"Should be."
There was, a few miles beyond, as the jeep mounted the foothills and went through a pass. The guard inspected their badges, then waved them on. They were outside of the base area now.
The dirt road led them across a valley and up a gradual slope to another pass through the mountains. This time, as they emerged, Rick pointed to a flat-topped mountain directly ahead. "That's a mesa," he declared. "Suppose it's the right one?"
Scotty squinted against the glare. "Probably. I don't see any others on the horizon."
"What are we going to do when we get there?" Rick asked.
Scotty waved a hand. "Look, and hope there's something to see."
"Okay. Let it go. We'll wait and see." Rick fell silent, watching the desert. It was odd, he thought, that most people thought of deserts in terms of sand. It was a fact that some deserts were sandy, but this one was composed of hard-packed earth and stones in which plants struggled for survival. It was more like smooth clay. Then, as the desert rose from smooth plain to mountains, the ground became simply broken rock, sparsely dotted with creosote bush and cholla.
Once or twice he turned and looked back at the road over which they had come. The jeep left a trail of dust behind it, but he could see no dust from any other vehicle. Apparently they were well ahead of Big Mac and Pancho. He hoped they would stay ahead.
"If Mac and Pancho do catch up," he said thoughtfully, "we can always say we just came out for the ride, to see a little of the country."
Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "Think they'd buy it?"