leather sombrero on his head, a giant Appaloosa gelding under his seat. This chap had small evil red eyes, in each of which burned the pinpoint fanatic fire of grim and resolute, unyielding happiness. Getting even is the best revenge.
The two i
n front set a hard pace, a brutal pace for anyone not accustomed to a long ride on stiff-legged dude horses jolting forward on alternating diagonal pairs of leg and foot. The third rider, bouncing in the saddle, lagging behind, voiced a bit of complaint now and then:
“You two bastards have to go so fast?”
No answer. The men in front ignored her. Actually the leader was concentrating on the path and route ahead and scarcely heard the words; while the second man, himself not much of a horseman and even less of a chevalier, didn’t care. The woman continued to grumble. “We have all night, don’t we? So what’s the hurry? You want me to miscarry? If I ever tell my mother about this you two are going to be sorry you were born. What are we doing out here in this godforsaken wilderness anyhow? We could be home watching ‘Wide Wonderful World of Nature’ on Channel Six. If I weren’t such a sweet lovable good-natured young woman I’d report all four of you to the BLM and let you rot in the Fredonia Village Jail for six months. This is a misdemeanor, isn’t it? Conspiring to murder God? Or is it a Federal felony?” Nobody answered. Reins in one hand, cowgirl style, she held down her loose burnoose with the other, spurred her mount into a sudden canter and thus caught up with the surly silent man in front of her. The horses tossed their heads and tails, unused to such jostling proximity, disliking it.
Within a minute the woman was again falling behind. The two riders in front maintained their steady trotting gait, peering ahead at the bluish glow of a mercury-vapor security light, and — much farther beyond — at the dim red eyes, the bristling strobe, of lights that appeared to be stationary on the sky, like unmoved stars.
The woman continued to kvetch and bitch in her jocular, mocking fashion, neither expecting nor desiring any response. Straggling behind her came the fourth member of the party, even less of a rider than the woman. He clung to the horn of his saddle with both hands, trying to ease the jolt and jog, occasionally rising a bit in the stirrups to relieve his aching butt, and letting the tied reins simply hang on the neck of the docile, well-trained trail horse. Big as a bear but rather soft-bodied, awkward in the saddle, this man like the woman was shrouded in a flowing robe of moonlight blue; instead of a burnoose, however, he wore a floppy checkered dish towel on his head, bound in place with a rubber band. Dangling from his neck was a Halloween mask in the image of Yasser Arafat — that face that only an A-rab could love, surely the creepiest slimiest wormiest liberationist who ever crawled out of the sand pits, grease traps and cesspools of ancient Samaria.
“Why me?” the man had asked, days before, “why should I have to wear the ugly mask?”
“Because it fits,” she said.
“While you are privileged to impersonate the lovely Mary Magdalene. Is that fair?”
“I always wanted to be a virgin.”
“You’re thinking of the wrong Mary, kid. Anyhow I’m going to call you Golda. Golda Meir. For the purposes of our bizarre nocturnal outing, I mean.”
“Bizarre’s the word. Sometimes I think you’re crazy, Doc. Or senile. Letting that mad dog talk you into one more suicide trip.”
“And you, my dear? Why then are you joining us?”
“Because somebody has to look after you, you fool.”
Pause for thought. “True,” he said. Scratching his bald dome. Removing and peering at the fogged-up lenses of his spectacles. “How true.”
They lurched onward in the saddle, falling behind, then loping abruptly forward to regain their places. Jabbering away at each other among the grim silent serious environmental extremists trotting before and after.
Yes, the fifth horseman — riding easily, naturally — followed the pair from suburbia. This was the spectral old man in the Lone Ranger suit — comical ten-gallon white hat, black mask, pullover shirt with lace-up collar, gloves and gauntlets, tight blue cavalry pants, high boots, and around his waist the massive leather belt loaded with cartridges, two fine-tooled holsters, and in each holster the legendary silver-plated hand-engraved ivory-handled .44-caliber six-shot repeater. The shootist. The Masked Rider. Shane and Shinola, Tom Mix and Hopalong Cassidy, Sir Lancelot and El Cid, Gilgamesh, Jason, Siegfried and Luke Skywalker wrapped in one grubby Jungian package. This Lone Ranger and his outfit needed a visit to the Laundromat. He needed a shave. A shearing too. Probably a shit, shower, shampoo and shoeshine as well. Not to mention an eye transplant, a liver transplant and a sphincter implant. An old wreck, disintegrating organ by organ, like a worn-out Ford: now a fender falls off, now the shock absorbers go, the head gasket blows, the fuel pump falters, the differential dies, the clutch plate grabs. His horse, nearly as old as he is, stumbles now and then but recovers, regains its steady jogging gait, good for another thousand miles or two before the final burnout.
“Yasser, I’m gonna die.”
“No you’re not, my dear. Clench your gut. Use the stirrups. Lean on the horn like I do.”
“I hate horses. If God meant us to ride horses why’d She invent the Mercedes-Benz?”
“Her ways are mysterious but the end is plain; a good laugh. The world was created to amuse a mind bored by the otherwise banal perfection of the absolute. Ask Hegel.”
“Ask who?”
“Anybody.”
The lead rider, slowing his horse, raised one hand in caution. He drew up and waited behind a juniper. The second rider, turning in his saddle, growled “Quiet back there.”
“Quiet yourself,” snapped Golda Meir. But she was happy to let her mount come to a stop with its nose browsing between the vast horsey buttocks of the Appaloosa. Yasser joined them, head to hindquarters. The fifth rider halted a short distance off, looking carefully to his rear, to all sides and above, mindful of helicopters and spotter planes.
“That’s the sub-station right over there,” Smith said, pointing. “See it, Doc? Quarter mile or so. Where the yard light is.”
“We see it,” Bonnie said.
Doc nodded in the deepening twilight, the spreading moonlight. He straightened the dishrag on his head, clearing his eyes and face. “Christ,” he muttered. “No wonder they can’t shoot straight.”
“We’ll tie up the horses here,” Seldom went on, “walk the rest of the way.”Addressing Bonnie: “All you and Doc got to do is creep over there, get the drop on that watchman. He’s by himself. Young fella name of Henderson. Be sure to take his gun away and cuff his hands. Lock him to the light pole. Don’t hurt him. Old Jack there, he’ll back you up. Got your big iron, Bonnie?”
“My what?”
“Pistol, revolver, some kind of handgun?”
“Are you kidding, Smith? You know we don’t own any guns. We belong to the American Civil Liberties Union, buster; we’re against guns except in the hands of the duly constituted authorities. We say, Ban guns. Confiscate guns. What is this anyhow, a free country or not?”
Smith stared at Hayduke in helpless wonder. “They didn’t bring a gun.”
Hayduke growled, staring ahead. “Abbzug the wiseass. Show him your plaything, Bonnie.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. My what? Here? On public land? In front of all these men?”
“You’re wasting time, Abbzug.”
She grinned, flashing fine white teeth in the moonlight. She reached into her capacious Bedouin robes and drew forth, with both hands, a sleek elegant precision-tooled Uzi 9mm machine pistol. She unfolded the stock, snapped it in place. Aiming the Uzi’s muzzle at the sky she reached inside her robe again, pulled out a full ammo magazine and slammed it firmly into the breech. With practiced ease she slid the carriage back then forward, loading the firing chamber, set the action on semi-automatic and locked the safety. “Jewish,” she said proudly, smiling at Smith. “This here’s a Jew-gun, men. Israeli made and Israeli deployed. The gun that won the West. West Bank, that is.” Turning her head, she smirked at Doc. “Eat your heart out, Arafat. Today Israel — tomorrow the world!” She tucked it out of sight.
Doc Sarvis and Seldom Seen Smith stared at Bonnie. “Holy smoke,” said Smith. Doc nodded sadly. r />
Smith looked at Doc. “And where’s yours, Doc?”
“Me? Mine?” The good doctor smiled. “I’m a pacifist, Seldom. You know that; I don’t believe in violence. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Anarchy is not the answer.”
“So what is the answer?”
Doc thought. “It’s an unanswered question,” he said after a moment. “Everything depends upon our interpretation of the silence.” Brief pause for intellectual digestion.
“You fuckin’ philosophers finished?” Hayduke asked. No immediate reply. He waited, frowning into the gloom, looking two miles west at the glinting strobe light of the Super-G.E.M. He heard no roar of motors. GOLIATH had paused. Was down, waiting. Waiting for him, Hayduke, George Washington Hayduke, father of his country. Not of the America that was — keep it like it was? — but of the America that will be. That will be like it was. Forward to anarchy. Don’t tread on me. Death before dishonor. Live free or fucking die. Etc., etc.
“Let’s get moving,” he said. “Before all them cops and whirlybirds come back. Time for the swing shift.”
All but the Lone Ranger, old one-eyed Jack, dismounted. They tied up the four horses. Doc and Bonnie put their masks in place, adjusted robes and hoods and dish towels, and slipped into the dark toward the electrical sub-station and the G.E.M.’s umbilicus to power, the two-mile extension cord. The Lone Ranger circled north and west to approach the same objective, slightly later, from a different direction. On horseback: he never walked. Never. Nowhere. Hayduke and Smith, wearing dark coveralls, shod in running shoes, jogged forward on the dim trail that led to the new dirt freeway, the dusty smear of devastation, wide as a football field, that marked the track of the 4250-W. Each man carried a light field pack slung behind his shoulders. Hayduke also had a blunt .357 stuck in his belt at the small of his back; Smith wore his Granddaddy’s old .44 in its stiff frazzled leather holster nestled at his groin.
Twenty minutes later they topped the gentle rise above the east end of the Neck, slunk a bit farther under the little desert trees, and stopped. Breathing hard, sweating, they studied the moonlit scene before them, Hayduke using field glasses.