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The day-long drive back to Alpine made Matt more and more uneasy. It didn't help that the talk radio stations in El Paso were still consumed with Darcy mania and meteor madness. Clueless callers yammered ceaselessly about what should be done about the meteors and where the little space athlete might be hiding.
Both topics were invariably mentioned on the hourly network news as well, on all the stations he tried.
According to one report, musicians at a rock club in England had projected a picture of Darcy above the stage and said that she would be making an appearance there later that night. Pandemonium erupted and eight people were hurt in the stampede.
On another station he learned that American scientists had decided to send a nuclear-tipped rocket against one of the meteors and European scientists would build one to be launched against the other. The Chinese, Japanese, and Australian governments had formed a coalition to send a third rocket as insurance for the first two.
The news reader claimed, truthfully as far as Matt could recall, that "this international effort on behalf of the people of the entire planet is a first in history, and may set the pattern for future cooperation in other areas."
So why wasn't he happy?
His drive became even more depressing when he turned south from Van Horn and drove out of radio range, leaving him alone with his thoughts. That old knife of conscience popped back into his mind again to stab him repeatedly as he passed through the nowhere town of Valentine. It was famous only on February 14th for the postmarks their post office would stamp on the cards and letters lovers sent in with return postage.
It was very strange. He should have been happy. It looked like the threatening meteoroids were going to be moved out of earth’s path by one rocket or another.
Matt’s book was almost certainly going to make him obscene amounts of money. All the people who doubted he would ever amount to anything, including some members of his family, would be reduced to admiration or jealousy over his vast wealth and renown. He could build a big house on the mountain above Dr. Sledd's place, buy a new truck, and visit Darcy whenever he wanted to.
But he was wasting grief on himself. In the greater scheme of things, he hardly mattered.
Darcy mattered!
Poor thing, remarkable and talented and smart as she was, she still had to keep a low profile. She just didn't have the celebrity mentality. She would certainly be terrified and miserable spending the rest of her life as the focus of attention of billions of people and the merciless media.
The Olympics had been only a taste.
Once it became known that he knew Darcy, his name too would forever be in the news. Any time he left town, for whatever reason, crowds of reporters, paparazzi, and tipsters would be keeping tabs on him, hoping to track him to her. He'd be lucky if he ever saw Darcy again in person. He probably couldn't even telephone her and be confident that the call would not be traced.
Then there was the article promised to Crusty. That would require interviews with the Delbosques, Coach Pérez, and Cheryl Ford, if he could locate her.
The Alvillar family, who put Darcy up for a time, would have to be talked to also. And there was Rhoda Williams, that kind and helpful woman, whose brush with fame left her almost quivering. Also Dr. Harcroft—the conversation with him started the whole thing off. Even though no one could blame him for having thrown Darcy out of his office, with hindsight he still looked like a boob.
It was depressing, but if he had to write the article in order for Crusty not to kill him, then he'd write the article. He began blocking it out as he covered the last miles to Alpine in the dwindling light.
