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End and, overcome by a sudden and unexpected pang of homesickness, he promised himself a meal there as soon as he got back. But for now, Vasquez’s culinary efforts would have to do.
    “Soup’s on!” said Vasquez, sliding three plates across the lacquered tabletop. Hok’ee entered and sat down, seizing his fork and digging in. Katarina poked around at her plate with evident distaste. Vasquez sat down and began dousing Tabasco sauce over his plate with liberal carelessness. They watched him shovel the food down in great forkfuls.
    “So where is it we are headed, exactly?” Lazarus asked Vasquez.
    “You’ll find that out when we get there,” the bandit replied with a grin.
    “There’s really no call to be so cagey.”
    “Oh, there ain’t? Well how come you two can’t even bring up the matter of what we’re all chasing after, then? It’s Cibola, isn’t it?”
    Lazarus and Katarina looked at each other.
    “And you claim to know its location,” said Lazarus.
    “All I claim is to know the location of the map. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
    “What good is a map to a place that doesn’t exist?” said Lazarus.
    “You don’t sound very convinced that the matter is genuine,” said Katarina.
    “I’m not.”
    Vasquez dropped his fork with a clatter. “Now listen, limey, you’re the one on my tail, hounding me for the map. Now all of a sudden you don’t believe I’ve got the goods?”
    “Oh I believe you’ve seen a map. Maybe even have it hidden away somewhere. I just don’t believe the seven golden cities of Cibola exist outside of fairy tales told to the Spaniards by the natives.”
    “Get a load of this guy, Hok’ee!” Vasquez crowed.
    The Navajo was watching Lazarus intently with his sullen, black eyes. The Golgotha rifle had been detached from his elbow, and in place of it he had screwed on a hook that served as a multi-purpose tool for tinkering about on the ship. He rapped this on the table top slowly.
    “He aims to tell us how things are running in this here country of ours. What makes you such a goddamned expert, limey?”
    “He’s an historian,” said Katarina. “And a grave robber.”
    “Archaeologist,” Lazarus corrected, surprised that she knew so much about him. No doubt a file on him had been provided by the Russian government.
    “Egghead, huh?” said Vasquez. “So you know all about Cibola. More than me, perhaps?”
    Lazarus sighed and began the tale from the beginning. “I know that in fifteen-thirty-six four survivors from a Spanish shipwreck resurfaced in Mexico. With them was a Moorish slave called Estevanico; the first African to set foot in America. They had been wandering for eight years throughout the Southwest and had heard tales of a wealthy land to the north. The Spaniards in Mexico, who had recently amassed vast wealth from plundering the Aztec and Inca empires, became convinced that there must be a third golden empire in the northern continent. The Spanish had their own legend of seven bishops who fled Spain with all their wealth during the Moorish invasion hundreds of years previously. They believed that these bishops had set up seven golden cities in an unchartered land to the west. With the stories told by Estevanico and his companions, it seemed possible that these cities were somewhere in the American Southwest.
    “The Viceroy of New Spain sent out an expedition under a Franciscan monk called Marcos de Niza who, with Estevanico as his guide, headed north to find this golden empire. Estevanico was an impetuous fellow by all accounts, who kept running on ahead and sending back promising clues. It seemed that they were drawing near to their goal. In one letter he said that he had found a fabulous city called Cibola, the first of many of its kind. Then, Estevanico drops off the map.”
    “De Niza tried to catch up with him,” said Katarina, demonstrating that she too had been filled in on the fairy tale. “But he came across several members of