cactus. Adrian half-expected to see tumbleweed rolling down the street.
Simpson’s house, if that was what it was, was dark except for a single lighted window, perhaps a study or a bedroom or a living room. The night was black, but they could make out the outline of the building—itseemed square and low, perhaps adobe or imitation adobe. When the light went out, Mrs. Farmstead reached into her handbag and pulled out a flashlight.
“You are resourceful,” Adrian said.
“A woman living alone has to be prepared for anything,” Mrs. Farmstead said. She led the way to a detached garage.
“We’re not looking for a car, Mrs. Farmstead,” Adrian said.
“A small publisher can’t afford to pay for storage,” Mrs. Farmstead said, “and it makes sense to keep his records where he keeps his stock.”
The side door to the garage was unlocked. Isabel had been right about doors. They entered quietly, and Mrs. Farmstead played her light around the inside. The only trace of an automobile was old oil stains on the concrete floor and a lingering odor of gasoline. But one wall was filled with books on rough shelves; sealed cardboard boxes were stacked against the back wall; on the near side were a gray metal desk, a telephone, a fax machine, and a gray metal filing cabinet.
Adrian inspected the books, and Mrs. Farmstead looked through the files in the cabinet, starting with the bottom drawer. “Simpson was right,” Adrian whispered. “There’s only two books: The Aliens Are Here and UFOs and What They Mean . No Gift from the Stars .”
“Means nothing,” she said. “No Winterbotham file either, but then there wouldn’t be, would there?” She riffled through the files in the other drawers. “It would take days to go through all these. I’ve always wondered about movies, how they can come up with the incriminating file in a few minutes.”
“Wouldn’t there have to be tax records?” Adrian asked.
“Ah!” she said and turned to look for files marked by the year. She chose the one for six years earlier. “Ah-ha!” she said. “Publishing costs for Gift from the Stars , and payment of one hundred dollars to someone named—”
“Peter Cavendish,” a voice said from the door.
They jerked and turned. A small man in a red-and-black plaid robe over blue pajamas stood in the doorway with a large shotgun in his hand. It was pointed at Mrs. Farmstead.
The garage was redolent with the electric scent of tension, but Mrs. Farmstead stared coolly. “You’re very quick to reveal information you’ve been asked to forget!”
The barrel of the shotgun began to droop. “What do you mean?” the stranger asked.
“Maybe you’d also tell us where we could find Peter Cavendish?” Mrs. Farmstead continued.
The shotgun barrel lifted again. “Why would you ask that?”
“The people we work for would like to know how much you’d reveal to strangers.”
“You mean you work for—?”
“What do you think? You know what you were told: To turn over all copies of the book and wipe out all evidence of its existence. Well, we’ve discovered that at least one copy of the book has survived, and people are making inquiries. And now we find, Mr. Joel Simpson, that a record of the author survives in your file.”
The shotgun pointed to the stained floor. “I didn’t know,” Simpson said. He was thin and nervous. “I wish you people would make up your minds—the IRS says I gotta keep the information, you say I gotta get rid of it. What’s a guy to do?”
“Bull!” Adrian said, entering the conversation for the first time. “The IRS doesn’t care anymore. You just forgot.”
“Just like you’re going to forget Peter Cavendish,” Mrs. Farmstead said. “And just to prove it you’re going to tell us where he is.”
Simpson’s eyes got suspicious. “If you’re one of them, you know where he is.”
“Of course we know,” Adrian said. “We just want to know if you know, so that when we tell you to forget