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“Well, ‘they’ is a he. It’s just old Art Perkins. Made that guidebook. I guess that’s what you mean. Not bad either. But the tourists just kinda dried up during the war, so he closed the shop. Well, shop. Garage was more like it. What’s the interest?”

“Where can you buy them?”

“Anywhere. Art had a nice little business with that. I’ve got one myself if you need it, but they’re still around in the stores.”

“He do any mail business?”

“Not now. Art died about a year ago.”

“Oh.”

“Now you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“In a day or two, Doc. Some things I want to check out first.”

Mills had slid the account sheet in front of him, an empty column with one deposit, just as he’d promised.

“Don’t forget to call, now,” Doc said, hanging up. “The suspense’ll kill me.”

Connolly pushed the sheet aside and looked at the book. You could buy it anywhere. So Eisler had walked into a store, maybe one of those near the plaza, and bought-no, it was too elaborate. How would he know where to mark? If it was a message, it had to be sent. But not by the Adobe Press.

“Mills, the mail censor’s off-site, right?”

“Right. The envelope goes unsealed. They check it out, then seal it and send it on its way so no one out there’s the wiser. Or it comes back here if they’ve got a problem with it.”

“What about incoming?”

“That just goes to the post office here. Problem’s in the other direction.”

“But the top scientists. Somebody must look.”

Mills shifted in his chair. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said carefully. Again Connolly just stared at him. “Check with Bailey, two doors down,” he said finally. “And don’t mention my name.”

Bailey had no such scruples. He was sitting in front of a pile of unread mail, glad of the interruption. “We don’t keep a record,” he said. “No point. But what are you looking for?”

He was small and delicate, not quite filling the neatly pressed uniform, and when he took off his glasses he looked no older than fifteen.

“Dr. Eisler.”

“That’s easy. He doesn’t get any. No letters. Nothing.”

“Ever?”

“Not since I’ve been here.” He noticed the book in Connolly’s hand. “Well, there was that,” he said nervously, as if he’d been caught in a lie.

Connolly, unaware that he was still carrying it, held the book up. “You remember this?” he said skeptically.

“Well, he never got anything, so it stuck out.”

“Any letter with it?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said, slightly prissy, a craftsman challenged in his work.

“When was this?”

Bailey looked at the book again, then closed his eyes, concentrating. “April,” he said, opening them.

“You’re wasted here,” Connolly said, impressed. “And nothing with it. Just the envelope.”

“Right. I figured it was something he sent for.”

“What about a return address?”

Again he closed his eyes. Connolly waited.

“No. Nothing.”

Connolly sighed. “Okay. Thanks,” he said, turning to leave.

“But it was from Santa Fe,” Bailey said, eager to help.

“How do you know?”

“The postmark. Santa Fe.”

“You remember a postmark?” Connolly said, amazed. The boy nodded. “Christ. You are wasted here.”

“No, I enjoy it. It’s interesting.”

Connolly looked at his open young face, imagining him reading Oppenheimer’s correspondence, witnessing history. Another Hill story. But now there wasn’t time. “Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it.”

When he got back to his desk he lit a cigarette and took out Eisler’s security file, leaning back in his chair to read. He wasn’t looking for anything specific; the trick was to look at the same information differently, like turning a prism. Wasn’t the money enough? Why not, all of a sudden? The book arrived in April, a meeting notice. But Karl had been there too.

“Mike,” Mills said, interrupting him. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“But you’re not going to tell me. Look, if you don’t think you can trust me, you should-”

“I trust you,” he said, stopping him. “I just don’t trust myself. Not yet.”

Mills shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m going to get some air.” He headed toward the door. “One thing.” Connolly looked up. “Karl liked to work alone too.”

When he was gone, Connolly didn’t turn back to the file but looked at the wall instead. Karl did like to work alone. Nobody planned to kill him. A snake would attack if surprised. But the meeting was planned, and he was there. Connolly pictured the road down from the mesa. The alley. The car in the box canyon. All the lines were there, waiting to be connected. You just turned down the wrong street, that’s all it took.