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Tawdry questions, half answered with half-truths, jammed A
Due to a small flu epidemic thi
From the scuttlebutt, A
Years had passed since A
The expected pinch of claustrophobia failed to materialize, and A
Periodically A
On a zigzagging segment where the path descended steeply toward the Big Room, a chamber the size of fourteen football fields according to the brochure, A
They were stopped at a natural viewpoint. A thoughtful government had provided a tasteful stone bench by the trail. A
The gaggle of girls trickled downhill. Zeddie turned, the professional smile of the tour guide barely discernible even to eyes accustomed to the dark.
"Hey, A
Both of them thought of Peter McCarty. A
Sniffing audibly, Zeddie said, "Do I smell Plumeria?"
"I've been playing with your toys," A
"Good for the soul. Even Xena the Warrior Princess wears a little eye shadow. I'm bored with men who think strong and sexy is an oxymoron."
"Heavy on the moron?" A
Two tourists, twined together like unpruned ivy, walked past. They smiled and nodded at Zeddie. The flat hat, the uniform, brought that out in people. Rangers, like firemen and comic-strip bears, were considered benevolent creatures. That as much as anything made A
"I oughtn't to be sitting," Zeddie said idly. "It looks bad." She made no move to get up. The morning's tour would have taken a toll even on such a robust specimen as Zeddie Dillard. She was tired, vulnerable. A
"Have you ever sung in the Big Room?" A
"'Ghost Riders in the Sky.'"
Leaning her head back, A
Carlsbad, the destination of as many as three-quarters of a million tourists each year, had none of the baffling silence of Lechuguilla. She and Zeddie were no more isolated than two women on a bench at the Guggenheim on a Sunday afternoon. In exposing the visual grandeur of the cavern, the soul of the cave had been compromised, as outer space was compromised by the bits of metal flung into it. Once man intruded, perfect solitude was banished. In this instance, A