The airfield, eleven miles out of town, is busier than it was ever intended to be. This is nice grape- and olive-growing land, but stony mountains are visible farther inland, and beyond ’em is a patch of sand the size of the United States—most of which seems to be airborne and headed their way. Countless airplanes—predominantly Dakota transports, a.k.a. Gooney Birds—stir up vast, tongue-coating, booger-nucleating dust clouds. It doesn’t occur to Shaftoe for quite some time that his dry eyes and mouth may not be entirely the result of dust in the air. His saliva has the consistency of tile adhesive.