The Maze by Will Hobbs Page A

’em?”
    â€œAnyone who’s interested. People really like these field notes. They go out all over the country on the Internet.”
    â€œThe Condor Project has a home page?”
    â€œSure, like everybody else these days. Josh takes out my notes and updates the Maze site. After his next visit he’ll enter all this stuff. A couple of weeks from now, kids in schools all around the country will be reading about Maverick’s epic flight and misadventure.”
    â€œDo they see pictures of the condors?”
    â€œSure. Andrea took lots of pictures the day we released ’em.”
    â€œIs there a picture of you?”
    Lon snorted. He thought that was funny. Something on the cliffs caught his eye; he reached for the binoculars. An eagle was dive-bombing a condor that was flying a hundred feet or so above the rim. The young condor maneuvered well enough to avoid being struck, then found a safe perch in the cliffs. A short while later it happened again.
    â€œI’m getting pretty bent out of shape about the eagles,” Rick said.
    â€œDon’t,” Lon told him. “It’s all a part of a condor’s education.”
    They drove back to the Doll House. Maverick had flown onto the flats among the formations. The flats were sprinkled with sagebrush, cactus, huge boulders, and numbers of pinyons and junipers—lots of hiding places for coyotes, according to Lon. “I can’t risk him spending another night out in the open. I’m not going to lose that bird.”
    â€œYou’re going to try to net him?”
    Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Lon nodded.
    For more than thirty minutes Rick watched Lon inching on his elbows and belly toward the condor. The net was nearly three feet in diameter, like a huge fishing net. Thirty feet remained between the man and the bird, with only open ground between them. Just when itseemed this would go on forever. Rick detected a quick motion of the condor’s head in Lon’s direction. The bird was on to him. Suddenly Lon rose and started sprinting.
    Maverick was hopping and then running as fast as he could, beating his great wings. Rick was amazed by his size, by his speed as well. Lon was running full out and was very close to being close enough to net the bird. With a horizontal leap, Lon lunged and came up with only air. Rick watched as Maverick, wings beating furiously, gradually gained altitude and flew off.
    â€œThat was quite a chase,” Rick said afterward. “You’ve got serious roadburn on your arms there.”
    â€œWhere’d he go?”
    â€œNorth.”
    â€œMaverick’s really spooked now. I must’ve been an awful scary sight. We’re going to have to try a different approach.”
    â€œDisguise yourself as a dead cow?”
    â€œSort of,” Lon said, but he didn’t explain. “Let’s see if we can get another visual on him.”
    On foot now, they followed the signal from Lon’s electronic bloodhound north toward the confluence of the two rivers. The standing formations surrounding them were fantastic beyond imagining. It was a broken country of slickrock domes and terraces, cactus flats, and stone arches. Monumental sandstone fins stood in perfectly parallel rows with slots of flat, shady ground in between.
    The signal was strong but twilight was fading. Finally Lon located the condor on top of one of the narrow fins.
    Rick set up the spotting scope. Maverick had already tucked his head away in the ruff on his shoulders. “I’m going to catch you, Maverick,” Lon muttered.
    The man’s eyes were ablaze with determination. “We have a lot of work to do, Rick. Hang the field glasses from the scope; we’ll leave them here. We’ll have to find this place in the dark. When we find the equipment, we’ll know we’re back at the right place. We’ll have plenty to carry as it is: a shovel and a bow saw, some plastic buckets, a