"What about Wheaton?"
Calumet frowned. "He's going to be a problem. He's just obstinate and smart enough to make trouble. But the President can be a pretty persuasive man. He might be able to convince even a maverick legal genius like Cable Wheaton that it would be in the best interests of his clients to allow matters to take their natural and inevitable course . . .quietly." He leaned back in the seat.
"For example, I've always heard that Wheaton aspires to sit on the Supreme Court some day. A President has a lot of options at his command. Who knows what pressures, benign and otherwise, he might bring to bear?"
What, indeed? wondered a benumbed Chester, feeling way out of his depth and wishing fervently he was back home before the family fireplace with Charlene and the kids.
Hmm-hmm-hmm . . . buzz-hmm-buzz . . . tick! sang they yellow blossom out of the galactic vastnesses from itss~ snug perch in the barn loft.
High above, the moon had commenced its descent, but the stars still shone bright and clear. Several hours remained until sunrise. Nothing stirred on the grounds of the ranch.
On the farm road up from the ranch house a large eighteen-wheeler slowed and stopped, pulling onto the road shoulder. Its headlights dimmed. Back doors opened, and a ramp slid out. A tight knot of men moved quickly down the ramp, ran forward.
At the cab of the truck they were joined by a bigger, older man. Plans were discussed in muted voices. Clutching various instruments of a nonscientific nature, they began moving, crouched low but still running, toward the ranch house.
Behind them activity continued as other men within the truck struggled silently to rig a mobile winch and sling in expectation of the others' return.
As was usual lately, Chester was having a difficult time sleeping. The Korean and Vietnam wars had made light sleepers out of many men. He woke as he found himself reaching across the mattress for the woman who wasn't there.
Rubbing his eyes, he rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Once again unarguably, helplessly awake, he slid his legs to the side and sat up.
The three scientists, he knew, would be sound asleep in their respective rooms. The budget for this kind of endeavor provided for privacy for all concerned.
Disgusted with himself, envious of their ability to sleep, and unhappy with the way events had gone the last couple of days, he wrestled his fatigued form into his clothes. A check of his watch showed the wrong side of four A.M.-an insane hour.
Down the main street was a twenty-four-hour cafe frequented by off-freeway truckers. He filled his pockets with the usual paraphernalia without which a man felt unbalanced: wallet, keys, pocketknife, and small flashlight.
He would, he decided, have a couple of cups of coffee, stretch them out for as long as possible, read the morning paper from Dallas, and then maybe eat some breakfast.
Hopefully he could at least prolong things until the sun came up.
He closed the motel-room door behind him, not bothering to lock it. That was one of the advantages of living outside a city. Partway through the motel lot he paused, thinking. This morning his loneliness was particularly strong. A little company would do him good.
The soft-spoken companionship of the sergeant was more to his liking that that of the scientists, who would be downright uncommunicative this time of the morning, even Calumet.
Turning, he walked two units past his own room and knocked on the door of number six. It was possible the sergeant was already awake. Chester had encountered him down at the truck stop several times, often before he arrived himself. He wondered if Pat had as much trouble sleeping as he did. –
There was no response, and he knocked again, louder. One last time. It was just as well, he decided. Pat was probably down at the cafe already and would be glad to see him.
But when he arrived, a quick search of the small dining area showed no sign of the sergeant. Chester took a seat, thinking perhaps that Pat was in the men's room. Ten minutes of waiting dispelled the likelihood of that.
Chester was puzzled. No place else in town except the gas station across the street would be open for several hours, and he could see that the sergeant wasn't lingering there, chatting with the sleepy attendant.
Prompted by something stronger than just curiosity, he left his coffee half-finished and strolled back to the motel. Further knocks, verging on pounding, produced no response from within number six. The station wagon was still parked in front of the room.
Had the sergeant gone off on some errand of his own? That seemed unlikely, since he was under strict orders to be available to drive at any time.
Chester made a decision he regretted in advance. Probably he'd come out looking the fool, he thought as he walked toward the office. There he woke the groggy manager-owner of the motel and borrowed the duplicate key to room six.
He opened the room. The sergeant was not in bed. Nor was he in the bathroom, hiding in a closet, or elsewhere about. Chester checked the bed carefully, noted that it hadn't been slept in.
"Lookin' for your friend, the big fella?"
Chester spun, reaching for the pistol at his hip that wasn't there. It was only the bathrobe-clad form of the motel manager.
Chester forced himself to relax, startled at how tense he was. "Yes, of course," he explained.
"Could have told you 'bout him," the manager declared with an sir of superiority. "Heard a noise out back a couple of hours ago . . . don't know exactly when. Didn't look at my clock. I'm used to engines wakin' me up. Get a lot of folks come in the middle of the night.
"There was this big rig pulled up behind the back rooms. It struck me funny, you know? Because there's no reason for a truck to pull in here. Truckers, they sleep in their cabs and park behind the night station 'cross the street. Never had a one take a room here.
"I saw a couple of fellas get out. They met somebody else . . . big fells, coulda been your friend. They yakked a minute or two, then all climbed in and drove off together. Didn't see nothin' to make noise about, so I went back to bed."
"You're sure it was my friend?" Chester asked tightly.
"Nope. Said it coulda been," the manager replied. "But I am sure of one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm still tired." He turned and walked back toward his office, leaving Chester standing paralyzed with anxiety in front of an ominously deserted room number six.
He whirled finally, ran to the phone, and stopped with one hand about to pick up the receiver. Part of the conversation he'd had with the sheriff as he'd driven out to the ranch came back to him.
"They sure like their privacy," Biggers had told him. "They've got a TV, all right, and radio. But they pipe and filter their water out of their tank, and they've got their own generator for power. There are gas lines running all over that part of the county, and J.W. sneaks some of what they need from here and there. No telephone, though. No real contact with the outside world except for the mail."
No telephone, Chester thought frantically. His hand left the receiver. The three scientists would have to be told eventually, of course. But not now, not yet.
He picked up the phone, firmly this time, and dialed. There was a pause and a click, and a voice said, "Post operator. May I help you, sir?"
"This is Major Josiah Chester. I have an emergency call for General MacGregor. He'll be at his home now, operator. "
About an hour to have troops here, MacGregor had told him. But that had been over a month before. Were the helicopter-borne special units still standing by?
They'd better be, he thought grimly.
The cluster of seven men had reached the entrance to the open, flat area in front of the house and barn. It was well lit by the steady glow from the alien device. Each man was clad entirely in black and had black streaked across cheeks, forehead, and other projecting parts of his face.