Free Nightzone by Steven F. Havill Page A

country was conspicuously mentioned in the first paragraph, but Waddell was not mentioned by name—much like the ad that Frank Dayan had showed me. Written to imitate a breaking news story rather than a diatribe, the article still accomplished the same thing…spreading nonsense.
    â€œHow did they find out about the Walnut Haven project? And since when is California foreign? ”
    â€œIt’s not?” Miles laughed. “But look, somebody knows somebody. And you know, that doesn’t bother me. It’s all coming out here shortly. I plan to let Frank in on the whole thing, by the way, and let him scoop the other papers. I mean, the big dish is hot news, Bill. They’ll employ two dozen people, from telescope gurus to janitors.” He took a deep breath and looked out the window at the blank, cold sky. “The thing that irks me is trying to figure out why a project like this has to be a clandestine scheme of some sort.” He turned to look at me. “Why it can’t just be what it is?”
    â€œBecause most people are devoid of that kind of imagination, Miles,” I said.
    â€œWish to hell I really did understand. Seems like if it’s something that they can’t imagine, then somehow it must be something dangerous and a threat to truth, justice, and the American way.” He grinned ruefully. “I didn’t figure on that at the beginning. I figured they’d just say, ‘Well, that’s crazy Miles, but it’s his money.’”
    I leaned back, letting the pool of chile settle. I had wondered now and then about Miles Waddell’s source of income—he didn’t earn it punching a small herd of cattle. But that was none of my business. “You know, I’ve heard a few folks talking about the mesa project. When they ask me what I think is going on, I tell ’em that I’ve heard you say you’re building an observatory of some sort. And that’s it.”
    Waddell squinted one eye like a wild schemer. “Ah…but observing what… that’s the paranoid part. Look,” and he laid down his fork. “You have some time this morning, before all this deposition shit lands on our heads?”
    â€œA little time. The depositions are critical, Miles.”
    â€œRun out there with me. For just a few minutes.”
    I glanced at my watch and saw six o’clock straight up. The sun was just touching the tops of the buildings across the street. “We can do that.”
    â€œSee, I want to show you the plan for NightZone , but up there, where it makes sense. The whole dream. It’ll blow your socks off.”
    Swimming the last bite around the platter, I sighed with contentment. “All right. Let the day begin.”
    â€œYou can leave your rig here if you want,” Waddell offered. “I have to come back to town anyway.”
    I pushed myself out of the booth and slid two twenties under the edge of my plate, waving off his offer as he dug for his wallet. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let me follow you out. With the mess we have this morning, I never know what’s coming up. I need my wheels.” I grinned. “My mobile office.”
    â€œHell of a retirement you’ve got going,” Waddell said. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”
    And that should have been simple enough.

Chapter Seven
    State Highway 56 approached the village of Posadas from the southwest. It was heavily used by Posadas standards, carrying not only the rumble and clatter of local ranchers with their stock trailers, but traffic to and from Mexico and from southern Arizona. Snowbirds with enough spirit of adventure to pull their big RVs off the interstates used it, as did the burros who pulled used cars in tandem for sale in Mexico. And one way or another, a flood of illegal aliens used the highway, walking its shoulders, stuffed in vans or trucks, or driving their own well-worn piece of the American