Solo swung along with a steady, miles-eating gait, one that had carried him along the roads of the earth for a long, long time. Today the earth smelled rich and pungent. The trees still had a few brown leaves remaining on their stark, dark limbs. Squirrels fought for territory amid the fallen leaves on the ground. A high, thin cirrus layer diffusing the sunlight promised a change in the weather.
There had been other trails through the forest, and he and his companions had run along them, free as only wild creatures can be.
One such day he recalled vividly, because it had also been in autumn, after the leaves had fallen and before the snows came. They were after elk, big animals with lots of meat that would keep them through the long, vicious winter when the rivers and streams froze and the forests were choked with snow.
The sky promised snow then too, so they were in a hurry to reach the elk meadows. Consequently they ran into an ambush; two men were dead in as many seconds as arrows filled the air, and war cries, unexpected howls of glee that froze the blood and paralyzed the nervous system for a crucial few seconds. Ah yes, he remembered all of it. The twanging of bows, the sigh arrows made as they flew through the air, the thud of arrowheads striking flesh, the thundering war cries and the whispered death songs …
Through the trees, today Solo saw the hangar by the grass runway and walked in that direction. Then he saw the small saucer resting on the stone. It was roughly three feet in diameter, sitting atop the stone on its three landing gear.
He approached it, examined it from a distance of six feet, then got closer. He could even see through the canopy into the miniature cockpit. He found himself staring at the pilot’s seat, the controls, the blank instrument panel … and he knew.
Here it was! The saucer from the Sahara, the one Rip Cantrell had found. They had discovered how to shrink it.
It was beyond his reach. He had never worn the headband, never communicated with the computers inside this ship, so it would not recognize his brain waves. It would not obey his orders.
He ran his fingers over the surface, feeling the coolness and smoothness.
With his hand on the saucer, he stood looking at the hangar and the house on the hill and the trees. The autumn wind was gentle on his cheek.
He heard voices … coming from the hangar. Solo reluctantly abandoned the saucer and walked toward the large wooden building.
The main door was open. He stood in the entrance and found himself looking at an airplane. Two people were working on one of the main wheels, a man and a woman. He recognized them from their published descriptions: Charley Pine and Rip Cantrell.
“Hello,” he said.
Rip and Charley both turned to look at him.
“Who are you?” Rip asked.
“Just a traveler.”
“This is private property. You’re trespassing.”
“I suppose so. I climbed over the gate. Hope you don’t mind.”
Rip looked Solo over carefully. Middle-aged, a small, trim man, clean-shaven. “What did you say your name was?”
“Traveler. Adam Traveler.”
Rip went back to greasing the bearings of the wheel that lay on the dirt floor of the hangar and asked, “Know anything about airplanes?”
“A little, yes,” the man who called himself Traveler said.
Charley smiled. “I saw a photo of you on television. You’re Adam Solo, the man who stole the Roswell saucer from the Atlantic Queen.”
Solo grinned ruefully. “And you must be Charley Pine.”
Charley gestured toward Rip and pronounced his name.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Solo said, and strolled into the hangar.
“The networks are convinced you are in orbit, waiting for a mother ship to pick you up,” Rip said wryly.
“Ah, the networks…”
“So, do you really know anything about airplanes?”
“As a matter of fact, I once flew them for the British. That was a while back, and the machines were not quite as sophisticated as this, but I am sure the general principles haven’t changed.”
“Aerodynamics being what it is,” Charley suggested.
“Quite.”
“And when did you get all this experience?”
Solo eyed her and decided that, for once, perhaps the truth might be best. “During World War I. I flew Camels.”
“Indeed,” Charley said, intent on Solo’s face.
Rip eyed Solo askance, trying to decide if he was lying — and why. “You are the only World War I vet I’ve ever met,” he said. “All the others are dead. Have been for a good long time.”
“Good genes,” Solo responded.
“Apparently so,” Charley said with her eyes narrowed.
“Well, come help us with this wheel,” Rip said finally, waving a greasy hand. “Maybe you can help us figure out how to get it back on correctly.”
Solo dropped his backpack and waded in.
When the wheel was back on the landing gear and the jack was removed, so that the plane again sat on its own wheels, Rip said to Solo, “Come on up to the house. I’d like you to meet my Uncle Egg.”
“Yes,” Solo said thoughtfully and finished wiping the grease from his hands on a red mechanic’s rag. Then he picked up his backpack and shouldered it.
They were about to start climbing the hill toward the house when a large SUV raced along the driveway and slid to a stop in the gravel parking area, right beside the rock with the small saucer on top of it. Another SUV was right behind and parked beside the first. Television cameramen and sound techs piled out, complete with cameras and lights and satellite transmission equipment. A sign on the side of one SUV said FOX NEWS.
“Uh-oh,” Rip muttered. He raised his voice and shouted, “This is private property. You people must leave. You don’t have permission…”
His voice trailed off because no one was listening. The cameramen scattered like quail, carrying their equipment. A reporter with a microphone braced Rip and Charley. Behind her stood the last cameraman, looking through his eyepiece.
“This is Rip Cantrell,” the reporter said breathlessly into her microphone, “the man who found a flying saucer in the Sahara and flew it to America last year. Mr. Cantrell, what can you tell us about the drug formulas in your saucer’s computer?”
“Not a damned thing,” Rip snarled into her microphone, which she had thrust toward his face. “Now you people get off this farm, which is private property.”
Whether the reporter and cameraman would have left under their own steam will never be known — this was, after all, award-winning television journalism. What happened next was totally unexpected and gave great joy to the producer of this television news show.
Two more SUVs came roaring into the parking lot.
Four men climbed out of each vehicle. Rip recognized the man who climbed from the passenger’s seat of the first SUV. Dr. Harrison Douglas of World Pharmaceuticals.
“Well, well, well,” Douglas said nastily. Ignoring the television reporter and cameraman, he produced a pistol from his coat pocket. “I thought we would merely have a quiet chat with the Cantrells and Charley Pine, and instead we hit the jackpot and found you here, Solo. You thief! Where in hell is my saucer?”
Solo said nothing. The television cameraman moved so he had a nicely framed face shot of Solo, whom he had ignored up to now.
The men from the SUVs surrounded Rip, Charley and Solo as Douglas waved his shooter around.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time, Solo. Where is my saucer?”
Solo ignored everyone except Douglas, whom he regarded calmly.
“Better tell him,” Rip whispered. “I think he’s a few cards short of a complete deck.”
“Up there,” Solo said, jerking a thumb skyward. “Don’t you watch television?”
“Who is flying it?” Douglas demanded. His face was red; his hand holding the pistol, a semiautomatic, was shaking. The reporter was waving the microphone around, trying to catch every word.