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The grass trembles as if with a presentiment of wind that has not yet come to sweep the day.

Vida says, “And your husband—he’s looking for proof of graves that will stop Boschvark’s project?”

“Not bones, if that’s what you’re thinking. No need to dig so deep that he disturbs the dead. The grave will be layered, with the bones at the bottom. Above them will be certain objects, depending on the nation to which the deceased belonged. In many cases,there will be items that were placed on the raw earth of the fresh grave, items carved from stone or made from fired clay that over time have weathered into the earth and are easy to uncover. That’ll be proof enough to get a court’s attention.”

Considering the tortuous path Vida has traveled from grief and despair to this triumph, from José’s death to impending fulfillment of the mission to which he had dedicated himself, she’s astonished to be here. Although the wolves seem vigilant, the dogs continue to frolic, and she is in a mood to take her inspiration from the dogs. Her heart is ready, this time for healing and happiness.

Better yet, if Boschvark could go back in time, he would choke the infant Nochelobo to death in his cradle and do it with enormous pleasure.

Even in death, his nemesis won’t leave him in peace. It’s like a haunting, Boschvark’s skull being the house and José Nochelobo an unrelenting spirit.The endless mining, the wanton destruction of vast ecosystems on land and sea, the volume of wasted materials—this is by far the dirtiest technology we could choose. Nuclear fission, fusion, hydroelectric are all clean. Even natural gas is cleaner and far less destructive than what’s needed to harness enough wind.

“For now,” Boschvark growls, “the money is in the wind.”

Puzzled, Yataghan says, “Excuse me?”

“When wind doesn’t work, we’ll be where the money goes next.”

“If you say so.”

Here comes Nochelobo again, spooking along the hallways of Boschvark’s mind.The energy infrastructure that’s taken a hundred fifty years to establish can’t be replaced with something else in just ten years. It’ll take fifty years or longer. Spending trillions on a worthless quick fix will crash the economy.

“Meanwhile,” Boschvark says, “a lot of people with connections will get very rich. There’s nothing wrong with being rich.”

“Nothing at all,” Yataghan agrees, keeping his focus on their flight path.

“And if you’re smart, you can make a fortune in a financial crash.”

“I don’t think I’m that smart,” Yataghan says.

It seems to Boschvark that a chill is imparted to the air in the helo as the ghostly Nochelobo continues his rant.When we’ve printed trillions in new money to harness the wind, when then the dollar collapses, millions of people will be impoverished.

“Not if they do what I intend to do with every billion I make from wind,” Boschvark says.

Because he can’t hear Nochelobo’s side of the conversation, Yataghan says, “What do you mean? What do you intend to do?”

“What do I intend to do? What do I intend to do? Buy eleven tons of gold, of course. For starters.”

“That’s a lot of gold.”

“At the current price.”

“What do you mean?”

“As the price goes up, a billion will buy fewer tons. But I’ll keep buying. You damn well better believe it. I’ll keep buying if it comes to that. If the country goes down, I won’t go with it.”

“Hey, are you all right?” Yataghan asks. “What’re you so angry about? Did I do something?”

“Not you. Why the hell would I be pissed at you? It’s that stinking piece of shit Nochelobo.”

“He’s dead,” Yataghan says.

“I know he’s dead. But he’ll never be dead enough to suit me.”

Boschvark’s breathing is louder and more insistent than the sound of the five Blue Edge blades whirling overhead.

After a silence, Yataghan says, “Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t have that kind of money. What would I do with eleven tons of gold anyway?”

“Put it in a private vault, of course.”