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"You see?" Quetzalcoatl said, giving them his austere smile. "It is not hard at all. Now you
are friends. Stay friends."
He turned away and walked toward the flying saucer. A door opened smoothly in the sleek
hull. On the threshold Quetzalcoatl turned.
"Remember," he said. "I shall be watching."
"Without a doubt," Fernandez said. "Adios, señor."
"Vaya con Dios," Miguel added.
The smooth surface of the hull closed after Quetzalcoatl. A moment later the flying saucer
lifted smoothly and rose until it was a hundred feet above the ground. Then it shot off to
the north like a sudden flash of lightning and was gone.
"As I thought," Miguel said. "He was from los estados unidos."
Fernandez shrugged.
"There was a moment when I thought he might tell us something sensible," he said. "No
doubt he had great wisdom. Truly, life is not easy."
"Oh, it is easy enough for him," Miguel said. "But he does not live
in Sonora. We, however, do. Fortunately, I and my family have a good water hole to rely
on. For those without one, life is indeed hard."
"It is a very poor water hole," Fernandez said. "Such as it is, however, it is mine." He was
rolling a cigarette as he spoke. He handed it to Miguel and rolled another for himself. The
two men smoked for a while in silence. Then, still silent, they parted.
Miguel went back to the wineskin on the hill. He took a long drink, grunted with pleasure,
and looked around him. His knife, machete and rifle were carelessly flung down not far
away. He recovered them and made sure he had a full clip.
Then he peered cautiously around the rock barricade. A bullet splashed on the stone near
his face. He returned the shot.
After that, there was silence for a while. Miguel sat back and took another drink. His eye
was caught by a road runner scuttling past, with the tail of a lizard dangling from his beak.
It was probably the same road runner as before, and perhaps the same lizard, slowly
progressing toward digestion.
Miguel called softly, "Señor Bird! It is wrong to eat lizards. It is very wrong."
The road runner cocked a beady eye at him and ran on.
Miguel raised and aimed his rifle.
"Stop eating lizards, Señor Bird. Stop, or I must kill you."
The road runner ran on across the rifle sights.
"Don't you understand how to stop?" Miguel called gently. "Must I explain how?"
The road runner paused. The tail of the lizard disappeared completely.
"Oh, very well," Miguel said. "When I find out how a road runner can stop eating lizards
and still live, then I will tell you, amigo. But until then, go with God."
He turned and aimed the rifle across the valley again.
ENDOWMENT POLICY
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When Denny Holt checked in at the telephone box, there was a call for him. Denny wasn't
enthusiastic. On a rainy night like this it was easy to pick up fares, and now he'd have to
edge his cab uptown to Columbus Circle.
"Nuts," he said into the mouthpiece. 'Why me? Send one of the other boys; the guy won't
know the difference. I'm way down in the Village."
"He wants you, Holt. Asked for you by name and number. Probably a friend of yours. He'll
be at the monument-black overcoat and a cane."
"Who is he?"
"How should I know? He didn't say. Now get going."
Holt disconsolately hung up and went back to his cab. Water trickled from the visor of his
cap; rain streaked the windshield. Through the dimout he could see faintly lighted
doorways and hear jukebox music. It was a good night to be indoors. Holt considered the
advisability of dropping into the Cellar for a quick rye. Oh, well. He meshed the gears and
headed up Greenwich Avenue, feeling low.
Pedestrians were difficult to avoid these days; New Yorkers never paid any attention to
traffic signals, anyway, and the dimout made the streets dark, shadowy canyons. Holt
drove uptown, ignoring cries of "Taxi." The street was wet and slippery. His tires weren't
too good, either.
The damp cold seeped into Holt's bones. The rattling in the engine wasn't comforting.
Some time soon the old bus would break down completely. After that-well, it was easy to
get jobs, but Holt had an aversion to hard work. Defense factories-hm-m-m-m.
Brooding, he swung slowly around the traffic circle at Columbus, keeping an eye open for
his fare. There he was-the only figure standing motionless in the rain. Other pedestrians
were scuttling across the Street ifl a hurry, dodging the trolleys and automobiles.
Holt pulled in and opened the door. The man came forward. He had a cane but no
umbrella, and water glistened on his dark overcoat. A shapeless slouch hat shielded his
head, and keen dark eyes peered sharply at Holt.
The man was old-rather surprisingly old. His features were obscured by wrinkles and folds
of sagging, tallowy skin.
"Dennis Holt?" he asked harshly.
"That's me, buddy. Hop in and dry off."
The old man complied. Holt said, "Where to?"
Go through the park."
"Up to Harlem?"
"Why-yes, yes."
Shrugging, Holt turned the taxicab into Central Park. A screwball. And nobody he'd ever
seen before. In the rear mirror he stole a glance at his fare. The man was intently
examining Holt's photograph and number on the card. Apparently satisfied, he leaned
back and took a copy of the Times from his pocket.
"Want the light, mister?" Holt asked.
"The light? Yes, thank you." But he did not use it for long. A glance at the paper satisfied
him, and the man settled back, switched off the panel lamp and studied his wristwatch.
"What time is it?" he inquired.
"Seven, about."
"Seven. And this is January ro, 1943."
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Holt didn't answer. His fare turned and peered out of the rear window. He kept doing that.
After a time he leaned forward and spoke to Holt again.
"Would you like to earn a thousand dollars?"
"Are you joking?"
"This is no joke," the man said, and Holt realized abruptly that his accent was odd-a soft
slurring of consonants, as in Castilian Spanish. "I have the money-your current currency.
There is some danger involved, so I will not be overpaying you."
Holt kept his eyes straight ahead. "Yeah?"
"I need a bodyguard, that is all. Some men are trying to abduct or even kill me."
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