Harrison Douglas broke away from the reporters and walked quickly to a waiting limousine. Safely ensconced in his padded-leather sanctuary, he began making calls on the vehicle’s encrypted telephone. He was angry, damned angry. The salvage company was demanding their eight million bucks and threatening to sue if he didn’t pony up, even though they failed to deliver the saucer to the dock in Newark; Solo had played him for a sucker and robbed him; and the whole world was laughing at him.
Well, that thief Solo wouldn’t laugh long, by God! Douglas grew up in Philly, and he still knew some guys. Hadn’t talked to them in years, but they knew him too. These were guys you didn’t screw with. They ate thieving little bastards like Solo for breakfast.
After three telephone calls, Douglas was tired. He lay back in his seat and closed his eyes.
The news that the Roswell saucer was no longer on the floor of the Atlantic hit the White House like a small bomb. The news that the saucer had been stolen from a deepwater salvage ship and was out there … somewhere … flying around … greatly enhanced the explosion.
A horrified P. J. O’Reilly, the chief of staff, rushed into the presidential bedroom with the news. The presidential pooch hastily bestirred itself and shot into the president’s closet. O’Reilly ignored the dog, as he did all lesser creatures, which was almost everyone. He found the president eating breakfast at a small table. The morning newspapers were piled beside him, apparently as yet unread.
“What’s the matter, O’Reilly? Did the Canadians invade?”
“It’s a lot worse than that. That saucer that went into the Atlantic last month was salvaged, raised from the ocean, and someone stole it.”
The president felt as if he had taken a punch. He seemed to shrink right where he sat. The color leaked from his face.
“It’s out there now, God only knows where,” O’Reilly continued, digging in the knife. He enjoyed giving the president bad news, although he pretended he didn’t. Now he seized the remote control from the breakfast table and clicked on the television.
The president found he had lost his appetite. Perhaps the fact that he had lived through two saucer crises in the last fourteen months had something to do with his bad humor.
At least, he reflected as he watched the talking heads on CNN, Rip Cantrell and Charley Pine weren’t involved in this escapade. Or were they? “Have the FBI find Rip Cantrell and Charlotte Pine,” he growled at O’Reilly. “Just tell me where they are.” O’Reilly rushed off to make the call.
Charley Pine was a real piece of work, a former fighter and test pilot who could fly anything, but Rip Cantrell was the one the president worried about. The kid single-handedly took on the world’s second-richest man, the president and the U.S. government … and beat them all. Just another all-American boy! Ai yi yi!
The president decided not to rule out Rip until he saw a photo of Adam Solo.
He opened his bottle of Rolaids and munched a handful. Then he reached for the waiting newspapers.
3
When Rip and Charley wandered off to the hangar to work on Rip’s airplane, Egg retrieved the computer from Rip’s saucer and opened the case reverently. Locked in its memory, he knew, was the scientific knowledge and philosophical framework of the civilization that had built the Sahara saucer, about 140,000 earth years ago, and sent it aboard a starship, the saucer that had reached earth.
Egg carefully donned the headband, ensured it was plugged into the device and said aloud, “Good morning.” The computer came to life. Egg marveled again at the computer’s ability to read the brain waves of anyone wearing the band, and to respond with images that the user saw in his mind’s eye. There was no screen, no keyboard, no other way to communicate, nor was any other method needed. The computer’s memory and logic functions reminded Egg of a 3-D or holographic display … and the presentation occurred inside his head.
Egg had learned to download information from the saucer’s computer onto his own PC and was experimenting with ways to manipulate the data. He hadn’t gotten a satisfactory system figured out yet. He had enlisted the help of several computer scientists, who were having a wonderful time but had yet to crack the computer’s core code. A linguistics expert was working on the computer’s language, if it was language. Still, Egg liked to put on the headband and surf the computer to see what he could find. It was as if he had the Library of Congress in his hands, and yet all he could do was wander through the aisles sampling books.
Even as that thought occurred to him, the computer responded. He saw the organizational outline of the device’s memory and sat studying it for a long moment. He had learned that the computer responded to questions, but what if the user didn’t know what question to ask?
His mind wandered. Idly, he thought of Rip and his airplane, an Extra 300L, and wondered what Rip and Charley were going to need to do to get it airworthy again.
The computer answered. He saw the damage to the airplane, the bullet holes and bent landing gear, that happened when Rip crashed the plane.
Egg ripped off the headband.
How had the computer learned of the damage?
Egg’s mind raced. Well, Rip had worn the headband on several occasions while they were in Australia, idly exploring. So had Charley.
Could it be? Could the computer archive the memory of its user, to add to its database?
Galvanized, he replaced the headband and thought of Rip. What did Rip know about the Extra’s condition?
The machine knew.
Rip’s childhood, his visits to Egg’s Missouri farm. The scenes scrolled past him as if they were on film. Some of the scenes were hazy — perhaps because Rip had forgotten some of them.
The bass — what did Rip remember of the time Egg took him bass fishing? And there it was, a movie filmed from Rip’s youthful perspective. There Egg was, baiting the hooks, showing Rip how to cast … and there he was holding up a fish, grinning at Rip.
Egg’s mind raced on. His trip to the moon? There it was, the French thugs, the obsidian sky full of stars, the weightlessness … he could feel the weightlessness and the G forces as the saucer’s engines ignited, see the moon, stark and burning brightly in unfiltered sunlight. The experience was right there in his mind’s eye and he was reliving it! He even felt the fear that he had experienced then, fear because he knew as he flew the saucer that he was in over his depth.
Now Egg fumbled with the headband, tearing it off his head.
My God!
The computer mined the memories of its users and stored everything they knew.
He sat staring with unseeing eyes at the autumn scene just beyond the window, trying to get his thoughts in order.
Deborah Deehring had worn the headband. Egg was tempted, for a few seconds, then decided no. Her memories were hers and shouldn’t be shared without her permission. Nor should Rip or Charley’s.
The ancient spacemen had also worn it; they were long dead, so they had no privacy rights.
When Rip and Charley came back to the house for lunch, they found Egg wearing the headband and hunched over in his chair, with his eyes closed. Charley Pine tapped him on the shoulder, which caused him to open his eyes. Reluctantly Egg removed the headband and looked around slowly, trying to come back to this reality.
“Uncle Egg?” Charley said softly.
Egg reached up and took her hand.
He glanced at her and a concerned Rip. “I know now,” he said slowly, “why the people who flew your saucer came to earth.”
Both Rip and Charley sat down on the couch, side by side, and stared at him.