When Mira pulls up in front of Martin's house in the early morning hours it looks like she has crammed everything you could ever think of related to camping into the back of the rented Bronco. Sleeping bags and two pillows are compressed into a fabric cube. They lie alongside a tent, cooler, some cast iron cookware, lanterns, two collapsible shovels and assorted sundries. 

Martin greets her at the door of his restored three-story row house and nods, "Come on in, I'll be ready in a minute." Opening the door for her, he reveals a stack of material in the foyer, including two ABS equipment cases, a duffel bag, and several smaller bags. "If you wait a moment, I'll give you a hand with loading."

"Sure, though squeezing them in is going to be the challenge. But I left some room over the wheel well," Mira says, eyeing the extra baggage speculatively. "What's in the cases?"

"Surveillance equipment mostly. Video and still cameras, binoculars and a spotting scope, some nightvison gear. " He pauses to finish writing a sentence, then looks up. "There's also some audio/visual recording gear and a collapsible parabolic mike in there somewhere."

"Cool, I usually have to make do with a pair of binoculars and my own two eyes," Mira says. "This'll be great. Though have you thought about spray-painting some of this equipment black to cut down on the glare off of it. Though with us it would be better if it's brown. We'll have to pick up some sagebrush to act as cover."

"I believe the cameras and the spotting scope have slip-on covers, though I haven't used them - they're in the Velcro pockets with their respective items." Martins pauses, for a moment, thinking, "The mike might be a problem though, we'll probably wind up buying a can of spray paint in Nevada for it *and* using the local flora." He shrugs, "Most of my work was done from inside buildings." 

Mira kind of shrugs as she puts down the equipment. "Well, when push comes to show, we'll have to rely on ourselves. But it is fun to use this stuff. So have you been spying on people for a living for long?"

"About ten years, but mostly only low-key criminal surveillance," he replies absently. "The department had specialists for the really big cases."

"So you worked for the police," Mira ventures. "Detective or beat cop?"

"Both," he replies without looking up from the pad, his pen still moving. "Six on the street and another ten in 'clothes' after that."

"What's your best story?" she asks. "I had a friend who once arrested what he thought was two women shoplifting. Turned out they were no women. It was a case of cross-dressing shoplifting. Getting cuffs on was not easy."

"Maybe later," he says, "This probably isn't a good time."

"Well, you ready to go?" Mira asks, giving Martin an appraising once over. "You'll probably want to bring hiking boots if you've got 'em. The rocks can really cut up tennis shoes. Plus were just getting into the beginning of rattlesnake season. Though it so cool, they shouldn't be a problem."

"I didn't bring any food. I figured when we stopped in Reno we could stock up. But we can pick up something to eat on the way out of town. I could go for a cup of coffee," she adds punctuating the sentence with a half yawn. "Sorry."

"No problem, there's coffee in the kitchen if you want some," he offers, scribbling notes on a legal pad. "I just need to leave the new doctor's number for Mom in case there's a problem." As he writes, a large and exceedingly furry cinnamon-red Chow wanders out of what looks like a formal dining area to the right of the foyer and eyes Mira speculatively.

"Rewrrr," Mira whistles, "Here doggie, doggie. What's your dog's name?"

"R.G.," he answers, setting the pad down and moving over to where the Chow is still eyeing Mira warily. "C'mere boy, " he says, ruffling the dog's fur, "I've got someone for you to meet." Leading the dog over to Mira, he squats down next to it and continues, "Let him sniff your hand for a moment, he needs to be introduced."

"That's OK," Mira says, getting down on her knees and petting the dog. "I love animals. My neighbors had a ton of dogs that helped them herd cattle and sheep, so I was always around them. It's amazing that a 1,700-pound steer can be held off by a 45 pound dog. Their Border Collie Max would just jump and nip the cattle in the forehead, if they didn't comply."

"That's the big reason I need to be the one introducing you," Martin admits slowly. "He won't recognize you as a 'non-threat' unless I do, and I'd be pretty embarrassed to have to haul my partner to the emergency room the first day together."

"Dogs are pretty smart," Mira says. "Well, let me amend that. Some dogs are pretty smart and then you have Robby. A loveable dog but couldn't herd sheep to save his life. Did a great job herding his tail though. But anyway. R.G. has probably already figured out that I'm Ok since you've been talking to me and called him over. What kind of dog is he?" she asks, holding out her hand for R.G. to get a sniff. 

Martin watches R.G. sniff Mira's hand for a second, then say, "He's a Chow. They were originally Chinese temple dogs - the ones that formed the basis for all of the 'foo-dog' statues that you see in and around Chinatown." Pausing, he nods to R.G. when the dog looks up, making an odd hand gesture as he firmly says "Friend."

R.G. whuffles once, and begins to wag his tail. "You're in for it now," Martin observes, standing back up. "That's his 'I'm so happy I could drool on you' look."

"Well hello R.G.," Mira says, affectionately petting the dog. "You are certainly a pretty one. Though I imagine you shed everywhere," she adds giving the dog a final pat. "Well, I guess we should get going."

"Not as much as you'd think," Martin observes. "They don't have a mechanism to relase shed fur like cats do - they can let go of the fur at the skin level, but it just felts up until you brush them." He shakes his head, "He's labor intensive at times, but I'd keep him even if Dorothy wasn't in love with him. 

Glancing at his watch, he sighs, "But you're right about the time." Bending down to pick up one of the equipment cases, he continues, "Let's get this loaded." 

 A straight shot on I-80, the 231 mile drive from San Francisco to Reno takes four hours in good weather, around three and a half the way Mira normally drives. But in the rain on a Friday in June, it takes three hours of stop and go traffic just to get to clear the Central Valley, and begin to ascend into the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. This is a drive Mira knows all too well, and Martin, too, is well acquainted with the road, at least as far as the exit which leads to Lake Tahoe, one of Dorothy’s favorite vacation spots.

"Man I hope we don't get snow. I really don't want to deal with all the people who can't drive in it," Mira mutters, passing a slow-moving, black Altima with Nevada plates. "You'd think these people would learn how to drive."

I suppose that was a rhetorical question considering the source, Martin muses silently, eyeing the speedometer warily. Unwrapping a granola bar, he bites off a chunk and begins to chew silently for a second before realizing he's being rude. "Wuullnnn?" he asks, offering one to Mira.

"Sure," Mira says holding out at hand. "Oh hell, hold on a second," she says, shifting suddenly 

Martin abandons the granola bar to hang in midair as he grabs for the dash, I knew I should've offered to drive, he thinks.

"The music's not bothering you is it?" Mira asks, deftly changing lanes to avoid a semi. The speed limit may be 65 mph on the freeway here, but Mira is doing closer to 85 mph sending clouds of water spraying up from under the car. The music she is referring to is barely audible; the volume is set around one. "I think that's the hardest problem about travelling, deciding on the music. Everybody's got different tastes and by the time you agree on a station, you get out of its range. You're welcome to put a tape in, we'll be getting interference from the mountains soon anyway."

"Umm, any preferences?" her passenger replies, unzipping a cassette carrycase. 'I can probably get close - unless it's hardcore country."

"Do you have Big Bad Voodoo Daddies in there?" Mira asks. "Or some Meredith Brooks would be cool."

'Merideth Brooks I can do - but you're out of luck on the Voodoo Guys," he replies, extracting a cassette and popping it into the player. As the strains of the first song come up, he adjusts the volume to "3" and leans back.

"So did you find out anything interesting with your research? Mira asks."

"That probably depends on your definition of 'interesting'," he replies wryly. "There's no crime, possibly because there aren't any people to rob/kill/whatever. There also isn't any money changing hands out here over land issues where my contact could see it - at least nothing like what we're looking for. How'd you make out?"

Mira's forehead wrinkles as if she is concentrating, when Martin turns up the radio. It takes her a couple of seconds before she responds to his question. 

"Well I guess the key thing to remember is that technically this installation isn't illegal," Mira says, sort of lost in thought. "The government owns 85 percent of the land in Nevada, so it is likely they own the land the facility is on. It was a condition of Nevada's statehood that they turn over control of that land to the government and since the failure of the Sagebrush Rebellion I and II - the land has pretty much stayed in the government's control.

"Besides meeting safety or environmental regulations, there is nothing illegal about having that facility out there. I imagine that the stuff may have been originally stored at Area 51, but as that facility's secrecy was compromised, the moved this stuff here. Also, Area 51 has been extensively photographed by Russian spy satellites. I imagine the government wanted a less noticeable base. This one appears to fit the bill."

"So a key thing to remember is that we will be trespassing and they are probably authorized to used deadly force to stop us. They are authorized to use deadly force at Area 51 and have used that permission freely," Mira adds somewhat darkly.

"That reminds me," Martin interrupts, "Didn't know if you had one, but I packed a Class II vest for you. I hope we don't need them, but you can't be too careful."

"The vest will probably help, but I imagine that the guards will be using at least Black Talon rounds, if not something stronger. "Black Talons may be illegal now, but they weren't for a while and they do a hell of a number on vests. I'll watch your back and you watch mine and let’s just hope that we don't have cause to need those vests."

Then she adds. "I do appreciate the sentiment Martin. And here I thought you said that people just let you down. I knew you weren't that cynical. There's still a little caring for your fellow man left in you," she teases.

Martin turns to look at her, something raw and painful moving behind his eyes for an instant before he says in a rigid, flat voice, "I'm not going to bury another partner." 

There goes that renowned reporter tact, Mira thinks to herself. And I wonder why people don't like me. "I'm sorry Martin, I didn't mean to imply you didn't care," Mira says, biting her lip. "Hey, maybe all this worrying will be for nothing. We're assuming that this woman had her facts right when she said this place even existed. We may get out there and only find sagebrush and jackrabbits."

Her passenger is silent for several minutes, lost somewhere inside himself, before he speaks again. "Then we'll take photographs of jackrabbits and sagebrush, pack up our gear, and go home. But I don't think it'll be that easy."

"I'm unsure how tough security will be there. It's pretty heavy at Area 51. I imagine this will be even worse. Plus there's no telling what sort of advanced tech they are using. Probably a lot of stuff we've never even seen. I think we should expect to be noticed. The key will be in getting in and having a good escape plan so that when we are noticed we can get out of there fast."

Shaking his head, Martin sighs, "I can't tell you how to beat measures I've never heard of. If that's the case then all I can suggest that we wear masks and gloves, don't let anyone see our faces, and destroy all of the clothing after we leave to prevent a particle match. After that..." he shrugs. "I don't have a clue."

"Well, there's always the old stand-by - Run like hell," Mira suggests.

"It's been stand-by for centuries because it works," he agrees. A moment passes, and then he adds, "Have you been in one of these situations before?"

"Run-like-hell situations," Mira laughs. "Too many to count. Somehow I always manage to stumble into these things. Of course it never seems that bad when you first get into them. There was that time I thought I was staying at that nice little town in the Sierras for a vacation when we lost all power. Well, you don't want me to boor you with tales. Suffice to say that I've had my experiences. But as far as dealing with the government. Well, lets just say we don't get along - at all," Mira says, bitterness edging her voice. "The people who run these things - they're willing to sacrifice everything and everyone - even their own people- to achieve their goals. And for what - a better way to kill people? A new drug? A souped up Cyberline treatment?" 

"Like I said before," Martin echoes, his voice no less bitter. "Money and power."

Mira continues, "The big problem is finding the truth. There are just so many lies out there. But then that's why were here. Just trying to ferret out a little truth hidden inside a whole lot of misinformation and deceit."

"I hope you have better luck than I did," her partner says softly, as if to himself.

"Also, EDGAR turned up something interesting," Mira says, managing to sip a soda without slowing down. "Actually it what was interesting was what wasn't in EDGAR. Sierra Pacific's quarterly and annual reports were all in order, but strangely missing was any mention of the geothermal facility. By federal law they would have top report on that project - power output, costs, sales, etc. But there is nothing there. Which means, that someone has gone to the trouble of either covering up that facility or getting them an exemption. I didn't have time to file a FOIA or anything. I imagine that they would cover it up anyway. But still, it's interesting. My best guess is that power from that plant is only going one place and that's to this secret underground facility."

"That's a *lot* of power for a storage facility, what are they doing with it all?" Martin wonders aloud.

"I'm going to guess that it's more than just storage," Mira ventures. "I imagine that they're doing research as well. When my dad worked on projects, he was never far from his records and any devices he needed. They probably house some research labs down there and since scientists would be noticed if the lived in town, they may have sort of dormitory facilities underground as well. Of course that's just a wild guess. We've got to get out there first."

"If that's true," her partner muses out loud, "Then they probably have a fair amount of traffic coming in and out of the place - no one's going to stay cooped up in a glorified cave for too long or they'll go buggy. They must have some kind of program to get their people out under the sky, even if it's just at night. We might can do something with that."

Luckily, it’s late in the season for snow, even crossing Donner Summit, though the low clouds look suspiciously to Mira as though they might lead to a June dusting, if the temperature drops at all. The mountains are spectacular, now mist-shrouded, though traffic on the steep passes slows as semis block both roads of traffic, creeping up the hills. 

Mira fights the urge to lean on her car's horn. I knew I should have gone the back way through Highway 50 and South Tahoe, she thinks. They don't let semis up on that road.

By the time Mira and Martin descend from the mountains into Reno, it’s late in the afternoon, and even here in the high desert it’s raining. Both are now aching to stretch their legs after their sojourn, and Mira fights another yawn from the driver’s seat. The downtown casinos are the most prominent structures here, dwarfing all other buildings. Looks just like Mira left it, several years before, except housing developments have crept up the sides of the mountains a few hundred feet more, and a few more casinos dot the skyline.

Reno, Nevada: home of the National Bowling Stadium, National Automobile Museum, Hot August Nights, and perpetual "8 oz. prime rib for $1.99" offerings at any cheaper casino downtown, if you’re courageous enough to brave the food poisoning. Settled in the mid-1800s when a toll bridge was constructed over the Truckee River for pioneers on their way to California, Reno has been milking tourists ever since.

"Well, we better find a place to spend the night," Mira shrugs. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd rather avoid downtown. The University Inn is right next to the college campus. With school out, they should have available rooms. Why don't we check there first?" 

"Sounds good to me. It'll put us closer to the campus tomorrow anyway." He nods, approvingly as he stretches. "You're the local expert, where's good to eat after we check in?"

"Well, I usually like to eat at Bailiwicks, but according to a friend it's closed. What do you feel like, Mexican or Chinese?"

"Let's shoot for Mexican, I'm still recovering from some Szechwan my Mom brought over last night. I think they spiced it with nuclear waste instead of peppers."

"I know the perfect place," Mira says. "It's got great margaritas."

"Good enough. You want to brave the desk or should I?"

Mira laughs. "Don't worry Martin, it won't be that bad. There's usually one person at this tiny desk at this time of the night and no one really cares who you are or who your with. We should have no problem getting two rooms. "

He shakes his head, "I've slept on lots of floors before, that isn't a problem. But what I was actually working around to was, which one of us stayed to watch the gear, and which one got the rooms." He glances around the paring lot, 'It looks quiet enough, but the FBI guys in the South who had a van-load of their HRT gear stolen told themselves that it'd be okay too - and look at what it got them."

 "Well, the FBI practically advertised the contents of their vehicle," Mira responds. "I would suggest bringing in just the technical equipment and the weapons. We can put some of that stuff into the empty cooler if you're worried about arousing suspicion. We'll just leave the camping equipment in the vehicle, locked of course. If someone steals my sleeping bag, well, we can get another one. By bringing the stuff up to the room, we can both get a good night's sleep."

"It shouldn't be a problem with my gear - I packed in plain cases to avoid that problem, and they all have locks." He fishes in a shirt pocket and drops a small set of keys in the coin tray. "That's your set. The bigger two are the equipment cases, and the smaller one is for the guns."

"Great," Mira says, pulling into the two story parking garage next to the University Inn. "You get to carry stuff. I'll go check us in."

"Somehow I thought that was the way this was going to fall out," Martin sighs.

Robert Arlington's office is a jumble of old newspaper clippings, students' papers, magazines and the occasional photograph. The clippings decorate the wall - their black and white solemnity interrupted every few inches with circles and notations in red pen. The result is a slowly yellowing wallpaper of newsprint punctuated by what a casual glance appears to bullet holes of red ink.

Arlington is seated behind his desk, a stack of students' papers and his trust red pen in hand. A thin man with a mustachio that would appear more at home on a Spanish courtier of the 16th century, Arlington cuts a striking - actually frightening if you believe his students - pose.

"Hi, Professor Arlington," Mira says, casually leaning in the door.

Arlington glances up through a pair of bifocals perched on his nose. He blinks a few times as he looks at Mira.

Geez, has he forgotten me already, Mira wonders. I actually kind of thought I was one of his more memorable students.

"Stafford," Arlington says, clearing his throat, and returning his attention to his paper. "Thought you were dead or working for a television station."

"Nope, I'm doing the next worse thing - bestseller's list," she says winking at Martin. "He's really a nice guy," she whispers.

There's a snort from her professor. "What - covering the O.J. trial?"

"No, paranormals," she answers matter-of-factly.

Arlington takes of his glasses and wipes them with a Kleenex. "I was a Teenage Paranormal." Another snort. "Trying to kill me, I see. You could at least wait until I was in my grave before making me turn over in it." A few more sounds of disgust. "Well, you redeemed yourself in that Times column, though next time let it run in the New York Times first. The L.A. Times cut things all to hell. Thought I recognized your writing style. The pen name's atrocious."

"She wrote that?" Martin thinks, shifting position in the doorway behind Mira so he can see both directions down the hall more easily. "As many copies as it sold, why is she working for Armitage?"

"See, he's softened up already," she whispers back at Martin before going into the small office. "Well, Professor, I actually came back for your help."

"Poorly constructed graph 15 inches down," he says gesturing at a column bearing the name Lakota Whiteyes. "You're still having trouble keeping your focus in the middle of the article. Reading to much hack fiction, I imagine."

"Yes, well that's not what I came about," Mira says looking a little embarrassed. Her face is slightly flushed. "I'm investigating some things out near Beowave and Battle Mountain and I'm looking for some information on the area as well as the geothermal plant out there. I was thinking you might be able to help or might know someone who could help."

"What have you heard about Beowave?" Arlington says sharply, turning his full attention to Stafford. His eyes take in Martin and dismiss him, all at once. "Who is that?"

"I love being talked about like I'm not really here," Martin snipes to himself, crossing his arms and glancing down the hallway at a trio of students arguing with each other over the merits of some obscure columnist's latest effort.

"This," Mira says, pulling Martin in the office a little ways, "is my friend Martin. Completely trustworthy and doesn't scream when I drive, so we both know he has nerves of steel. I trust him with my life even if he is a little gruff. Reminds me of you." She smiles at both of the men.

Martin blinks. "How can she say something like that? We still barely know each other," he thinks to himself.

"Humph," Arlington says. "Hired muscle, I suppose."

"No, I like to think of him as a friend," Mira says. "Friends are more reliable than hired muscle. Someone can always pay hired muscle a better salary."

"And Beowave interests me because it interests the government. I've heard that they have decided that Groom Lake is just a little too popular for some of their projects and Beowave seems to fit their desire for secrecy."

"Close the door behind you," Arlington says. "And sit down."

"I don’t think that this is a project you ought to devote yourself to, Stafford," he says once Mira and Martin are safely inside his office. "It’s too dangerous and there’s not going to be any pay-off. Anything you try to publish is going to be suppressed and all you’ll end up with is a mouthful of sagebrush before they shoot you in the back of the head and leave you out there to rot."

"I'm not doing it to publish anything," Mira says. "I'm investigating it to find out the truth. Once have that, I'll go from there."

"At least they still believe in the personal touch," Martin thinks, pushing back the memories of fire and Charlie's screams, "That's more than the bastards gave us."

"When they first started tapping the power out in Beowave, in the 70s, I investigated it as part of a series of stories I was doing for the Times about Western pork barrel projects. President Carter had an interest in shutting down these projects, if you remember the hit list. I wouldn’t expect you to," he sniffs. "So I went out to Beowave, hid out in the desert, and watched as Sierra Pacific built geothermal plants. Pretty bloody boring, but there was nothing to be found out any other way, so I waited. At least now there’s a rest stop," he adds somewhat thoughtfully.

"Anyway, I got bored, and decided to hike out. I’d stashed everything pretty far to the south, and so one night I waited until everyone had left the site and started out. I had about ten miles to go, when I started hearing the weirdest noises. What I found was that up an old mining road, huge semis were driving into the side of a mountain and disappearing. This went on for hours, while I watched. Come morning, there was no sign of this – anywhere. I took pictures, and waited for the next night. Same thing happened, only this time I decided to get a little closer. The last thing I remember was seeing guys in radiation suits. Then I woke up in the desert. All my gear was gone and I was in my skivvies. It took me three days to get to my car, and I had sun poisoning that sent me to the hospital for a week." He shakes his head. "If anything, they’ve grown more protective," he says. "Don’t go out there."

"How close was 'close' Professor," Martin says, leaning forward slightly. "And what, exactly, do you remember before you blacked out?"

"I appreciate the warning, Professor, but I've got to go out there," Mira says. "Now what can you tell me about reaching this facility? Would we be able to access it going up the mining road? How far - mile wise - was the entrance you observed from the mining road?"

"You’re more of a fool than I thought, Stafford," Arlington says as he stands, voice full of disappointment. "I’ve given you all the advice I’m going to give. If you’re too stupid to take it, that’s your problem. Go ahead, throw your life away, but I’m not going to help you do it."

Martin stands, nodding to Arlington. "Thank you for your time Professor, I'm sorry we seem to have overstayed our welcome." He moves a step back towards the door, thinking to himself, "Especially since you've told us all you know - or are willing to admit knowing."

"You're one to talk, Professor," Mira says, her voice rising as she gets up, her posture drawing up for an argument. "At one time you would have never advised me to quit or give up. I can't believe you're telling me to do that now. I thought you believed in the truth. I'm sorry to see I was wrong," she says, pulling open the office door. "Oh, by the way, I may be gung-ho and at times foolish, but I am not, nor will I ever be stupid. And I don't think trying to discover the truth is throwing my life away!"

"Mira," Martin says quietly, but firmly, in a tone of voice that screams career police officer, "This is not the time for a scene - let's just leave."

"It is if you don’t survive long enough to share it with anyone, Stafford! What use is the truth if it dies with you? You’ve lived in Nevada all your life, you should know better. Is it not enough that your father was killed for what he knew, or would you prefer that his entire legacy die with you as well? Get out!" he roars.

'Mira," Martin repeats insistently, eyeing the cluster of students staring at them from down the hall. "It's time to leave." A few doors open in the hall as other professors peer out to locate the source of the argument.

A tight-lipped Mira Stafford marches out of Arlington's office. "Damn him, he had to bring that up," she mutters under her breath. "I'm sorry Martin. I didn't realize we'd end up in a shouting match." She sighs. "Perhaps it would be better if we stopped by the Mining Department's library and see if we can get some geological maps of the area." 

Martin merely nods, waiting until they are outside to speak. "Did you really not understand what was happening there?" he asks once they're in an open area away from the groups of students moving about.

"No I understand," Mira says. "The professor has suddenly decided that he's the best judge of what I should be doing with my life. Yes I realize it's a dangerous situation. But I am 27-years-old and been through a lot worse situations that what he is describing. I think I can judge what I can and can't handle."

Martin stops and stares at her for a second, then shakes his head slowly. "No. That wasn't it at all. I've seen it a thousand times before with informants - he's protecting himself. He knows you well enough to know that no warning he can give you would dissuade you from going - so he gave us the information that we needed, but in a fashion that gives him the deniability he needs. If we're captured, the worst that they'll get about him from us is that he tried very hard to talk you out of going in the first place - not that he was a willing accomplice."

"Oh, Martin, I don't know who you've been working with lately, but the professor's not like that," Mira says, ironically coming to the defense of the man who just ordered her out of his office. "He really does love his students, even if he does act like an old curmudgeon. He would never betray us and he's always gone out on a limb for us. He just thinks that since my father isn't around anymore he has to be the person who tries and talks some sense into me. If anything, he might be a little scared. But having deniability," she shakes her head, "that's not something he worries about. This is the same guy who spent a month in jail because he wouldn't reveal one of his sources to the court."

"A month in jail for contempt isn't quite the same thing as having three men in black suits and ski masks show up at your house at three in the morning, and turn you, your wife, and your pet goldfish into home invasion statistics because they think you helped a bunch of folks invade their top secret installation," he returns as the two of them leave the Reynolds School of Journalism. "If he *really* didn't want you to go, then why did he tell you the one thing almost guaranteed to make you go?"

"So do you always assume that everyone is out to protect only his own butt?" Mira asks, somewhat perturbed at the slant of the conversation. "I mean you must know someone who can actually disregard their own innate sense of self protection to help others. 'Cause if you don't, Martin, you've been hanging around with the wrong people. It's good that David brought you into the office," Mira observes.

Martin blinks for a moment, and Mira can almost see the gears changing speeds inside his head as he shifts to follow her sudden change of subject. "Yeah," he says finally, his voice edged with broken dreams, "I know all about people like that. I was one of them... once."

"Well don't worry, Martin," she pats him on the back. "After a weekend out in the desert with me, we'll have you believing in your fellow man or at least God. You haven't tried my camp cooking yet."