What death, what life? It was a carving, a sculpture. Wood and clay and artist’s sculpy, nothing more. It had never been alive.

Drawing his arm back, he felt a terrible cramping pain in his legs and sat down hard, his head bumping off the wall. The painful tingling grew worse as the muscles straightened and he struggled to massage it away. How had he come to be kneeling in the same position for such a long time?

A quick glance revealed that the room was still empty. It was exactly as he’d entered it … forty minutes ago, according to his watch. He’d been kneeling and staring at the kachina for forty minutes. No wonder his thighs and calves were killing him.

In that forty minutes he had beheld a personal history spanning several hundreds of years. He’d seen himself as his father, who’d fought in Vietnam. His grandfather, who had battled the Nazis in World War II. More ancient of days still he’d seen, all the way back to the time of Coronado and the first Spaniards to visit the country of the people.

Temporarily unable to walk, he rolled over onto hands and knees and crawled away from the closet, away from the vacant, accusing eyes that saw farther into him than he had ever dared look himself. When he reached the door he used the handle to pull himself to his feet.

Forty minutes. The big Texan and his lady might be back any minute, could be driving into the parking lot even now. He had to get out.

Feeling was returning to his nether regions. When he felt he could walk without failing, he turned the knob and stumbled out of the room. He had enough presence of mind to make sure the door latched behind him.

As he staggered toward the office he considered what had happened to him. Not for a moment did he doubt the reality of it. A kachina of real power, he knew. Through it he had relived his entire recent family history, viewed ancestors who were noble and brave. There hadn’t been a thief among them. All had married and raised fine, respected children.

Except him. Except John Qaannasqatszi. He had neither wife not children, had nothing except a crummy job in a cheap motel. All those good people who had gone before, who had survived war and drought and disease, only to see the culmination of all their striving in … him? His very existence did shame to their memories.

That was going to change, he vowed. Now, and forever. The forty minutes he’d spent crouching and holding the kachina had given him back something he was sure he’d lost forever.

His honor.

So it was that Mrs. Patricia Thurwood of Grass Valley, California, was mildly stunned to receive in the mail several weeks later an unsolicited postal money order for two hundred and twenty-six dollars. There was nothing to indicate who had sent it or why, except that it matched an amount she had lost in the course of a vacation a number of years before.

Not long thereafter Mrs. Bea Davis of Des Moines, Iowa, found among the usual bills and letters a gift certificate made out in her name which entitled her to visit any branch of a nationwide jewelry-store chain and pick out a new ladies’ watch worth not more than five hundred dollars.

Others letters and missives, certificates and greetings, went out in their own good time. None bore return signatures, but all had Flagstaff postmarks.

None of this was known, either at the time or later, to Ross Ed and Caroline, who returned to their room full of satisfying if not gourmet-quality food. A different clerk checked them out in the morning, a perfectly normal state of motel affairs which caused them not even a millisecond of afterthought. It had been a blissfully uneventful night, which was exactly what they had sought.

FOURTEEN

Ross Ed looked forward to seeing the Grand Canyon. It wasn’t a component of his original itinerary, but seeing as how they were going to have to skirt the rim, it seemed foolish not to make the slight detour and have a look.

Heading south through Cameron, they soon found themselves among crowds of sightseers from all over the world. The park itself was crowded, but less so than it would have been on a holiday or weekend. The summer trams weren’t in operation yet and it was possible to take your own car along the south-rim drive.

Inquiring at the main office, they discovered that a couple of cabins had just become available at Phantom Ranch, at the bottom of the canyon.

“What do you think?” Ross Ed asked her as the reservations clerk helped someone else with a backcountry hiking permit.

“I think it’d be wonderful, Ross. We’ve lost the army, so why not have some fun? Hiking could be a nice change from driving, and if I get tired, you can always carry me.”

Deliberately, he let his eyes travel the length of her. “I dunno about that, Caroline. You’re a pretty big girl.”

She executed a little pirouette. “Me? Why, I’m light as feather. A six-foot feather, from a giant roe.”

“Rocks don’t have feathers,” he countered. She patiently explained.

Since they would be spending the night at the ranch, they had no need to carry anything but some snack bars and sufficient water, which they purchased at the busy park convenience store. It was chilly when they started out the next morning, but they were informed it would be thirty degrees warmer at the bottom of the canyon.

Among her possessions Caroline found a daypack which, with straps extended to the maximum, just did fit on Ross Ed’s back. Into this they packed the food bars, water, and one uncomplaining dead alien. A light blanket covered Jed’s head and upper torso, which stuck out of the top of the pack. No way, Ross declared, was he going to leave his deceased friend overnight in the van in a public parking lot, where inquisitive saucer nuts and army types might find him. The little alien wasn’t heavy, and in any case, Ross was used to toting far heavier loads.

“Besides, the ranger said not to leave any valuables in your car.” As they started down the Bright Angel trail he shortened his stride so that Caroline could keep pace without straining.

“Well, if they break into my van they won’t find anything valuable.” Artfully, she stepped around one of the ubiquitous piles of mule dung which decorated the trail. “I know what valuables are, of course. I can comprehend them theoretically.”

“Tell me what you’d consider a theoretical valuable, Caroline.”

As they descended they discussed dreams of what she’d never had. Once they passed Indian Gardens they left the last of the day hikers behind and the overwhelming solitude of the Canyon closed in around them. Thus far they’d encountered elderly couples in astonishing physical condition, Scandinavian students clad in shorts despite the crisp air, folks burdened with rods and gear who gave new meaning to the phrase dedicated fisherman (or indubitable idiot), and a few solo travelers who shared an interchangeable faraway look. None of them in the slightest resembled incognito police or U.S. Army Intelligence operatives.

Maybe we really have lost them, Ross concluded. He put a little spring in his step … but not too much, lest it send him careening over the occasional thousand-foot drop.

The canyon was more magnificent than either of them had anticipated, one of those rare tourist attractions that actually lived up to all its hype. Their rustic cabin at Phantom Ranch was charming and private. The only problem was with the beds, which did not fit Ross Ed. Not could he put the double bunks end to end to achieve his usual solution. For that matter, they barely fit Caroline. But both of them coped.

Leaving Jed propped on an upper bunk with his empty eyes facing a profusion of canyon wildflowers, they walked in leisurely fashion to the main dining hall. There they enjoyed a hearty western-style steak dinner in the company of fellow travelers who were too tired to spare the jumbo-sized couple more than a sideways glance or two.

“How about a walk?” Caroline suggested when they were through. The ranch staff was preparing for the second dinner sitting and the inner canyon, with the sun having already slid out of sight behind rocks as old as the earth, was rapidly cooling down.

“Good idea. Just what I need after an all-day hike: a walk. But we have to go back to cabin and get Jed.”

She gave him a wry smile. “What for? It’s our cabin. Afraid of Jed-snatchers coming in by army helicopter?”

“Actually, I’m more concerned about a maid or somebody showing up to check the linens, or something.” His tone asked for understanding. “I just feel better when I know where he is.”

She shrugged. “As long as you’re the one hauling him around and not me.”

Once again the alien body was stuffed into the day pack and the light blanket tucked over its head and upper body. Reassured, Ross Ed caught up with Caroline on the lower portion of the trail. Together they started down to the river, passing backpackers and tenters. Some had arrived late and were still Getting up their gear.

Below the last camping area they turned west along the river trail, the ruddy Colorado roaring on their left, the rumble of its waters echoing off the walls of the inner canyon. They saw no one else. Everyone was preparing, eating, or digesting their supper. People did occasionally hike the canyon trails at night, but for the moment they had the little spur which paralleled the river path all to themselves.

Eventually it dead-ended at a lovely vantage point a few yards above the high-water line. A couple of crude wooden benches knocked together by the Park Service offered surcease to tired travelers. They were more level than the surrounding rocks, but not much softer.

As the first stars began to emerge they sat down side by side. To Ross Ed it seemed perfectly appropriate (indeed, required in such a place) that he put his arm around Caroline. She edged a little closer, and not just for warmth.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began.

“So have we,” asserted a voice.

They turned sharply. Squinting in the gathering darkness, Ross thought he recognized the couple from the dinner seating. Elderly and nondescript in appearance, they had been at the next communal bench over from his. The woman was plump and pink-cheeked, the man taller and well built. They appeared to be in their early or mid-sixties. Typical travelers, utterly unremarkable in any way.

Neither carried a pack. Both were clad in jeans, hiking boots, and flannel shirts. The only difference in attire lay in their respective accessories: her gun was much smaller than his. Alongside the magnum her husband hefted, her little snub-nosed .25 seemed barely adequate.

Caroline slumped. “I guess army intelligence comes in all sizes and shapes.”

“Army intelligence? Did you hear that, luv?” The woman smiled at her companion. “She thinks we’re army intelligence.” The man chuckled.

Ross Ed experienced a sinking feeling of the sort usually reserved for those times when wildcatters’ accountants failed to show up come payday.

“If you’re not army intelligence, then who are you working for? The FBI? CIA?”