VIII. A Friendly Little Game
For a time the little brother of the car on Punchbowl Hill plowed valiantly on, and neither the detective nor Bob Eden spoke. The yellow glare of the sun was cooling on the gray livery of the desert; the shadows cast by the occasional trees grew steadily longer. The far-off mountains purpled and the wind bestirred itself.
“Charlie,” said Bob Eden. “What do you think of this country?”
“This desert land?” asked Charlie.
Eden nodded.
“Happy to have seen it. All my time I yearn to encounter change. Certainly have encountered that here.”
“Yes, I guess you have. Not much like Hawaii, is it?”
“I will say so. Hawaii lie like handful of Phillimore pearls on heaving breast of ocean. Oahu little island with very wet neighborhood all about. Moisture hangs in air all time, rain called liquid sunshine, breath of ocean pretty damp. Here I climb round to other side of picture. Air is dry like last year’s newspaper.”
“They tell me you can love this country if you try.”
Chan shrugged. “For my part, I reserve my efforts in
