down anywhere. Ain’t lookin’fer a room, I suppose. Make you a special rate.”
“No,” said Eden. “I’m sorry.”
“’Sall right,” answered the proprietor. “Not many are.”
“I’d like to find the office of the Eldorado Times,” Eden informed him.
“Round corner on First,” murmured the old man, deep in his pink newspaper again.
Bob Eden went to the corner, and turned off. His feet at once left Eldorado’s solitary sidewalk for soft crunching sand. He passed a few buildings even meaner than those on Main Street, a plumber’s shop, a grocer’s, and came to a little yellow shack which bore on its window the fading legend: “The Eldorado Times. Job Printing Neatly Done.” There was no light inside, and crossing a narrow, dilapidated porch, he saw a placard on the door. Straining his eyes in the dusk, he read:
"Back in an hour—God knows why.
Will Holley."
Smiling, Eden returned to the Desert Edge. “How about dinner?” he inquired.
“Wonderin’about it myself,” admitted the old man. “We don’t serve meals here. Lose a little less that way.”
“But there must be a restaurant—”
“Sure there is. This is an up-to-date town.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Down beyond the bank—the Oasis Cafe.”
Thanking him, Bob Eden departed. Behind unwashed windows he found the Oasis dispensing its dubious cheer. A
