When the night was again completely silent and dark, he turned and walked on down the road. Ahead of him in the camping area, lights were popping on. Now he heard voices, carried a long way in the crisp autumn night.
They must have heard the saucer too, he thought and walked on, toward the lights and voices.
The president was on his stationary bicycle in the White House gym, pumping the pedals and sweating, when an aide found him. “Mr. President, something, probably a saucer, just went into orbit from western Montana. Space Command tracked it. It achieved a sustainable orbit a few minutes ago.”
The president ceased pumping the pedals and sat silently.
“The Cantrells are still in Missouri?”
“The FBI says they are. They have the Cantrell farm under surveillance.”
The president sighed and mopped his face with a towel. “Do the networks have this orbit thing?”
“Space Command is issuing a press release.”
“I suppose they have to.”
“Yes, sir. It would look bad for the air force if someone reported it and Space Command appeared to be caught flatfooted.”
“I guess.”
It’s the media age we live in, the president reflected when he was again alone. He pedaled a few more revolutions, then stopped.
He felt as if he had entered a movie theater with only ten minutes left in the movie, and he had no idea what the plot was.
What in the world is going on?
That very same question occurred to Dr. Harrison Douglas of World Pharmaceuticals when he heard the news on the Fox Network. A saucer had gone into orbit — was it his saucer? Did that thief Solo fly it into space?
Egg Cantrell out in Missouri. He knew all about flying saucers. Hell, his nephew Rip found one in the Sahara! God only knew where the Sahara saucer was.
Well, he might have lost one saucer, but Douglas knew the name of someone who could probably lay hands on another, if properly stimulated.
As the beautiful young women of Fox gassed about flying saucers and aliens and the state of the universe, Johnny Murkowsky of Murk Corporation, another Big Pharma company, was also thinking about how to get information out of Egg Cantrell. And that young man, Rip. And that test pilot, Charlotte Pine.
The possibilities of human drug information on a flying saucer’s computer hadn’t previously occurred to Johnny Murkowsky, yet he could add two and two. If that lizard Harrison Douglas had invested eight million smackeroos trying to get at a saucer, there must be something there that could be turned into money. Drug money, which is the kind World Pharmaceuticals and Murk Corporation made. Big money. Really Big Money, or RBM.
Murkowsky didn’t have a saucer. Maybe the Cantrells did, maybe they didn’t, but they might know something. They would talk. They had to. There was RBM at stake.
A large dog found Adam Solo as he approached the camping area. It came running, barking fiercely, and skidded to a stop just a few feet from Solo, who stood motionless as it approached.
The dog growled and snarled, showing its teeth.
Solo extended his hand and stared the dog in the eyes.
The mongrel ceased to growl. It stood motionless, almost as if it were waiting. Now the upper lip relaxed, covering its fangs.
Solo took two steps toward the dog with his hand extended.
The dog licked his hand, then sat, watching him expectantly.
“Let’s go meet your folks,” Solo said, and resumed walking toward the camping area, which by now was fully ablaze in lights. Behind him, the sky was beginning to brighten with the coming dawn.
The dog fell in behind Solo and matched his stride.
A man in his sixties standing beside an Airstream trailer hitched to a large pickup truck watched them come. He glanced at Solo, then addressed the dog. “A fine watchdog you are, Pag. You are supposed to be barking, scaring off strangers.”
“He did his best,” Solo said, gesturing at the dog, “but we talked and became friends.”
The man snorted, looking Solo over. “And who are you?”
“Just a traveler,” Solo responded. “As we all are. The dog’s name?”
“Paganini.”
“Ah, you are an aficionado of the violin?”
The man smiled. “Retired from a studio orchestra in Hollywood. By any chance, do you play the violin?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“My name’s Stephens. What can we do for you this fine autumn morning?”
“I was wondering if I could get a ride into town.”
“Did you hear that noise, that rumble like thunder a little while ago?”
“Yes, I did. And there don’t seem to be any clouds or storms around.” Solo scanned the dawn sky, looking again at the fading stars.
The man shook his head. “He okay, Pag?”
The dog sat beside Solo and glanced up at his face.
“Well, Pag seems to give you a good bill of health. As it happens, the woman and I are pulling out after breakfast, after we get packed up and police this campsite. Come in and have some breakfast. Then you can ride along.”
“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it,” Adam Solo said and caressed the dog.
“Damn weather in these mountains is weird as hell,” the man said. “We’ve been here too long anyway. Gonna snow soon, and we sure don’t want to be here when it does.”
“Yes,” Solo replied and followed the man and dog into the trailer.
There were two FBI agents waiting in the outer office for Harrison Douglas when he arrived through his private door. The secretary was nervous when she told him about the visitors.
Douglas merely grunted, “Show them in.”
They were middle-aged and wore sports coats and cheap ties. After he examined their credentials, Douglas tried to look appropriately mystified. “What is this about?”
“Just a few questions, sir,” the agent with the tired eyes said. “We understand you paid for the salvage of the flying saucer from the floor of the Atlantic?”
“I didn’t. World Pharmaceuticals did.”
“But you authorized the operation, and were there on the salvage ship?”
Douglas acknowledged the truth of that statement with a nod of his head.
“Could you tell us why you wanted the saucer?” the other agent asked.
Harrison Douglas launched into his explanation, the same explanation he had given his board and expounded upon to the press after Solo stole his saucer. The search for scientific knowledge and all that.
“Did you hope the saucer would have secrets that would be marketable?” the first agent pressed.
“Of course.”
“What secrets?”
“Well, sir, if I knew that we wouldn’t have spent eight million bucks trying to raise the darn thing. We paid for the salvage on speculation. My attorneys assured me that my salvage of that thing was perfectly legal. Said it was abandoned. Sure looked like it to me, sitting down there on the sea floor. Have you people found it, or that thief Solo, who stole it?”
No, they hadn’t.
Twenty minutes later they left, knowing no more than Douglas had told the press.
When they were gone, Douglas picked up the telephone on the desk and asked his secretary to ring up a number that belonged to one of the guys he knew in Philadelphia.
Adam Solo and Abe and Muriel Stephens rode along in splendor in the big Ford diesel pickup that Stephens used to tow his camper. Stephens produced a violin from a battered case, and Solo inspected it carefully.
“It appears to be a Jacob Stainer,” Solo said, “but it has been altered. The neck angle has been changed.”
Stephens took his eyes off the road to inspect Solo again. “What did you say your name was?”