The Cloud Atlas

4. Previous orders to shoot down balloons on sight are hereby rescinded. Destruction, even at sea, could result in uncontrolled release of germ warfare agents. All future sightings must be reported immediately, and the balloons then tracked and recovered with extreme care.

* * *

WHAT REMAINED OF the Kirby balloon was heaped in a corner of a truck bed.

It was dirty and gray with stiff folds, and had all the appearance- to me, as I think of it now-of a roadside heap of late winter snow. Along with the balloon was a pie-sized piece of metal that I recognized as the balloon's gas relief valve. Also present was the control frame, seemingly intact. The incendiary and antipersonnel bombs were gone (over the Pacific, one hoped, and not in some farmer's field-or the cab of the truck), and the demolition block was nowhere to be seen. But these all seemed like ancient and simpleminded fears now. So a bomb explodes. So someone loses a limb or dies. Show me the canister where the rats live. Show me the fleas that have carried the plague thousands of miles, across the ocean from Japan and across the centuries from the Middle Ages.

We'd landed on an empty road leading into town and had taxied into a field adjoining a small farmhouse. Within minutes, everyone was there: the widow from the farmhouse, the man whose truck now held the balloon-Will McDermott, the apparent sheriff-and lastly, via bicycle, the AP stringer, Samuel Leavit. Gurley dismissed the widow, scowled at Leavit, and finally settled on McDermott.

McDermott had raised his right hand in greeting, but it was his left arm that had caught my eye. A gentle breeze had picked up his empty left sleeve, causing it to flap momentarily back to life. I had seen Gurley take note and relax. A man he could do business with.

“That's an entrance,” McDermott said, nodding to the plane.

“Wasn't my choice of landing spots,” Gurley said. “But you know- pilots.”

The man's face darkened a bit. “I do. I am one. Was one.”

“I'm sorry,” I blurted out.

Gurley winced and then turned to McDermott. “You're the sheriff?”

“Sheriff's somewhere in the Pacific,” McDermott said. “I'm the man with the sheriff's truck. But I've got what you need.”

This is the point when he'd led us around to the back of the truck. Gurley and I had exchanged a quick glance. We'd left the germ warfare gear in the plane, assuming that we'd be led to the balloon after meeting with the local authorities. Instead, we'd had it delivered. We watched the sheriff and stringer wander back around. There was nothing we could do but follow. Gurley went first, and I watched the back of his head as he walked. The officer defuses the bomb.

“Now this,” McDermott said, reaching for the control frame, “this I don't get at all.”

“Don't!” I shouted. Gurley looked at me, furious one moment and anxious the next.

McDermott toppled back like he'd been shot, and then relaxed, straightened up. “Easy on me, Sergeant,” he said. “I don't take too well to sudden noises nowadays, not that I ever did.”

He looked carefully at both of us, and read too much in our faces. “This isn't a weather balloon.”

“Yeah,” said Leavit. “Why's the Army need to know the weather in Wyoming?”

“Back off, AP,” Gurley growled.

“What's going on?” Leavit asked. “This is big.”

It was, especially for me. My first performance in front of Gurley. And civilians. And germs. Now that I make my living as a priest, it would be nice to look back on moments such as this and remember how a sudden burst of prayer powered me through. But it didn't happen that way. Nothing happened. I simply took a deep breath, and then held it, suddenly worried I'd already breathed in some deadly germ. I twitched the tiniest bit when Lily's face flashed in my mind, but then it was gone, and I swung up into the truck bed. I could take care of this. Somehow.

“Careful, Sergeant,” Gurley said, and with that, I knew he was willing to play along. Probably because the primary risk so far was me blowing some part of my body off.

“Should I get the-” I looked at Gurley and nodded toward the plane. Gurley looked back at me, struggling to keep a perfectly blank look on his face, but still making his response perfectly clear: we'll not be hauling out a giant crate marked with a skull and crossbones, and then donning gas masks and suits in front of a reporter.

“The what?” said Leavit.

“Cookies and milk,” Gurley said. “We so like to entertain our civilian guests. Please, gentlemen, let us step away while the sergeant makes his inspection.” Nobody moved. Gurley looked around, and then shrugged.