"Is there any news, Nolan?"
"About Nick? No." He touched her arm. "They've given up ... and so should you. Honey, you're young, beautiful. Hell, another woman would have gone out and had a ball.
"Listen, there's a lousy show on down in Everett. Want to go?"
She smiled. "Thanks, but you're probably tired from hunting for the Peters' kid..."
"I feel fine."
She shook her head. "Nolan, I know how you feel about me. I'm very flattered. But ... but I have to accustom to his loss in my own way. I'm sorry."
Nolan forced a smile. "That's the way the mop flops," he mused. "I'll be around, when you are." He finished his coffee in silence. "Well, I have to get moving, make out a report and all. Thanks for the coffee, Beth."
She nodded, but remained staring into her cup. Nolan went into the front room, picked up his hat and went out into the morning to climb into his car. When he had started it and headed back toward Everett, he found himself struggling with the feeling that he was being cheated.
After all, he reasoned with himself, why should a guy have to play second fiddle to a man who was probably dead. If Nick Danson were alive, it'd be different; but dead, and that was an almost sure thing, he felt cheated. Beth could learn to love him. She could forget. Hell, a lot of women lost their men for some reason or another, but they accustomed, they altered their lives. If a man dropped the reins, some other guy should pick them up. It was only natural.
He shut off the thoughts of Beth as he reached the busy section of town and concentrated on his driving. He could wait, he decided in closing off the thoughts. Sooner or later she would be ready to accept the truth, and he would be right there waiting. He maneuvered the Ford around several other cars parked in the lot of the City Hall and found the berth that bore his name. He killed the engine, got out and went inside to his office.
When he opened the door and saw the two men and the Chief sitting in his office, he knew it was something big. After awhile, it was so you could spot a Fed a mile away. Especially when they were sitting in your office. Chief Daniels looked grouchy at him, but his tone was cordial.
"You finish with Peters?"
"Yes."
Daniels nodded, his florid, moon face looking lumpy and important. "Lieutenant Brice. This is John Cartwell and Sam Morgan. Secret Service. I've promised to give them assistance in an important matter. They'll brief you." He nodded an important good-by and left the three of them alone.
"What's the problem, gentlemen," Nolan said and settled behind his desk.
Cartwell, a stocky looking thirty year old, with wavy blond hair, did the talking, while his dark complected friend puffed placidly on a cigar.
"Lieutenant Brice," Cartwell said, "your boss seemed to think that you'd be the best man to help us set up our plan of operation. We've already contacted the Civil Air Patrol and the National Guard outfit here. We have an air search under way and for the meanwhile that's all we can do. We were hoping that you could help us get in touch with all the ground observing corps' branches; we'll use this office as a headquarters for operations."
Nolan blinked, "What's up? An Air Force test plane down?"
Cartwell shook his head. "We got a UFO report..."
"A flying saucer?" Nolan was stunned.
Cartwell chuckled and his partner grinned. "An Unidentified Flying Object does not necessarily constitute a space craft, Brice. But something was spotted off the Grand Banks, early this morning, going like hell and apparently out of control. We got our last sighting over Auburn, New York. We checked the observation posts around Everett and found that nothing was seen. We also checked Binghamton and Elmira, with a negative report. Since the object was on a southerly heading, when spotted near Auburn, we can only assume that it went down in the area between Everett and Auburn, and Binghamton and Elmira."
Nolan gave a long low whistle. "Not one of ours, huh?"
"No."
"Canadian?"
"Not at that speed."
"That leaves the big one, then. Russian?"
Cartwell shrugged. "Could be. If it is, we want the wreckage. No matter what it is, or whose it is, we are very interested in any aircraft that travels at speeds of fifteen to nineteen thousand miles per hour."
Nolan whistled again. "That's rolling," he grinned.
"Yeah," mused Sam Morgan, "and we'd kind of like to know what makes it roll like that."
"Okay. Let's go into a huddle," Nolan said. "But I can tell you this. If the thing went down in north central Pennsylvania, it's in some pretty rugged country."
"Great," Cartwell snarled.
CHAPTER THREE
The dream was of a woman.
He was lying on a strangely made bed, the warm breezes of evening rolling in off the crashing sea and the woman stood in the ornate doorway that entered the bedroom. About him lay all manner of bright silks and strange colored cloths. The woman smiled and his eyes caressed her.
Her hair was as gold as the noon sun and her eyes, lifting slightly at the outer corners, were as blue as the sea. Her lips petaled back over the white strength of her teeth and her fingers did strange things to make the flimsy robe drop from the rounded softness of her shoulders. He watched her walk, upon curvaceous legs, to the edge of the bed. For just a second, she smiled down at him.
"Father is sleeping like a baby," she whispered.
He felt himself talk: "Good." Then his fingers curled about the curve of her thigh. His fingers tightened and the crimson smile broadened; he pulled and felt her resist him with maidenly demureness, but in the end she came to him.
He felt the yielding firmness of her body pressing down into his on the bed and his arms furled about the softness that she offered. The warm cones of her breasts worked on the hardness of his chest and his mouth fused against hers in a passionate kiss.
"Lors, Lors, darling. You've been gone so long." Her voice was a kitten purr in his ear, warm and gentle.
"I'm back, Jela," he smiled, his hands caressing the lithe length of her body, folding her against him tightly.
She moved away from him, rolling, tugging at him to respond, but he needed no encouragement. His body rolled with her, his arms pinning her to him tightly so that she could move nothing ... nothing but her legs, but then there was little need to move anything else...
* * * * *
The dream faded and he cursed, and tried to get back to sleep and the beautiful woman who awaited him. Sleep came, but the dream was gone.
Andy, shaking his shoulder, woke him about sundown and Nick swung his legs off the cot and stood up. Still sleepy, he fingered the heavy stubble on his face and looked at the old man.
"Y'kin use my razor t'chop off that beard, son," he said. "C'mon, get around now. Got soup and sandwiches ready an' some famous Hocum coffee."
Nick straightened his wrinkled clothing, shaking the last remnants of weary fog from his brain. Andy went on talking to him and said something that woke Nick Danson up completely.
"Yer buddies was here, couple o' hours ago, son."
"What?" It was almost impossible to keep the surprise out of his face and voice. Andy didn't seem to notice anything wrong.
"Th' fellers y'got drunk with. Wanted t'know if I'd seen any strangers on th' road. I said I hadn't, 'cause I figgered they might want t'slap y'around again."
"Thanks, Andy."
Who could possibly know about the plane crash? If the wreck _had_ been found, it would be the police asking questions, not two strangers. Somebody, somewhere, was searching for him. Who? And what did they want?
Fingers of fear and worry flittered along his spine.
When they had finished eating, Nick shaved, cleaned himself up and followed Andy out to where his car was parked. He found that he liked the old man, but under the circumstances conversation was difficult. The plane crash, for one thing, was a bit on the odd side. The burning wreckage, he recalled, had shown no signs of ever having had wings or a tail assembly. But that was probably minor; the wings could have been ripped off by the trees when the plane came down. The important thing was that someone knew he was here. As they drove toward the town of Everett, the old man began talking about the strangers that had inquired after Nick earlier in the day.
"... Nope, I says to the big feller, ain't seen a soul on foot all day, 'ceptin' o'course, Jimmy Dilson, goin' down t'Willer Creek, t'fish. That seemed t'satisfy them so they lit out."
"Notice what kind of car they drove, Andy?" Nick asked.
"Yep. Gave 'em gas. They was drivin' a Chevrolet. Looked to be a '56 or a '57; black, it was. Blacker'n th' inside of a coal bin, with th' shiniest chrome y'ever saw."
"Sounds like them," Nick told him, enlarging the lie. "One of them short and the other medium?"
"Not exactly. The one did all the talkin' had a funny accent. Anyways, he was about six feet, three or four, and heavy. Goodlookin', with blond hair. The other guy was about your build, with sandy hair. Never talked, that guy."
"They're the ones," Nick lied and shook a cigarette from a half empty pack. "Thanks for not giving me away."