Chapter 1

I flew into Laverton from Perth in an arthritic Cessna 152 on a nice October day. A bit warm (about 40 C, or a bit over 100 F), but it's a long way from any large body of water. And it's sort of stuck between the Gibson Desert and the Great Victoria Desert. I was going to follow the track to the north east, towards Warburton, where it would be a few degrees warmer. I had my backpack and the clothes I had on.

I thanked the pilot (he was going south to Kalgoorlie) and asked the best way to get into town and he waved at the road. I shrugged, picked up my stuff and walked towards the shed near which a windsock was trying to do its job. I'd barely got there when he took off.

On the side of the shed, under a tiny roof, was a phone. I picked it up and a few seconds later a voice said: "What the bloody 'ell are you doin' at the field?" I felt at home.

"I need to get to the hotel. The plane just dropped me off."

"Okeh. I'll get someone to fetch you. Stay where you can be seen from the road."

And that was that.

I could see the road, so I just stayed on the shady side of the shed.

Let me introduce myself. I'm Gordy Hollister. I'm an entomologist with the CSIRO -- that's the Australian Commonwealth Scientific and Research Organisation. I studied at the UNSW and then worked at the lab in Brisbane. I then went to the labs at headquarters -- Black Mountain in Canberra -- and actually got a Ph.D. for work on Camponotus pitjantjatarae Macarthur, an ant. And that's why I'm here in Western Australia, in a town of about 700 folks, amid a couple of half-exhausted mines and more abos than Aussies. Someone reported anthills toward the northeast, halfway to Warburton (pop. 400). In a dry lakebed.

I saw a dust trail nearing me and soon saw a pickup. I stepped out of the shade and waved.

"Dayee."

"Day. Can you get me to the hotel?"

"Yep. That what they sent me here fer. Lessn you ain't the gent who phoned."

"No. That was me. I'm on my way towards Warburton."

"Yep." I tossed my pack into the bed of the truck."

"Gordy Hollister."

"Jem Finch." He extended a well-calloused hand.

"Prospector?"

"Yep. 30 years. Found and lost fortunes."

"Mostly lost, I bet."

"Yep." Jem laughed. "You government?"

"Yes. CSIRO. I'm interested in ants."

"Well, we got 'em. Big uns and teeny uns." We were in town. A few dusty streets of small houses. A few shops. A two-storey pub and a three-storey hotel. Jem slammed on the brakes. "Hotel. That's two bucks, Gordy."

"OK." I paid him. "Join me in a cold one later?"

"Ain't said no to that in over 40 years."

"Too right." I grabbed my pack and walked the few steps to the door. Opening it, I was in a small lobby area with a polished counter in front of me and a flight of stairs to the left. There was a bell on the countertop, so I rang it.

I heard footsteps and the door behind the counter opened, revealing a young woman in a man's shirt and jeans.

"G'day."

"Dayee. Can I get a room for a night or two?"

"Twenty a night. Brekker included. Other tucker you've got to git to the pub."

"Sounds OK."

She handed me a key with a brass label "3" attached. "Left at the top of the stairs. Ifn you don't like it, come back and I'll give you the key to 4."

"Name's Gordy Hollister."

"Mine's Weena Scott."

"Weena?"

"Actually, Rowena. My ma liked Ivanhoe." She smiled.

"Good meetin' you, Weena. I'll see you in a bit."

I picked up the pack and went upstairs. Right was "2" and left was "3" -- "4" must have been further up. Opening the door revealed a room with a double bed, a small night table, a clothes press, a single straight chair, and another door, which hid a small sink-toilet-stall shower. It looked and smelled clean. There were two towels and a small bar of soap. I took off my shirt, washed my face and neck, and put it back on. I locked the room and went back downstairs. Weena was still behind the counter, reading. She must have heard me on the stairs, as she looked up and smiled. I realized she was much younger than I had thought. Possibly under thirty, her complexion and hair ruined by the sun and wind and dust, but nice-looking.

"Can I ask a couple of questions?"

"Can't see nothin' holdin' you back."

"Can I rent a car or a truck around here?"

"Yep. Where you goin'?"

"Towards Warburton."

"That's a lousy track. State thinks it's a road."

"I'm sure it's rough."

"You a prospector?"

"No. An entomologist." She didn't flinch or ask what the hell that meant. "I work for the CSIRO. They sent me to look around Lake Throssell."

"Hmmm. Well, we got ants and bees and a couple other things that fly around. Occasionally there's a centipede. The lizards eat everything like that. Small lizards." She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger about four inches apart.

"Sounds right. You from around here?"

"Dad's the manager of the nickel mine -- about 15 miles. I was born here, sent to school in Perth, Uni in Adelaide. I like it here. You?"

"Family has about 30,000 acres near Roma, in Queensland. We run some cattle, grow wheat, some oranges and vines, too. My brother makes wine. But we're pastoralists at heart."

I looked a my watch. "I offered Jem a snort. Can I interest you in one, too."

"I'll have a cider or a shandy. No beer for me." She came out from behind the counter, and I could see she had a real shape for the first time.

We went out into the heat, crossed the dust, and stood for a moment in the shade in front of the pub. "And I still need that information about renting a vehicle, Weena." She laughed and we went inside to the universally familiar aroma of spilled beer. It was cooler inside and dark enough that it took me a minute till I could see again.

It looked like every other wood and sheetmetal pub I'd been in outside of one of the cities. A few tables, chairs, benches, a bar. Decorations courtesy of Foster's and some Japanese and Indian brands. And a poster for the first Crocodile Dundee movie. The calendar had a nice photo of Uluru [Ayer's Rock].

"Dayee, Weena. Who's your new chap?" came from behind the bar -- the licensee looked like he was just five foot tall and about 80 years old -- most lilely a 60-something prospector who'd kept enough to buy the license.

"None of your lip, Bill," she responded. "He's a gummint man from Canberra and he'll snatch your license the minute he sees you serving them underage schoolgirls!"

He snickered. "Dern! I thought you knowed you was my one-and-only!"

Weena looked at me. "Gordy, this boozer's Bill. Bill, Gordy." I put my hand over the counter and suddenly it was swallowed by a horny palm and five fingers. It turned out that Bill had been sitting. He was well over six feet tall.

"Welcome to Laverton," Bill said.

"Bill's gonna quench your thirst and then he'll arrange for the vehicle you'll rent for our trip to Warburton."

"Our trip?"

"I told you it's a rough track; I don' want the responsibility of getting you hurt."

Bill was watching the lobs like a spectator at a tennis match. "What's yer poison?"

"I'll have a pint of draft. You, Weena?"

"Bill knows what I want."

Just about then, Jem appeared and got his pint; and I settled down for a friendly evening at the pub -- without darts and without TV.

--

The smells of coffee and bacon woke me in the morning. 6:30 said my wristwatch. I took a very quick shower, shaved, brushed my pearlies, and got dressed. Downstairs, I could see the coffee and the bacon and a tightly-encased bottom taking biscuits out of the oven. There was marmelade and butter (or marge?) on the table.

"Good morning."

"Mornin', Gordy. Sleep well?"

"Oh, yes. Nothing like a few pints to put you out and the smell of coffee to bring you back from the dead."

"Right-o. Now, no fancy manners. Just dig in. Do you want eggs?"

"No, thanks. This is more than enough." I tore a hot biscuit in half, slathered some butter on it, and a spoon of marmelade on top, jamming the "sandwich" in my mouth, and burning my tongue. I made a few incoherent noises as Weena smiled and then washed everything down with hot caffeine. "This is really delicious." I picked up a rasher.

"Well, it's the least I could do for my husband."

"Now, wait. I may have had too much to drink last night, but not that much too much."

"No, you were the perfect gentleman. But this is a very small town and it's far from anywhere else. So ... my guess is that 'we' are the topic at every breakfast table today and that some of the women are already making arrangements."

I was preparing a second biscuit. "Right. I get it."

"The bad part is that my dad'll be phoning soon to ask about you."

"Really?"

"Really." She grinned. "My guess is that Ferd Thomas mentioned our date last night when he phoned the mine operator at six. Then my dad's getting an elaborately embroidered version over breakfast. So as soon as he can finish eating and get to the phone in his office, he'll call."

About two minutes later, the phone rang.

"Dayee, dad. Who else would call? Yes. Yes. And what else did they report about my fiancee? Am I preggers yet?" She smiled and waved to me to refill the coffee cups.

"You worry too much. He's CSIRO from Canberra. Now go off and take care of real problems. Yes, you know I love you." And that was that.

Weena sat opposite me. "Did I embarrass you?"

"Not as much as yesterday in the pub."

"Sorry. Everyone in Laverton's on edge to marry me off. To a lawyer from Perth or a physician from Adelaide or some other professional git from a city. So I try to play them. And it always works."

"So ... how old are you?"

"28. I'm a qualified bush nurse. I love it out here and felt crowded in the city. I came back four years ago. The hotel was empty and had been for sale. So I talked to the bank in Perth that had been stuck with a non-paying mortgage and bought it outright with my savings. And I got Bill and some workmen to fix it top to bottom. And I run it and treat cuts and bites and broken bones. You?"

"32. Ph.D. in Entomology. Unattached. I live in a small furnished flat in Canberra. I hate the ACT."

Weena started putting away the marmelade and the butter (it hadn't been margerine). I picked up dishes and tableware and put them in the tub in the sink. Weena poured off the bacon fat into a crock by the stove.

"Now, what about transport?"

"Bill's got a Land Rover with a winch that he'll rent out."

"Will we need the winch?"

"If we get stuck in sand, we will. Or if we get a gullywasher and are stuck in a foot of mud."

"We ... we?"

"Oh, yeah. I ain't letting you get lost out there."

"What about the hotel?"

"Bill'll look after it. I've got no bookings anyway."

--

By 11 we were in a fully loaded Rover. Two jerry cans of gasoline, one of water, one more of drinking water, two loaves of bread, some cooked lamb, flour, sugar, coffee, tea, a rifle, a tarp, some blankets, a small shovel, and our two packs. I had my maps, my compass and my pistol in a small handbag. Weena insisted on driving.

It's about 300 miles from Laverton to Warburton. Ten hours if you're lucky. Actually, I only wanted to drive a bit over half that. Just up to Lake Throssell, a seasonal saline which I expected to be completely dry. Before we would get there, we'd pass through the Cosmo Newberry lands.

"Do you know the local tribe?"

"On the Cosmo reserve?"

"Yes."

"No. I went to school with a few of the kids before I was shipped off to Perth. But, no. I don't know them and I don't know the lingo."

"I guess we may not even see any."

"Well, if the lakes dry, they'll have moved to where they've got a proper hole or something coming out of the rocks. Probably south, to Yeo Lake."

"That's still Ngaanyatjarra Lands?"

"Yes. The extreme southwest of them."

"How long will it take for us to get to the mission?"

"The old mission? Maybe an hour or so. It's the best part of the track. I think there's hardly anything there now. It's been closed as long as I've been alive."

"1973, according to the file."

"Aha! You really did your homework."

"I try. You know, I've never been in this part of Western Australia before. I didn't want folks to think I was a complete idiot."

"Only a bit of one?"

"Certainly too dumb not to be caught by the first sheila."

"Are you caught?"

"We'll see."

It was noon. It was hot. As far as I could see there was nothing but the ribbon behind us and the one in front of us and heat waves in the air.

"Time to stop for a billy of tea?" I asked.

"Right-o." And Weena pulled to the left a bit and stopped.

I gathered some brittle brush near the roadside and started a small fire, abo-style. After it had burnt a bit, I set a billy with water among the ashes and waited, watching Weena. She had gotten out of the Rover, stretched (I caught my breath as her bosom strained the shirt), and jogged in place. Then she ran for about a minute up the road and back. Her shirt was soaked, as was mine. The water boiled, I threw in a scant handful of tea, and removed the billy from the fire. I nudged the twig ends into the ashes and made a sand berm with my hands around what was left of the fire. I scooped some sugar into each cup and carefully poured tea into them.

"Which is mine?"

"This one. It has less sugar."

"Less sugar?"