Imperial Read Free Page A

fields right now, he said to me. Okay, he’s got sign.
    We were in the car now, speeding toward the place. We stopped by a wall of hay, which we smelled more than saw in the dark humid night. Border Patrolmen were searching with their lights.
    Right here you got the traffic, Murray said.
    And he shone his flashlight on fresh footprints in the sand.
    These kids should be easy to catch, he went on, half talking to himself. But I feel naked; I don’t have a spotlight. I don’t have any alleylights . . .
    The long field appeared green through an agent’s nightscope. The Border Patrolmen hunted and searched, as the crumbly earth devoured their feet up to the ankles. It was silt from the days of the ancient sea. They came through the field, stalking it with headlights which rendered the furrows cruelly bright.
    Maybe we’ll find the bodies, Murray said. Maybe not. It’s just pure luck. But these kids tripped a sensor.
    I can’t see ’em anymore, another officer said, resting his hands on his Sam Browne belt.
    I got an eye on your bodies, said the nightscope man, whose monitor made the word bodies seem chillingly appropriate, for in the green night the aliens glowed white like evil extraterrestial beings or zombies out of a science-fiction movie. The nightscope man could also reverse the contrast if he chose, so that the bodies became green silhouettes in a glowing white field of night-ness.—They’re layin’ up in the middle of the field, he went on, directing the hunters through a darkness which neither they nor the aliens, who surely thought themselves safe, could penetrate. How eerie it was! Only the nightscope man could see! The aliens lurked on faith that the darkness was their invincible friend. The Border Patrolmen could scarcely perceive where they set their own feet; they could have been approaching a precipice; but they approached the unseen bodies with equal and, as it proved, more justified faith.—Lookin’ dead smack in the middle, said the nightscope man. Yeah, I got a fix on your bodies. Turn left. Three steps more. Another coupla steps. They should be right in front of you, right down there in those . . . Yeah, you got ’em.
    Now came the wide circle of the spotlight. The hunters’ cars circled the field. And the bodies, hopelessly silhouetted, resurrected themselves from the fresh earth, giving in to capture and deportation. They rose, becoming black on black. And the shadow of a man whose hands were on his head was replicated manifold. Two of them with their hands on their heads stood gazing down at the half-empty jugs of water they’d carried. Sad and submissive faces gazed into the darkness, half-blinded by the brightness as the Border Patrolmen frisked them. Yes, the bodies stood wide-eyed in the light, all in the line, with their hands obediently behind them. Coughing, shuffling, they began to cross the fields.
    You know what? a Border Patrolman said to one of the bodies. You really need to brush your teeth. You’ve got wicked bad breath, guy.
    The body was silent. In the nightscope it had been as white as one of the freshly dead fishes in the cool green poison (or should I say “reputed poison”?) of the Salton Sea. Now it began to reveal itself to be brown—Hispanic, sunburned and field-stained.
    Let’s go, amigos. Come on. Let’s go; let’s go.
    None of the captives looked terrified. It was as Officer Murray had said: People realize they’re not going to jail for the rest of their lives, so they calm down.
    Now, that irrigator’s car over there just happens to be in a convenient place, an agent was saying. We’ll have to check him out . . .
    The Mexicans walked more quickly now, carefully cradling their water jugs, attended by the bright, bright lights. Now they sat in a line on the roadside, a long line of them, with their jugs and bottles of water between their legs. Most of them wore baseball caps. They were young, wiry, strong to work. Their eyes shone alertly in the night.