The lights weren't on in the room. They didn't need to be. Even through the dark jute curtains the lights of the Fremont adjacent to the Mint, the California Club across the street, the pulsating lights of the Golden Nugget even further, shot straight along the walls, casting crooked shadows. It was a hot night.
Beyond the lights the sky was open and infinite, as were the dark of the desert beyond the Strip. The lights shone off of the dunes. The town was getting quiet. It was 3:18 am. Despite the talk, every place gets quiet. It must. Lou has been enough places. Even Vegas grows still before dawn.
It is still amazing. He wondered at the lights. Even though he was 27, he wondered. He lit another cigarette and leaned with his arms along the handrail. The glass elevator would occasionally pass, but, as far as he could see it was empty. The thousands of lights felt like an audience. Lou had no performance for them.
And the neon? How much neon? Argon, neon, 'noble gases' - it was yet another miracle of modern science. Just six years ago, there across the desert, they tested another nuclear device. And, in the middle of a desert, an unforgiving one at that, here is the most modern city on Earth. Water, electricity, air conditioning, go go dancers...there is little wanting, but coolness. A light breeze...anything.
He noted his cigarette burned quickly. It was dry. He had gone through four in under the half an hour he had been back to the room.
"The AC is broken, sorry," from the little concierge. She was a dark thing, with dark red lipstick. She was perspiring despite the little fan they had on the desk. The smell of money was all around the casino. The smell of coins. The smell of bills. Sweat, desperation and, once in a while, the sound of joy as coins fell into the metal tray. Everyone got up from their chairs, no longer beholden to social more, and gawking as if it were an accident on the highway.
He flipped the Mint matchbook along his fingers. The elevator came up again. Where he expected it to be empty, there she is. She was staring at him with a look that she had a long day. She was tipsy; she was dying to sleep. She smirked a half-smirk. It was enough to make him hold his breath. She let off on the same floor he was on: floor 16.
The air changed. It was so slight, but noticeable only because of the stagnancy before. There was a breeze. He turned from the balcony and to the small dresser nearest him. He stared at the copy of Fail-Safe by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler. He couldn't make out the black concentric circles in this light. The color of cover looked white in the wash of red neon.
"Automatically," from page 138, "[Grady] looked down at the Fail-Safe box which was installed between him and the bombadier. For the first time in his flying career the bulb on top of the box was glowing red. Then his intellect caught up with his reflexes: this was the real thing....He reached for the S.S.B. radio switch. This would put him in direct contact with Omaha."
Burdick and Wheeler must have had an 'in' with some pilots. The USAF only started using SSB maybe ten years ago, the book was written in '62. HAM operators played with them before, a few were hired as contracted specialists, until the military engineers could get up to speed. Lou knew part of its history: he had received his advanced training in single channel radio operations many moons ago.
Why did Bridge want him to read the book? He nonchalantly handed over the Burdick book, then a Pynchon, a notebook and three hundred dollars. He gave him a formula for blackjack and told him not to push it. Lou couldn't help but think they were all connected somehow.
Either way it made him forget the young lady. He drew the curtains and marked the sound of cars had all but died away. The shooting star of the Mint looked like an asterisk through the dark of curtain.
He hit the bed and made a mental note of the 3200 in cash that he had wadded up into his shoe. He made a recall that he had latched the door. He hoped he would sleep enough of the hours before the stark sun of July pierced the room soon.
Beyond the lights the sky was open and infinite, as were the dark of the desert beyond the Strip. The lights shone off of the dunes. The town was getting quiet. It was 3:18 am. Despite the talk, every place gets quiet. It must. Lou has been enough places. Even Vegas grows still before dawn.It is still amazing. He wondered at the lights. Even though he was 27, he wondered. He lit another cigarette and leaned with his arms along the handrail. The glass elevator would occasionally pass, but, as far as he could see it was empty. The thousands of lights felt like an audience. Lou had no performance for them.
And the neon? How much neon? Argon, neon, 'noble gases' - it was yet another miracle of modern science. Just six years ago, there across the desert, they tested another nuclear device. And, in the middle of a desert, an unforgiving one at that, here is the most modern city on Earth. Water, electricity, air conditioning, go go dancers...there is little wanting, but coolness. A light breeze...anything.
He noted his cigarette burned quickly. It was dry. He had gone through four in under the half an hour he had been back to the room.
"The AC is broken, sorry," from the little concierge. She was a dark thing, with dark red lipstick. She was perspiring despite the little fan they had on the desk. The smell of money was all around the casino. The smell of coins. The smell of bills. Sweat, desperation and, once in a while, the sound of joy as coins fell into the metal tray. Everyone got up from their chairs, no longer beholden to social more, and gawking as if it were an accident on the highway.
The air changed. It was so slight, but noticeable only because of the stagnancy before. There was a breeze. He turned from the balcony and to the small dresser nearest him. He stared at the copy of Fail-Safe by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler. He couldn't make out the black concentric circles in this light. The color of cover looked white in the wash of red neon.
"Automatically," from page 138, "[Grady] looked down at the Fail-Safe box which was installed between him and the bombadier. For the first time in his flying career the bulb on top of the box was glowing red. Then his intellect caught up with his reflexes: this was the real thing....He reached for the S.S.B. radio switch. This would put him in direct contact with Omaha."
Burdick and Wheeler must have had an 'in' with some pilots. The USAF only started using SSB maybe ten years ago, the book was written in '62. HAM operators played with them before, a few were hired as contracted specialists, until the military engineers could get up to speed. Lou knew part of its history: he had received his advanced training in single channel radio operations many moons ago.
Why did Bridge want him to read the book? He nonchalantly handed over the Burdick book, then a Pynchon, a notebook and three hundred dollars. He gave him a formula for blackjack and told him not to push it. Lou couldn't help but think they were all connected somehow.
Either way it made him forget the young lady. He drew the curtains and marked the sound of cars had all but died away. The shooting star of the Mint looked like an asterisk through the dark of curtain.
He hit the bed and made a mental note of the 3200 in cash that he had wadded up into his shoe. He made a recall that he had latched the door. He hoped he would sleep enough of the hours before the stark sun of July pierced the room soon.
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