Scarlet Lake
Rick and Scotty never found out what Big Mac meant by his crack about
the Earthman. He evaded their questions, apparently feeling that he had
said too much. Otherwise he was cordial enough. As the days of waiting
to hear from Lomac passed by, the boys made the Spaceman Casino their
headquarters, hoping to pick up information from the Scarlet Lake people
who hung out there.
Men came and went, but Mac and Pancho were there every night. Once, Rick
commented on their nightly presence at the casino and said jokingly that
work on the base seemed to allow plenty of free time.
"We don't go back to the base every night," Big Mac said. "Pancho and I
do our job when there's work to be done. Other times we do what we want.
If anyone at the base needs us, they know where to come."
Rick thought that over. It seemed reasonable. He asked, "Is it okay to
ask what you do?"
"Sure it's okay. We're radar operators. We track the rockets on a radar
set from a field station." Big Mac pulled a red-checkered handkerchief
from his pocket and blew his nose violently. "Good operators are scarce.
That's why no one bothers us, so long as we're on the job when we're
needed."
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Scotty leaned over and picked up something that had dropped to the floor
when Mac pulled out his handkerchief. "You dropped this, Mr. McCline."
Rick identified it easily. It was a tiny transistor, an integral part of
modern electronic apparatus.
Mac took it in his big fingers. "Thanks. I must have stuck it in my
pocket absent-mindedly while we were repairing the equipment."
"Where do you go when you're on a field radar job?" Rick asked. "Just
tell me to mind my own business, if I get into anything classified."
"There's no classification on what we do," Pancho Kelly said. "Only the
results. We go to Careless Mesa. Everyone knows that."
The boys let the conversation lag and ordered dinner. They didn't want
to seem too inquisitive. Constant questions would only make Mac and
Pancho suspicious.
Later, as they rode through the star-studded night in their jeep, Scotty
suddenly asked, "What do you think of Big Mac and Pancho?"
Rick shrugged. He knew what had prompted Scotty's question. He had the
same feeling himself. "They're friendly enough, but I think it's an act.
What I mean, is ..."
"That they haven't any real interest in being friendly, they're just
cordial for the sake of appearances," Scotty concluded.
"On the nose, pal. I get the feeling they could switch from casual
conversation to mayhem without batting an eye."
Scotty thought it over for a moment. "Mac's the driving force of the
pair, but I'd say they're equally tough. I'd guess Pancho is a
combination of Irish and Mexican, both from his looks and his name."
"Is Pancho a name? Or a nickname?"
"Nickname. Usually short for Francisco."
Rick thought back over the past few days, and their meetings with Big
Mac and Pancho. "Funny thing, Scotty. The casino is usually pretty busy,
and mostly with men from Scarlet Lake. But instead of getting acquainted
with many of them we always seem to sit near those two."
Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "What about it?"
"I think we do it instinctively," Rick went on. "Every time we walk in,
they're deep in conversation. There's a kind of atmosphere about them,
as though the talk is always very secret. None of the other men seem
like that. They're more--well, open. No secrets. Know what I mean?"
Scotty nodded. "Now that you point it out, I do."
"So I think we sort of gravitate toward them automatically. On a hunch
that we haven't even recognized, so to speak."
"Because there's more to be learned from them than from the others?"
"That's it!" Rick was glad he had finally put his feelings into words.
"We'll keep an eye on those two," he said emphatically.
On the sixth day of their stay in Las Vegas, Lomac called. The boys
hurried to the office and were told they could report to the base
personnel office at once. They were given a map showing the location of
the base. Scarlet Lake, they learned, was about two hours' drive
northwest of Las Vegas.
They packed hurriedly, checked out, and loaded the jeep. After a brief
stop for gas, they headed out Route 95. Within a few minutes they had
left Las Vegas behind and were in open desert country.
The jeep was not capable of fast travel, and nearly an hour passed
before they saw signs of civilization. It was the air force base at
Indian Springs. They stopped for a coke, and topped off the gas tank.
Rick bought a canteen and a desert water bag at the general store, and
filled both.
A few miles beyond Indian Springs they saw the entrance road to the
Atomic Energy Commission's Nevada Test Site, and the Sixth Army's Camp
Desert Rock. After that, there was no sign of civilization for miles.
A few miles before the town of Lathrop Wells, Scotty spotted their
turnoff. The sign was small and inconspicuous. It simply read: "_Scarlet
Lake_," and an arrow was painted underneath the name.
The paving ended after a mile or two and became a very good dirt road.
The jeep was climbing steadily now, and in a short time Scotty shifted
to second gear.
"We must be nearly out of Nevada and into California," Scotty commented.
"Almost," Rick agreed. "According to the map, the base is right next to
Death Valley." Suddenly he leaned forward as the jeep rounded a turn.
Far below and still many miles away was the pinkish gleam of a dry lake
bed. Scarlet Lake!
"I see where they got the name," Scotty said.
Rick grinned. "Scarlet Lake makes sense but some of the other names
around here don't. Did you notice the town marked 'Steamboat' on the
map? And not enough water to float a bar of soap."
"See anything of the base?"
"Not yet."
Five miles later they began to see signs that Scarlet Lake was occupied.
Black strips indicated aircraft runways. Then, tiny concrete squares
came into view. But not until they were in the valley, only a mile from
the base, could they see buildings.
The buildings turned out to be a few single-story administrative shacks
clustered around a check-in point. A uniformed guard waved them into a
parking lot and told them to report to Security for badges.
They walked into the building marked "_Security Office, Badge Division_"
and found a counter with another guard behind it. He took their names
and asked for identification, then directed them to stand with chins
resting on a tray. He slipped plastic letters into slots and formed
their names, then took pictures with a fixed camera.
"Sit down and wait," he said. "We'll have these for you in five
minutes."
Rick looked his surprise. "Can you process the pictures that fast?"
"Don't have to. This is a Polaroid camera."
Rick joined Scotty on a wooden bench. "I expected a barbed-wire fence.
But there's no fence at all."
"The whole desert is a fence, I guess," Scotty surmised. "The only
access roads are probably guarded, and the only other ways to get into
the base would be by foot or horseback. No one could make it on foot,
and anyone on horseback would attract instant attention."
Scotty probably was right, Rick thought. Still, it wasn't at all what he
expected.
In a few moments the guard was back. He handed them laminated plastic
badges with their names and pictures. At the bottom of Rick's were the
numbers one, two, and three. Scotty's badge had only the numbers two and
three.
"What do these mean?" Rick asked.
"Those are the areas where you're allowed to go. Area One is the
blockhouse. Area Two is the main base and firing pads. Area Three is the
machine shop and maintenance depot. You can go anywhere. Scott can go
anywhere but inside the blockhouse. Sign these, please." He handed them
forms in which they agreed to be bound by all security regulations,
under penalty of the Espionage Act. They signed, and returned the forms.
"Go through the gate," the guard directed, "and report to the reception
desk in Building Five. That's personnel. They'll take it from there."
They returned to the jeep and drove to the gate. The guard inspected
their badges, compared the pictures with their faces, then waved them
on.
"Taking no chances," Rick remarked. "There's Building Five."
The personnel office gave them another map, showing installations and
buildings on the base itself, and assigned them to bunks nine and ten in
Barracks Seven. Rick was told to report at eight in the morning to Dr.
Gould in Building Twelve, while Scotty was told to report to Mr. Rhodes
in Maintenance Building Twenty-three. They received a leaflet marked:
"_Read This_."
They followed the map for another three miles, leaving the gate
buildings out of sight behind a ridge of rock. Their map showed that the
main cluster of buildings was three miles from the gate and nine miles
from the blockhouse and the firing pads on the dry lake bed. Again, Rick
began to appreciate Western distances.
The boys found their barracks without difficulty, and moved into a room
containing four bunks. It wasn't elaborate, but it was adequate for a
camp of this kind. It was clear that the other bunks were occupied, but
at the moment their bunkmates were apparently out.
Rick stowed his gear in the locker with his bed number on it, then sat
down to read the leaflet. It was a directory of camp facilities, plus a
written lecture on security. He was allowed to say what kind of work he
did, and that was about all.
"Let's look the place over," he suggested.
They located the mess halls, the base movie house, post exchange, and
post office. There was also a laundry and a snack bar. Set off by itself
was a recreation hall, equipped with TV sets, comfortable chairs, card
tables, and pool tables.
Rick followed the map to the laboratory buildings, and was surprised to
find that they were enormous sheds, like hangars. Most of the doors were
wide open, and he caught glimpses of shapes that could only have been
rocket sections. His pulse quickened. There was an atmosphere of
excitement, of big jobs being performed. At least his quick imagination
told him there was.
Then, in one shed he saw the broken remains of a rocket. From its size
he concluded that it must be the Viking that had crashed. The sight
brought sharp realization of the real job he and Scotty were here to do.
Rick checked his map. "Our barracks has space for eighty bunks. And,
according to this, there are twenty-eight barracks."
"Interesting facts about Scarlet Lake," Scotty declaimed. "What about
it?"
"That's over two thousand men."
"A lot of men," Scotty agreed. "What are you getting at?"
"Needles in haystacks. Out of more than two thousand we're supposed to
pick one--the Earthman!"