Painted across the curved flank in fluid, hand-brushed lettering was a single name: Remiel. There was no propeller. No radial engine cowling. No trailing exhaust pipes or supercharger scoops. And most unnerving of all, there was no stench of scorched metal, no dripping puddle of high-octane avgas, and no airframe crumple. Except for the left-side cant into the loose volcanic beads, the craft sat on the desert floor like a jewel placed deliberately on a velvet cushion. "Look at the glass," Harlan breathed, stepping forward, his archaeologist's eye immediately dissecting the anomalies. The dual bubble canopies were unsealed. The left-side canopy was thrown completely open, resting wide against the fuselage. The right-side canopy had been popped up and latched open a few inches, catching the dry breeze. "Sheriff," Kincaid said, dropping into an instinctive rescue crouch. "We've got movement in the right seat." Inside the starboard cockpit sat a young woman.