*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40284 ***

    Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
    that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.




[Front cover: Janet was more than a beautiful woman. She was white heat
and surging womanhood all dolled up in a body like that of a French
movie star. She was as wanton as a Polynesian dancer and as demanding as
a nympho.]


[Cover flap: Beth Danson was about twenty-five and, besides her deep
auburn-brown hair and lovely face, she boasted an equally attractive
body. He found himself captivated by the warm thrust of her breasts
beneath the silk blouse. The clear milk of her flesh, at the "V" of her
throat excited him in a strange way. When he thought of her as his wife,
it was frightening. It was as though someone had tossed him a woman and
expected him to just fall into the routine of marriage. It wouldn't be
hard to come to love this woman, but it would take awhile. Hell, he
didn't know her. She was a complete stranger who had suddenly told him
they were married. There was nothing familiar about her; even the
fingers that were softly working over his face were alien.]




  "_I think we're property..._"
        --_Charles Fort_




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. Her hair was as gold as the noon sun
and her eyes, lifting slightly at the outer curves, 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. 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 for a passionate kiss.




  SEX LIFE OF THE GODS

  by MICHAEL KNERR


  AN UPTOWN BOOK

  AN ORIGINAL NOVEL


  UPTOWN BOOKS
  are published at
  1213 North Highland Avenue
  Los Angeles 38, California

  Copyright 1962 by Uptown Publications

  All Rights Reserved




All persons and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
resemblance to persons living or dead, or actual events is purely
coincidental.




FOREWORD


He left the mother ship and headed for Terra; he smiled at the
instrument panel and watched the operation of the big scout ship as it
rocketed toward the light ribbon of atmosphere that enveloped the
planet. It was a joke, in a way. In a manner of speaking, he was the
first Terran to fly an alien space ship, but he wasn't thinking of that.
He was thinking of the woman, Elizabeth Danson of Everett, Pennsylvania.

She was waiting.

And he could see the warmth of her body, sheathed in the web-like gown
that seemed spun over her turgid breasts and curved hips by an army of
artistic spiders. It would not be a hard thing to love a woman like
that.

His fingers curled about the controls, his feet working the rudder
pedals of the screaming ship as he headed for the strange darkness of
the Atlantic Ocean. The space ship was operating well and the Earth
lifted her curved bosom to meet his rush.

Trouble came early. The danger lights flickered in his eyes and the fear
welled up within him like a flood. Fifteen hundred miles an hour and the
scout ship was out of control! The behavior of the craft was erratic, as
though a giant hand was slapping the silver belly as he plummeted toward
the ball of the earth.

Desperately he tried to reduce the speed of the hurtling ship, his
fingers working the buttons and levers in a frenzy of determination. The
craft refused to respond. She whipped into a cloud bank, headed for the
sea, lifted suddenly and whirled back toward space.

In an agony of fear he realized that he no longer was the master of the
space ship - he was a prisoner in a violent, uncontrollable meteor that
would finally slam him into infinity against the very earth that was to
be home...

       *       *       *       *       *

In the early hours of morning, Jean Renault of Nova Scotia fingered the
wheel of his fifty foot boat through the grey ground swells of the Grand
Banks, almost to the place where he would cast his nets into the water.
The overcast sky was refusing to emit the sunlight and a light mist hung
over the sea like a disjointed ghost. When Jean heard the whirring roar
of the ship, it was too late. The silver streak whipped over his fishing
boat with all the furies of the gods, and nearly tore his steadying sail
away. Muttering a string of French curses, Jean picked up his radio
telephone and reported in violent tones the presence of the jet to the
Coast Guard.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the half-light of early dawn, the United States and Canada whirled
with reports upon the strange craft. The CQ of the National Defense
system began systematically pinpointing the track of the strange craft
as it raked across the adumbral sky.

Then, it was gone!

The rocketing ship had appeared over one observation station near Lake
Ontario. It had been spotted by a CD worker near Auburn, N.Y., then it
was gone. The last observation of the craft showed it flying an erratic
track toward the mountain country of Pennsylvania.

At CQ operations office, in Washington D.C., Lt. Colonel Martin Griswold
tossed the last report on his desk and pinched his lower lip
thoughtfully. Colonel Delbert, sitting across from him, looked serious.

"It's out of control," he mused. "And it isn't one of ours. Russian?"

"Might be." He looked at the rugged country along the Pennsylvania, New
York map for a moment, then he picked up the phone on his desk. "This is
Colonel Griswold. Get me the Pentagon."

At 0930 a special plane left Washington, bound for the town in northern
Pennsylvania that had been chosen as a base of operations. On board the
plane were the Secret Service men who were to track down the crashed
ship.

They were several hours too late...




CHAPTER ONE


He awakened to flame and smoke and it was as though he had been born
again. About him lay thick, summer cloaked forests and heavy carpets of
laurel and brush. Obviously, it was some sort of plane that was burning
nearby and he had probably been in it. In his mind, he remembered only
the blinding flash of white light, then a sea of darkness that had
enveloped him. Whether he had been thrown clear of the wreck, or whether
he had crawled, he didn't know. But the torn flying suit he wore
convinced him that he had once been airborne in that battered craft.

The heavy, canvas-like material of the flying suit had protected the
blue serge business suit underneath, so that besides a ripped pocket it
was presentable. He grinned wryly in the pre-dawn darkness. Presentable
to whom? The squirrels? He peeled off the flying suit and added it to
the flaming wreckage, then staggered off through the night toward the
valley below. There was usually, he recalled, water in ravines.

He used small saplings for handholds while his head thumped and
thundered wildly. Probing fingers found a lump beneath blood matted hair
that was sensitive to the touch. There was a scratch on his cheek,
sealed with dried blood, and his hands were skinned as though he had
broken a fall in cinders with them. It was, he decided, amazing that he
had survived a plane crash with so little injury; but then, stranger
things had happened.

There was a run at the bottom of the hill, one of those leaf choked,
meandering little creeks that become stagnant pools in July and August,
and raging torrents of brown water in the spring. Lying on a sloping,
flat rock he thrust his face into the stream and drank deeply, feeling
the life flow from the water into the weariness of his body. He washed
his face in it, splashing it over his head until his mind began to
function with familiar clarity.

But he still did not know who he was...

When he tried to search backward into the past, he could see only the
white flash and the darkness. It was frightening. It was as though
someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut away the whole memory of
his past life. He fumbled through his pockets, found the wallet and the
cigarette lighter and began flipping through the cards with the help of
the tiny lighter flame.

An identification card labeled him Nicholas Howard Danson and stated
that he lived at 2312 Weisman Drive, Everett, Pennsylvania. There was
also a draft, social security and drivers license card. The others were
membership certificates to various clubs and organizations. Finally
there were several pictures of himself and a woman; in fact, there were
a great many pictures of the woman. One was a portrait of her,
inscribed, "love, Beth", which told him that she was either a girlfriend
or his wife.

Nick extinguished the light and put the wallet away. In his shirt pocket
he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it and
dragged the smoke down deep into his lungs while he pondered over his
newly discovered self.

Of course the proper thing to do would be to get to a phone, call the
local authorities and explain the crash. The law would help him get home
and check him out. That was the proper thing - but he wasn't about to
do the proper thing. He was a stranger to himself. Who was he? What was
he? He could well be outside the law, a criminal... Then what? Turn
yourself in, Danson, he grimaced, and discover that you are wanted by
the law for something? To hell with that. Get to this Beth woman and get
some answers to a few questions before you bring in the law.

Apparently no one had seen the crash. No one knew he was here. Perhaps
it would be better to leave it like that until he had a chance to find
out just what he was up against.

He decided not to contact anyone. When it was light enough he would look
for a ride to somewhere. At a gas station he could find out where he was
and where Everett, Pennsylvania was. Then, by thumbing, he could get a
ride to where he lived. If this Beth woman was his wife, she could fill
him in. There was plenty of time to call the law.

Sleep, when he tried it, refused to come. There were too many unanswered
questions rocketing around in his brain. Well, he had to find a road,
sooner or later, so it might as well be now. Perhaps the more distance
he put between himself and the wreck, the better it would be for him. He
took a final drink of water from the creek and stood up, his sore,
battered muscles protesting violently. Then he began to stumble through
the adumbral forests to find a road.

It was getting light when he found the highway. It was small and narrow,
bedded with pebbly asphalt with a faded white line down the middle that
told him it was not a first class road. It stretched ahead of him,
dwindling among the thick hemlock forests and dwarfed by the steep,
wooded hills. He grinned, wondering vaguely which direction he should
travel to get to Everett. Finally he pulled a quarter from his pocket
and flipped it into the air. He caught it deftly. Heads, I go to the
right; tails, I go to the left. Heads won and he started off toward the
right, the stiffness and the weariness dragging at him like a weight
tied to his legs.

While he walked he studied the pictures in his wallet, noting happily
that it also contained twenty dollars in bills. That was comforting.

In the daylight, the picture of Beth that had looked pretty in the flame
of the lighter, became beautiful. Although it was a black and white
photo, Nick decided that her hair was brown. It swept about a soft,
heart shaped face like a cloud. The image was smiling at him and he felt
that if she was not his wife, he hoped that she was his girl.

It was late in the morning when he found the service station. It was a
small, lonely, isolated place that sported two pumps and cramped looking
lube rack. Through the open door of the washroom, Nick could see the
shoes and coverall legs of the attendant as they stuck out from under a
Ford. Nick found a dime in his pocket and treated himself to a cold
drink, while he tried to figure out where he was.

Across the highway a marker told him that he was on Route 87. He pulled
a Pennsylvania map - not entirely sure he was in Pennsylvania - from the
rack inside the door and, unfolding it, found Everett. The route 87 ran
through the town, but it was difficult to puzzle out whether he was
north or south of the place. He refolded the map and stuffed it into his
pocket for further reference, and glanced around. On the far side of the
office was a door marked "MEN", that was just what he wanted. His
clothes, his hair and his face needed a few emergency repairs before he
could confront the population of Everett.

He went in.

In a mirror, with most of the backing peeling away, he discovered that
Nick Danson was rather good looking, if you overlooked the damage. His
blocky, rugged face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, with a slight
stubble shadowing his lean cheeks. The mop of tangled black hair had a
lot of red splotches in it from the blood he'd lost. He filled the bowl
with tepid water and began soaping his face and hands vigorously, even
though it hurt. After washing most of the blood from his hair, he found
a comb in a pocket and whipped some order into the matted, dark mass.

The attendant was standing at the counter when Nick came out of the
restroom. He was an elderly man with receding grey hair, a hawk nose and
grizzled features set firmly into a face that looked like a dried apple.
He grinned and the gold cap on an eye tooth flashed dully.

"Thought I heard someone in here," he said around the chew that pouched
his cheek. "Car break down on ye?"

"I'm walking," Nick told him.

"Yer a long way from any kind 'o town, son ... say," he said suddenly
noticing the scratch marks. "Y' been fightin' a bobcat?"

Nick shook his head and fished for a lie. "Got drunk last night and into
a brawl. My friends pitched me out of the car in a moment of
playfulness." He hoped he had put enough bitterness into the explanation
to make it ring true.

The old man chuckled softly. "Durned shame, son. Y'from around here?"

"New York," Nick lied. "I'm stayin' in Everett."

"Everett," the old man cackled. "Hell, that's fifteen miles south
o'here, or better." He paused, swiveled his bird-like head and spat a
jet of brown juice through the open door. "Tell y'what, son, seein's how
you'll have t'walk it down there. Ain't no one goin' that way, I know
of. S'pose y'could thumb it, but it'd be hard. Lonely road, y'see. If
y'don't mind waitin' till after supper, I'll run y'down to town. Drop
y'off where y'want to go."

"Hadn't thought of waiting so long," Nick told him. "What would I do?
Just sit here?"

"Hell no! In th' back room there's a cot. Been sleepin' there myself
sometimes, since m'wife passed along back in '53. December of '53 it
was. I'll wake ye, come supper."

"Thanks."

With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrapped
pie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man a
quarter.

"S'funny," the old man said, ringing up the sale, "ye don't smell like a
drunk. Ought t'be some likker smell to y'son."

"I was drinking vodka," Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled that
from a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite of
the pie as the old man gave him his change.

"Bad stuff, vodka. That's th' slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain't
it?"

"I think so."

"Well, it ain't for Andy Hocum. Them hassocks can have it."

Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pulling
into the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine and
honked the horn briefly. Andy waved and headed for the door.

"Get some shut eye, son. I'll wake y' later."

"Thanks, Andy."

He finished the last of the pie and watched Andy stick a hose into the
wagon's gas tank, then go around front to wipe off the windshield.

Nick cleared the pie wrapper off the small counter and tossed it into a
box as he headed for the backroom. After closing the door, he fell onto
the bed and a moment later into the well of sleep.




CHAPTER TWO


Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice braked the Fairlane at 2312 Weisman
Drive and got out quickly. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether Beth
Danson would be awake, but it was a long drive into headquarters and he
didn't want to go back to a dismal office, or even a lonely bachelor
apartment. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. He shrugged and decided to try
it.

She answered his knock almost at once, smiling him into the front room.
For a moment, he allowed his eyes to finger her body, letting them spear
through the wrap around robe and the flimsy nightgown to where warm
flesh ebbed and flowed against the sigh of silk. Her brown hair was
bed-tangled and most of the makeup was gone from her face, but Beth
Danson was a woman who had the unconscious ability to look beautiful
under any circumstances. Nolan felt a thunder in his veins as he tossed
his hat on the sofa.

"Coffee, Nolan?" she asked.

He nodded and they went into the kitchen. "We found the Peters' kid, so
that ends another case." He dropped to a chair and watched her fixing
the coffee. "You're up early, Beth."

A shadow crossed her face momentarily. "I had a dream, Nolan. A bad
dream."

"About Nick?"

She nodded and set a cup of coffee before him. The tears were close
again, but Brice hadn't seen them fall over Nick for a long while. It
was ridiculous the way she mooned over the guy, but there was no
understanding women.

"You ought to stop dwelling on him, honey," Nolan told her. "It doesn't
do any good."

"He's alive," she said, softly.

"You know better than that. If he was alive, we'd have found him. Men
just do not drop out of sight in the Twentieth Century."

Beth lifted a hand to brush her hair into place and sat down to sip at
her coffee. Nolan studied her. She actually believed that her husband
was alive and that he would return to her. He hoped not. It was a
selfish thing to think about, but he was in love with her; he'd have had
her long ago if it wouldn't have been for Nick and his dark good looks.
He mouthed a swallow of coffee and settled the cup in its saucer. She
was looking at him.

"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."

Andy nodded, lapsing into silence, while Nick concentrated on coming
home to a strange woman, and the two men who had been asking after him.
For some reason, he got the feeling that Beth Danson was his wife and he
accepted it that way. She couldn't be his sister ... besides, a man his
age would be married, in all likelihood. He wondered vaguely how she
would welcome him, but cast the thought aside. He'd know soon enough.

As they approached Everett, in the gathering twilight, Andy turned to
him.

"Where d'ye want off, son?"

"Weisman Drive. Know it?"

"Yep. We're almost there. Suburban area, just north of town. Y'got
friends there?"

"Yes." Nick grinned inwardly. That is, he thought, I hope she's a
friend. Hell, I don't know whether she hates my guts, or loves me ...
but she's the only one that can help. A frightening gloom fell over him
suddenly.

Andy lapsed again into silence and the sound of the motor became loud.
Nick continued to ponder the strange men and the woman he was coming
home to, but it was like bashing his head against a wall. He could
remember nothing. And, through his thoughts, the memory of the dream
returned to him. It was the most vivid dream he had ever had, almost as
though it was real.

Abruptly Andy brought the car to a stop before a sign that read,
"Weisman Drive." Nick thanked him and climbed out onto the road. The old
man waved and the car spat cinders as it roared back onto the highway,
heading toward the town. For a moment, he stood there watching Andy's
car fade into the night, then he began walking along the road, looking
for 2312 Weisman Drive and trying to ignore the feeling of fear that
welled up within him.

When he finally found it, he saw that it was a two story place that
looked to be white frame, trimmed with a darker color that was probably
blue. In the off light from the street lamp, it was difficult to tell.
There was a garage built alongside and a good sized lawn in the front,
but there was no evidence of children. A light in the front room told
him that someone was home - likely Beth - and caution told him he'd
better make sure no friends were with her.

He slipped quietly up on the porch and looked briefly into the window.
Beth was there, sitting on the sofa reading a book. Her hair, he
noticed, was brown with a reddish cast to it and she was every bit as
beautiful as the picture he carried in his hip pocket.

He knocked on the door.

It occurred to him, after he had rapped, that this was his own house.
Why should he rap? But what was done, was done. He waited until she had
opened the door and stood looking at him. He tried a smile, but Beth
Danson's eyes widened in shock and her lips parted in astonishment.

"Nick," she whispered, as though she had seen a ghost, and fell to the
floor in a dead faint.

Stunned, he stepped over the crumpled body of the woman and walked into
the room. When he had closed the front door, he lifted her limp body and
laid her on the sofa. He began patting her face and hands to revive her,
wondering what the hell he had done to cause her to faint.

Why the devil was she so shocked to see him, he wondered. Is she in love
with another man and did they rig that plane so it would crash to be rid
of me? If they had tried to kill him, he could damned well see why she
had fainted at the sight of him. The rings on her left hand bragged that
she was married, probably to him. But why faint?

He was trying to decide whether to stay or run, when her long lashes
fluttered and she came to. Again her greenish eyes dilated in
astonishment, but this time she did not pass out. Her soft arms slid
about his neck and she pulled him down to where she could kiss him. Her
warm lips caressed his face, kissing his mouth, his cheeks and his eyes,
while she murmured his name over and over in absolute joy.

Had news of the crash reached her? Did the authorities find the wreck
and presume him dead? Was that why she had fainted and was now so
overjoyed at having him back? His mind whirled with a hundred questions
that his stunted memory refused to answer, and he decided to take it
easy, waiting for her to make the first move.

"Oh, Nick," she murmured against his ear. "Where have you been?"

"I don't know. I've been in a crack up, Beth. I can't remember
anything..."

She pushed him away, suddenly, looking at his face. "Darling! Your face!
You're hurt!"

"Just scratches," he told her swiftly. "Nothing serious. Beth, you've
got to help me. Please!" He felt strange. It was like asking a total
stranger for help, and he was ashamed and confused.

"Of course I'll help you, darling. I'm your wife. Now come out to the
kitchen where I can patch you up." Suddenly she burst into tears and
held him close. "Oh, darling, darling! It's so good to have you back!"

He held her until she had stopped crying, then he allowed himself to be
led into the kitchen where she began applying iodine and bandaids to his
scratched face. Weariness was again dragging at him like some clutching
demon that threatened to drag him down into a bog of darkness. He
studied her, trying to take his mind off his lethargy.

Beth Danson was about twenty-five and, besides her deep auburn-brown
hair and lovely face, she boasted an equally attractive body. He found
himself captivated by the warm thrust of her breasts beneath the silk
blouse. The clear milk of her flesh, at the "V" of her throat excited
him in a strange way. When he thought of her as his wife, it was
frightening. It was as though someone had tossed him a woman and
expected him to just fall into the routine of marriage. It wouldn't be
hard to come to love this woman, but it would take awhile. Hell, he
didn't know her. She was a complete stranger who had suddenly told him
they were married. There was nothing familiar about her; even the
fingers that were softly working over his face were alien.

Alien! That's it! The whole damned world is alien, and I don't know who
I am, who I've been...

"Beth?" He asked suddenly, "how long have I been gone? You act as though
it's been a long while..."

"A long while, darling."

"How long?"

She looked steadily at him for a moment, her eyes deep with seriousness.
"Thirteen months," she whispered, her voice shaking.

Thirteen months! He relaxed heavily in the straight backed chair and
stared at her dumbfoundedly. Over a year! Where had he been? What had he
done? Why hadn't he been located before now?

"Thirteen months," he croaked, unable to say anything else.

She nodded. "Oh, Nick, every police agency in the country has been
looking for you. I've had detectives out hunting. Nolan Brice has been
doing everything he can to locate you. But they couldn't. No one could.
It was as though you had disappeared from the face of the earth."

"Nolan Brice?" Nick asked.

"Your best friend..." When she realized that he knew nothing of the man,
Nick could see her starting to cry. Her eyes began filling and he could
almost see the hopelessness within her.

"Please, honey. Don't start crying again."

"I'm trying not to."

He rose to his feet slowly, his head starting to thump and thunder
again, and took her into his arms. It was kind of difficult, trying to
comfort her the way a husband should, but he tried.

"Listen, Beth," he whispered against her cheek. "It'll all come back to
me. It'll all come back eventually and I'll remember. But for now ...
for now, you'll have to bear with me. I don't know where I've been, or
what I've done, so don't tell anyone I'm here. Please! Don't tell a
single soul! No one!"

"But why, Nick?"

"Because I could have killed someone. I could be a thief, a desperado or
something. I don't know. I could even have gotten married..."

"Oh, darling!" She collapsed on his shoulder and began crying violently
again.

"Honey, honey! I didn't say that's what I've done. It's just that I
don't know. Whatever I am, I can take my medicine, but I want to know
what it is first. You've got to understand that."

She tried a smile, blinking back the tears that lay close to the
surface, and he forced a smile to pull at his mouth. It was difficult to
comfort her, yet he knew that it was his duty to do so. She'd been
through a hell of a lot, _and_ she had the memories of it. He did not.
Despite the alien feeling that was welling within him, he knew that she
was the only person who could help him return to himself. Whether he
loved her or not was immaterial; he needed her desperately to show him
to the man he was. Perhaps it would all come back then.

"I'm sorry, Nick. I'll try to help."

"Thanks, honey."

"Hungry?" She asked brightly, moving to turn the flame on under the
coffee pot. At his nod, she went on: "There's some apple pie and I can
whip up a couple of sandwiches, or something."

"Coffee and pie is fine."

"In a way, it'll be like courting all over again," she told him, in an
attempt at lightness. "It's terrible to lose the things we had, the
memories. I can't share them with you anymore. But we'll make a whole
lot of new ones to take their place."

"I'm interested in the old ones right now," he told her glumly. "Things
have happened so fast, it's hard to accustom to the thing."

"I know," she mused, working over the meal.

He looked at her steadily. "Beth? When did you last see me?"

"Thirteen months ago."

"No, no. I mean, where was I going, what was I doing?"

"You were going up to the cabin to repair the fireplace and build some
lawn furniture. You were going to stay over night and come back the
evening of the second day. When you didn't come back, Nolan took me up
to look for you. Your car was there, but you were gone."

"No clues?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. We thought you might have wandered off
into the woods and injured yourself; but I couldn't accept that. You
were always a good woodsman, even in desolate country like that."

"Secluded, huh?" He asked.

"Some of the worst country in the state. We bought the place so we could
get away from the mess in the city."

He smiled at her. Apparently they had gotten away from one mess merely
to fall victim to another.

She sliced him a huge piece of pie and set it before him, the same brave
smile still fixed upon her lips. Then she fixed the coffee for him,
black with a lump of sugar. He forked some of the pie into his mouth and
felt a little sick, along with the headache. A stranger feeding him and
loving him, and who knew more about him than he did. He bolted the pie
and gulped the coffee hurriedly. When he had finished, he glanced at the
electric clock above the pink refrigerator. 9:15.

"Tired, dear?" She asked.

He nodded dully. Now, he thought, I suppose I'm to crawl into bed with
her! He felt trapped, suddenly panic stricken at the thought; but she
was his wife. He'd married her. He'd probably slept with her thirteen
months before. Why the horror?

"We'll go to bed now," she decided. "I usually turn in early. Have to
work, you know."

"I'll sleep on the sofa," Nick mumbled.

She blinked at him. "You'll do no such thing. You'll march right
upstairs to bed, Nick Danson."

And the die, he figured, was cast...




CHAPTER FOUR


In the final analysis, he was just too tired to attempt an explanation -
not physically worn out, but mentally. Since just before dawn, he felt
as though he had been on a fantastic merry-go-round. Feeling a bit
strange, he allowed her to lead him upstairs to the bedroom. The sight
of one bed startled him, even though it was a rather large double. He
slid eyes sideways, caught her smiling coyly and forced a grin. She
installed him in the bathroom, tossed a pair of pajamas to him and left
him alone.

He took a long time showering and shaving. Then when he could avoid it
no longer, he went into the bedroom. She was combing her long satiny
hair at the dresser and had slipped into an aqua colored nightgown. For
a moment, his breath caught in amazement, then he slid between the
sheets of the bed and watched her. Finally she stopped combing and
walked over to look down at him. He looked back, feeling a little like a
caged animal - but enjoying it.

She fell to her knees beside the bed, her eyes shining with happiness.
The red lipped smile was again tugging at her full mouth. Her fingers
wound gently in his hair and the warm pressure of her soft breasts
rested boldly upon his arm as though they knew they belonged there.

"I love you so much, Nick," she whispered, her eyes half closed.

He reached out a hand to touch her cheek and the softness of it against
his fingers alarmed him, thrilled him. He knew what he had to tell her,
but it was a long time in coming. "I ... I love you too, Beth," he
whispered.

Her soft, moist lips came gently down upon his like a twin promise of
the offering of love that awaited him and he felt his own lips
responding. A slight tremor ran through him as her fingers flicked at
the wall and the room became sheathed in darkness. Moonlight filtered
through the curtains and she moved into the bed, her lithe shape molding
into the hardness of his. Her voice was a warm breath in his ear and her
arms slid over his chest while she talked.

"You don't love me, darling. That's the whole trouble. We love with our
minds, and love is an accumulation of a million memories - but you have
lost yours. I know, I know. To you..."

"Beth," he began but she clamped her hand over his mouth.

"To you, darling, I'm a stranger, just another woman. I know I can't be
anything more right now. You'll have to learn to love me again.

"But me? Nick, it's different with me. I've waited for thirteen long
months for you to love me again, and by some miracle you've come back.
You're here and so am I. I love you and I want you. Oh, darling, pretend
I'm a whore; pretend I'm anything ... but make love to me. Pay no
attention to anything except to me..."

His mouth folded over hers, shutting off the flow of words in a
passionate kiss, while his hands smoothed down over the wisp of silk
that kept his fingers from her flesh. Her arms clung to him tightly.

"It won't be hard, Beth," he whispered against the side of her face.
"You're beautiful ... it won't be hard to love you..."

Then she twisted from him, making a memory of the film of nightgown
that had kept his hands away from her. He moved to her, his fingers
stroking her into passion while she pulled his face down to the soft
thrust of her breasts. Then she was clamped against him and struggling
to get even closer, her body making a prison for him ... yet at the same
time giving him freedom.

Later, when she slept, he propped himself on one elbow to study the soft
lines of her face. Then he too dropped off to sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

His uniform was torn by the purple bushes and their nine inch thorns,
and streamers of blood painted the rich blue and yellow of his trousers.
His face was smeared with grey, pasty dirt and the hand that held the
auto-pistol was wet with sweat. His stomach had rolled into a tight ball
within him and he was frightened.

They were out there somewhere, waiting for the sound of his black
leather boots to clatter on one of the grey-green rocks that littered
the hillside. They would find him. Their damned radar antennae would
spot him for them. There was no escape from the bastards, and he knew
it. Commander Imry had bungled every damned assignment he'd been given,
and now Firstspacer Lors would have to die in the supreme bungle that
had created the first native uprising on Thista. He looked up along the
face of the high mountain in his rear. Nothing moved in the
greenish-purple scrub, but he knew they were there.

He peered over the edge of the rock into the valley, a hundred and fifty
_kinos_ away. The patrol car was still there, its driver lying
grotesquely just a few feet from the hatch. The thick, heavy spear
through his chest resembled a finger pointing toward the violet sky.
Closer to him, on the slope, one of the enemy lay dying, a
greenish-brown fluid pumping spasmodically from the hole put in his
chest by the auto-pistol. The alien's huge yellow eyes blinked owlishly
and the slash-like mouth worked as if he wanted to call for help. But no
sound came. The antennae swiveled limply as he tried to locate his
comrades, but they drooped as the alien died.

Still tightly clutching the auto-pistol, he watched the thin, grey
antennae fall to the ground. They pointed off to the left. He swung
about and looked in the direction the native had been scanning, but he
could see no movement beyond the swaying of the desert grass moving in
the faint breath of air.

They should have gotten the message. By now, there was probably a ship
on its way to him. He had to hold out until they got here. He flipped
open the cartridge box and checked his ammunition. Plenty. Of course,
the auto-pistol only held fifteen shots and if they rushed him... He
wished fervently that he had thought to bring the projectile launcher
from the wrecked patrol car.

Damned natives and their uprisings!

He searched the sky anxiously, cold sweat trickling off his forehead in
tiny rivulets. Scenes of other uprisings flickered through his brain,
and more horrible scenes of the remains of tortured captives when he
reached them too late. Those had been small. This one was for real.

The native seemed to materialize out of the ground, screaming shrill
obscenities as he drew himself to his full nine feet of height and
brandished the heavy maul over his head. He came leaping over the ground
and up the hill of tumbled rocks in fiendish rage, his grey antennae
pointed directly at Firstspacer Lors. Behind him came the others, eight
of them.

He fired the auto-pistol at the lead alien, watching the bullet tear a
hole in his face, ripping away one of the blinking yellow eyes. The
alien screamed and fell blubbering. He fired again and again, dropping
two more before the charge broke.

Then suddenly, at a sound, he whirled and stared terrified at the alien
behind him. The charge had been a fake, an old military stunt that any
green Spacer could have seen through. For one brief instant, he stared
into the large eyes of the native. Then he fired. Another native rose
from the ground, then another and another. He fired repeatedly, crying
and cursing in his rage at the weapon's inefficiency, while over his
head he heard the roaring of the rescue ship.

Tongues of flame soared over his head and into the surging mass of
aliens. He hoped the ship was not too late...

       *       *       *       *       *

"Nick! Nick, darling!"

He awoke, his face drenched with sweat and his stomach a tight knot of
fear. He reached out, in his fright, and grabbed the woman at his side,
pulling her into his arms to hold her tightly. She stroked his hair,
kissed his face and whispered soothing words into his ear.

"What is it, Nick?"

He relaxed his grip and laid his head back on the pillow. In the bright
light of the moon, he looked at her and returned to himself. Those
monsters! So vivid!

"Nightmare," he croaked hoarsely.

She smiled, her lips glistening in the moonlight, and kissed him gently.
"The apple pie," she suggested. "Nightmares are usually caused by eating
before bed."

"It was so real," he muttered. "So real. I ... I was on another planet
... I wore a blue uniform with yellow stripes on the legs and my name
was Lors, or Lars. The natives, horrible monsters, were in a state of
revolution ... they killed my driver. I was alone and they were all
around me..."

"Science fiction," she cooed and stroked his hair. "I think it's a good
sign. All you ever read, for relaxation, was science fiction. Your dream
was probably a story you once read and your mind put you in the hero's
place."

He sat up and looked at her. "Did I cry out?"

"You were mumbling. I couldn't hear what you said. Then you began
sobbing and thrashing about."

Nick ran his fingers through his hair and over the back of his neck, the
reality of the dream almost too much for him. It wasn't an ordinary
nightmare where he would be running, with a huge monster panting in
pursuit. This was frightening. Like a memory. Like some damned fantastic
memory.

He stood up and patted her shoulder. "Go back to sleep, Beth," he told
her gently. "I'm going downstairs."

"Shall I turn on a light?"

"No. It might cause the neighbors to wonder." He walked to the door of
the bedroom. "The moon is bright enough."

He walked into the hall, feeling his way in the dark places, and down
the stairs into the living room. As he sat in the chair near the window,
he thought about the dream. It bothered him, because it was unlike a
dream; it had the weird consistency and logic of a memory, yet seemed
almost supernatural ... Hell, what kind of thing had huge, yellow eyes
and stood nine feet tall? What sort of a world had a violet sky and
grey-green rocks? The whole damned thing had the scent of a Walt Disney
movie, the colors vivid and sharp, the landscape seemingly done by a
watercolor brush.

_Thista._

Apparently it was some kind of planet and he hoped that Beth was right.
Would it be possible for a man to get so confused via a crack on the
head, that he believed he had lived through the literature he'd once
read? What would he dream about next? _Macbeth?_ _Treasure Island?_
Christ, what a world!

If he could get to a doctor, a headshrinker, it might all be ironed out.
They would get things squared away in a short while, but hell ...
suppose I'm Public Enemy Number One, or something. Thirteen months! In
thirteen months kings have been broken, dynasties crushed ... What had
happened to him in the thirteen months that he had been out of touch?
One thing he was sure of; he hadn't been laying around. In a stretch of
time like that, he had worked, eaten, slept, loved ... Maybe he had
married again! An almost comical thought, compared to the possibility
that he could be a killer, a bank robber; there were a million things
he could have done.

A psychologist? Nope. That was out of the question, until he knew more
about Nicholas Danson. And learning more about himself would be a real
problem. The cabin that Beth had spoken of would probably show him
nothing. After a period of a year, there would be damned little trail
left to hunt along. There would be almost nothing. Whatever had been
there, would have probably been sifted through by the guy, the
detective, Nolan Brice. Brice! Of all the friends for him to have, he
had to be saddled to Brice! He'd have to be real careful where that
character was concerned because the slightest slip would set the cop on
his trail like a blood hound.

The crackup? Now there was something. He would always be stuck with the
question of how he had managed to get out of that mangled mass of metal
with merely cuts and bruises. But he could chalk that up to dumb luck,
or something. The thing that worried him was had he left a clue that
could trace him here? He had burned the flying suit ... he had tried to
cover it up to Andy ... A lot of things about the smashed aircraft
bothered him. Things like the flying suit; it had been made of strange
material; but hell, he'd burned that thing. There would be no problem
with that.

Almost without realizing it, he found himself staring at the car that
was parked on the other side of the street. The streetlight gleamed on
the black paint of the Chevrolet sedan and he thought of what Andy had
told him earlier about the men who had been interested in finding him.
Looking at the car much closer, he could see the two men sitting in it.
The knot of fear returned to his stomach when he saw the light shining
on the driver's blond hair.

The men from Andy's gas station!

"Nick?"

It was Beth. She had followed him down and he could see her framed in
the doorway at the foot of the stairs. She had slipped into a nightgown
that, in the moonlight, was more alluring than if she had been nude. She
started to speak, but he hissed at her for silence.

"Come here, Beth," he instructed, "and don't put on a light."

Her bare feet whispered on the rug as she came to his side in obvious
bewilderment. He pointed out the car and the two men, telling her about
how they had inquired after him at the gas station. She listened
quietly.

"What do they want?" She asked, when he'd finished.

She was sitting on the arm of the chair, leaning against him to study
the car. The soft pressure of her breasts was disturbing and conjured up
memories of early in the evening.

"What do they want?" She asked again.

"I don't know. That's something I have to find out. Listen, give me a
minute to get to the upstairs window. Then snap on the light and move
around. They're probably looking for me and I want to give them the
impression I'm not here."

"All right, Nick."

He got up and threaded his way to the stairs and up to kneel before the
bedroom window that fronted on the street. Through the gap in the
curtains, he could see the car plainly. The light snapped on downstairs.
For a moment, nothing happened; the men merely sat in the car and
watched the house. Finally the car began moving down the street with its
lights out. Then, out of range, the driver flicked on the lights and the
car disappeared. The downstairs light snapped off and a moment later
Beth came into the room.

"Nick?"

"Here."

"Perhaps they saw the crash..." she began, but he cut her off short.

"No one saw me crash."

"I mean, later," she explained. "After all, a wrecked car on a highway
would..."

"Car? Beth, I didn't crack up in a car. I crashed on a wooded mountain
in a private plane."

"Oh, darling, don't be silly! You've never been in a plane in your
life."

In the darkness of the room, Nick could only stare in stunned amazement
at the moonlit outline of his wife.




CHAPTER FIVE


Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice stood in the brush near the wrecked
aircraft, watching the men move about in the light of several spotlights
that had been set up by the National Guardsmen who had roped off the
area. The thick blackness of the surrounding forest, plus a glance at
his watch, told him that dawn wasn't too far away. FAA investigator
Dickson, a thin, stringy ex-pilot stepped around the scrambled bits of
wreckage and offered a light to the dead cigarette in Nolan's mouth.

"Thanks," Brice said and blew the smoke to the night. "What d'you make
of it, Mister Dickson?"

Dickson shrugged and pushed his snap-brim hat back with a blunt
forefinger. "Dunno. It's pretty dark to see much, but it's no private
plane."

"Why do you say that?"

"No wings, no tail assembly. Of course, it's hard to tell in the dark.
When it gets light enough, we'll know the story; but I don't know of any
private plane that looks like that one. Then too, the Army is holding
the news boys at bay. I think those two government fellows are playing
this one close to their chests."

Brice nodded and dragged on the cigarette, but he said nothing about the
speed of the thing. "Any bodies?"

Dickson shook his head. "The thing is pretty well burned, and the
bodies, if there are any to be found, could be all over the area. We did
find a kind of flying suit, though, badly burned and torn."

"Just the suit? No one in it?"

Dickson looked perplexed. "Bothers you huh? Me too. I can't figure out
why a pilot would carry something like that as an extra. Oh, well, it'll
all come out when we really start investigating."

"How long does a thing like that take?"

Dickson shrugged. "A couple of days, a week. Even a few months. It's
hard to say."

Brice nodded, took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed it toward
the wreck, watching the red ash burst near the wreck. Dickson had
wandered off to the far side of the crash-made clearing. Hell, Brice
thought, I'd better get that butt. Leaving a thing like that around here
could get me in trouble. They'd think it was part of the crash.

When he walked over to retrieve the butt, he saw the light from the
flood glinting on a small gold object. He picked it up and found that he
had someone's watch. The crystal had been smashed, likely in the crash,
and the hands were stopped at 4:15. The expansion band watch dispelled
his hunch that the pilot of the plane had been a Russian, or something;
it was a Bulova, and he didn't think Russians had them. But what cinched
the whole thing was on the under side of the face, in the light of the
spots, he could read: "To Nick, Love, Beth."

And suddenly, it was there! He knew the watch. He knew it as well as he
knew his own. Hell, he had picked it up at the jeweler's shop in
Everett, two years before, when Beth hadn't been able to get into town
and wanted to surprise Nick with it! Stunned and puzzled, Brice dropped
the watch into his pocket and decided not to say anything to Cartwell
and Morgan. Maybe it would cost him, later, but he couldn't tell them -
not until he had a better picture of what the hell was going on.

He lit another cigarette and stood there thinking about the watch. How
had it gotten here? Nick didn't know how to fly a plane, and even if he
had studied the art, could he fly an aircraft that cleared a speed of
two thousand miles per hour? Hell no! Nor had the watch been there, in
the weather, all this time.

Of course, Nick could have hocked the damned thing in some town when he
needed money, and by some quirk of fate it had been brought back to the
same area it had left over a year before. That was possible, but Brice
didn't believe it. It just didn't fit.

"Seen enough?"

Brice turned and saw Cartwell standing behind him. How long has he been
there, he wondered, and forced a grin. The stocky built blond grinned
back at him.

"Thought you might want a cup of coffee," he said.

"Where the hell will you get coffee out here?"

Cartwell waved an arm toward the foot of the hills. "A farm down there.
They wake up early around here. Sam conned the farmer's wife into making
coffee for the boys. Want some?"

"Might as well. We have a few minutes - in fact, we have a lot of time,
before daylight."

"Getting tired?" Cartwell asked, as they started down the hill past the
ring of soldiers.

"A little. More like anxious to find out what the tale is on that
wreck."

"You've been talking to Dickson, I see."

Brice nodded. "Yeah. Well, one thing we know. It's apparently some kind
of experimental aircraft ... like a rocket, or something. And, if it
isn't one of ours..." Brice left it hang and Cartwell didn't pick it up.

For a few minutes they walked in silence through the dew splattered
forests, homing in on the glow of yellow lights that winked at them
through the branches. Finally they reached the rutted, dirt road that
twisted along the stream bed toward the framed shape of the farm house.
Cartwell broke the silence as they neared the place.

"Don't talk much about the wreck around these people, Nolan. They're
nice folks, but simple natured. They plant by the phases of the moon and
the biggest event in their lives is going to the state fair. They're
Lancaster Dutch, recently imported, and they believe in the hex signs
they painted on the barn."

Brice nodded. "Okay, John."

The farm couple were strangers to Brice, but their type was familiar.
Pennsylvania was full of them. They were, as Cartwell had said, good
people. They were farmers, about three jumps above the witchcraft
believing stock that had given them birth and were hard to understand.
They were the stay-at-home type, to whom Pittsburgh was the Far West,
and if they were forced to move farther than fifty miles away from home,
their relations screamed that they would never see them again.

The woman, whose name Nolan hadn't caught, was plain appearing, with no
makeup and her hair pulled back into a severe knot at the base of her
skull. From the moment, she asked them in and poured their coffee, he
liked her. In her own, slow way she was a fine person, but her world
was the farm, her life was the soil.

"Have you found that poor pilot, yet?" She asked, setting the coffee
before them.

"No, ma'am," Cartwell told her.

The heavy set woman made a clucking sound with her mouth. "Honest to
true," she mused. "You'd wonder why a thing like that had to come to
be." She sighed heavily. "There'll be some poor woman in tears tonight.
D'you think he was married?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Cartwell said.

"It's the children that suffer..." she said softly and allowed the rest
of what she was about to say trail off as Dickson came in. He smiled at
the farmwife and she poured him a cup of coffee.

Dickson pulled off his hat. "I'd like to thank you," he told her, "for
being so kind..."

The woman looked pleased and flustered at the same time; there was a
tinge of flush about her face. "Bosh," she said, smiling. "It's the
least a body can do. I know I'd feel real glad to have someone helping,
were it my boy up there."

"Your boy flies?"

"He did." The woman looked a bit pained. "He was killed during the war."

"I'm sorry," Dickson said, and reached for a doughnut from the plate on
the table.

A silence fell over them as they waited for the coming of dawn and a
chance to really look the wreck over. Nolan was somehow glad to be
spared of conversation with the others. He felt like a criminal, with
the small gold watch in his coat pocket and he wanted to tell Dickson
and Cartwell about the thing. But he couldn't. For the first time in his
life he was delaying an investigation, hiding evidence. He was well
aware of the whole thing, but he was also aware of what the presence of
that watch meant. It was a personal thing now, and until he knew which
way to go, he had to keep the watch a secret.

If Nick Danson had somehow come back in that wreck and, if they found no
bodies, he would have gone to Beth ... the whole thing would be
complicated beyond belief. What would such a thing do? What would happen
to the woman he loved, if Nick Danson was back?

He stared moodily into the dark liquid in his coffee cup and wondered
where it would all end.




CHAPTER SIX


Nick awoke to sunlight streaming into his face and had a momentary
impression that it was dawn; then he realized that the sunlight had a
reddish cast to it. He blinked at the bedroom clock, amazed to find that
he had slept until late afternoon.

My God, he thought groggily.

His headache was nearly gone, he noticed as he threw off the covers and
swung his long legs to the floor. The soreness was still there, thumping
dully in his stiff muscles, but sleep had been deep and brought no fresh
nightmares to worry about. He cleaned himself up in the bathroom and got
a pair of slacks and a shirt from the closet, still feeling somewhat
like a stranger. While he dressed himself, he thought of the woman he
was married to.

Despite the feeling of being a stranger in a strange world, and of being
caught up in a strange set of circumstances, he found himself feeling
delightful tremors when he thought of Beth. Even now, there was a tight,
fluttering sensation in his insides when he thought of the talcumed
satin of her skin, the warm lift of her brightly nippled breasts and the
strong response of her rounded thighs. She was a beautiful woman. She
was sex all rolled up in a frame of gentle curves and soft flesh, and he
could see that to love a woman like her would not only be easy, it would
be a privilege.

He buckled the belt about his waist, trying to dispel the thoughts of
the woman, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Hunger gnawed at him
violently.

The coffee was cold. He turned the gas on under it and the note on the
table caught his eye. He picked it up to scan it briefly.

  DARLING,

    HAD TO RUSH OFF TO WORK. KISSED YOU GOOD-BY AND YOU SAID "GLUMPTH".
    BE HOME SOON. LOVE YOU TERRIBLY.

      BETH

He grinned at the note, balled it into his fist and threw it into the
paper can. When the coffee was hot, he poured himself a cup and fixed a
couple of sandwiches with what was left of the package of cold meat. As
he was finishing the last couple of bites of the sandwich, he heard the
thud of the evening paper against the front door. For a moment, it
startled him, then, when he had realized what it was, he was half out of
the chair... He paused there momentarily, then sank back into his seat.
He _couldn't_ go out there and get the paper - if the neighbors saw him
picking it up ... He sat there, waiting for Beth to come home, the
suspense digging into his guts with ragged teeth. Had they found the
plane? Were they onto him? Who were those two men? How did they know
where to find him? Why were they looking for him?

He drank damned near the whole pot of coffee and watched the hands of
the electric clock move with agonizing slowness. Finally, at five forty,
Beth drove up to the house and came through the door. Nick leaped from
the chair.

"The paper!" He snatched it from her hands and began tearing it open.
Damn newsboys for folding them!

"Nick! Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"Huh? Oh." He kissed her briefly, fleetingly, and returned to the paper.
The crash was on page one.

    WRECKAGE OF PRIVATE AIRCRAFT FOUND

    Everett, Pa. The smouldering wreckage of what was apparently a
    private plane was found late yesterday evening in the heavily wooded
    area north of the city by a young Boy Scout looking for a campsite.

    Benjamin Talbot, aged 13, after locating the mangled aircraft,
    promptly called local police who dispatched Detective Lieutenant
    Nolan Brice, Everett Rescue Squad and FAA investigator Arron P.
    Dickson to examine the wreckage.

    "It's the most unusual crash site I've ever seen," FAA investigator
    Dickson told local newsmen. "There's no evidence of wings or tail
    assembly. The fuselage is also of a strange design."

    Detective Lieutenant Brice, after checking with the airport tower at
    Everett, and with CAP officials, informed newsmen that no private
    aircraft had been reported in trouble, or even over the particular
    area in which the craft was found. "Of course," Lieutenant Brice
    added, "one plane may have gone unnoticed. This is highly unlikely,
    but we cannot overlook the possibility. What is puzzling, to me, is
    that the aircraft has not been identified and there have been no
    bodies found."

    "The Civil Air Patrol," Mr. Dickson commented, "has been most
    cooperative and are now engaged in an air search of the area, while
    rescue squads work in the mountains."

    Mr. Dickson went on to state that the mystery crash will be
    thoroughly investigated by authorities in an effort to determine the
    make and model of the plane, as well as the fate of its occupants.

    At present, the crash site has been roped off and placed under guard
    by local Militiamen. Only authorized personnel will be allowed to
    view the wreckage. Major Gilbert Donnoue, of the Air Force
    Experimental Wing, refused to make a statement as to whether the
    plane was of Air Force origin. "To my knowledge, we have lost no
    test planes. However, an extensive check will undoubtedly be run to
    verify this."

Test plane? Nick stared in amazement at the words that leaped at him
from the printed page. Test plane? What the hell was going on in this
screwy world? No wings? No tail assembly? No Mayday calls? No record of
the plane? The whole damned thing sounded ridiculous. Coupled with the
fact that he had been out of touch for thirteen months, it all became
weird.

And to top it all off, Nolan Brice was one of the men who had been
placed on the investigating staff at the crash scene. Suppose he, Nick,
had left something at the scene ... a fraternity pin, a slip of paper
... anything that would link the crash to the fact that he was alive and
in Everett. The whole damned bunch would be on his tail, before you
could say, "Jack Robinson." He...

"Nick," Beth pouted. "Will you pay a little attention to me for a
change?"

"I'm sorry, honey, but it's the plane." While she listened he read the
account aloud and, when he'd finished, they exchanged glances. "That's
the plane I was in," he told her.

"But you don't know how to fly."

"I must know, unless someone else flew it. That's the plane I woke up
beside. I must have been in the damned thing. But I don't know if anyone
else was." He buried his face in his hands.

"Nick. Should we call the police?"

"No!"

Alarmed at his violent outburst, she put her hand on his shoulder to
comfort him. "All right dear. I'm sorry."

"It'd been different, if those men weren't after me. I'd call the police
if they weren't dogging my tracks. I'd turn myself in just to find out
what the hell's going on."

"Me too," she said softly.

At first he didn't catch the meaning behind her words, then he blinked.
"What?" He asked.

"The car, the black one. It followed me to work this morning." She
paused, then added, "It didn't follow me home though."

Nick slammed the paper to the floor, his lean jaw muscles knotted in
anger. "That settles it," he snapped. "I can face whatever I'm mixed up
in, but there's no earthly reason why you should be subjected to it!
I'll have to get out!"

Beth threw herself into his arms, the ever ready tears welling in her
eyes. "No, Nick," she pleaded. "Whatever it is, we'll fight it. We'll
make out, but darling, don't leave me again!"

He held her tightly against him, his hands stroking the warm softness of
her back and spine. The perfume of her hair filled him with a heady
thought of summer fields of flowers, of sweetness and tenderness, of ...
love. Love. Nick Danson, he told himself, you _are_ mixed up. You're
falling in love with your own wife.

"... and we'll go away," Beth was whispering in his ear. "We'll pack
everything and go far away, where we'll never see these men again. Nick.
Please. Oh, please keep me with you."

"Going away won't settle anything, sweetheart. They'll always be there,
just outside the door. I've got to do something..."

He broke off suddenly and it flicked into his mind like a film of the
past, like a memory. The soft face of the girl, her hair a golden color
against the backdrop of the ochre mountains ... the softness of the pale
blue-green tree... She spun away from him, the loose, filmy blue dress
whirling about her trim ankles ... then she was coming back to him, arms
outstretched ... kissing him lovingly...

He shut it off, clamped it from his mind. A memory! A memory that made
no sense at all. A tremor of fear ran along his spine and trembled in
his flesh. What did it mean? What was happening to him?

"Nick?" It was Beth. "What is it, Nick? You look pale and frightened."

"Nothing. We'll go away."

She beamed. "I know just the place. The cabin. Far up in the mountains.
No one will know we're there. We'll learn to love each other again."

"You have to work," he pointed out.

She nodded. "That's true, still _you_ could go up there and try to
puzzle this all out. I can come up in the evenings, and on weekends."

"Might be a good idea," he admitted, thinking that at least, he'd be
safe from prying eyes.

"Then it's settled. You go sit somewhere and I'll get things packed."

She whisked away, almost running up the stairs to pack some things for
him. He walked to the kitchen, without turning on a light, and poured
himself a glass of water. Outside, through the window, he could see the
twilight fading into evening, the heavy purple clouds of night sweeping
steadily across the sky. A star winked later and he knew it. Venus. He
stood there in the darkness and picked out many of them as they
flickered into being. Mars. Sirius, Vega and others. There were...

       *       *       *       *       *

... She came into his arms and talk was insignificant and quite
unnecessary. The soft, white arms wound about his neck, tugging fingers
pulled playfully at his hair and she smiled at him. His lips moved down
against hers and they were lost in themselves. He could feel the taut
pressure of her breasts playing against his chest and the firm roundness
of her thighs working against his.

Her strong fingers worked against the muscles of his shoulders, pulling
him down onto the cottony moss beneath the strange tree. The small
litheness of her body molded into his and his hands stroked her breasts
beneath the filmy cloth that covered them. Her hands moved upward to the
straps that swept over her shoulders and pulled them down. His eager
fingers helped her, working the straps down until the firm mounds of her
breasts lifted their rubbery, coral tipped nipples toward the sky. His
fingers worked them, kneaded the warm muscles, while his mouth worked on
hers. When he had released her lips, she pulled his face down into the
twin cushions of her breasts. His hand moved against the flesh of her
thighs, caressingly...

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ready, dear?"

It was gone. Like that. A sudden flickering memory of some long vanished
event that might have given him some hope. It had been fantastic again,
the strange colors and the weird landscape, but he wanted it despite
that. She had stolen it, ripped it viciously from his mind; but she was
not to blame. He turned and smiled at her as she came into the kitchen.

She had turned on a soft light in the front room, but had allowed the
kitchen to remain dark. In the half-light of the room, he thought that
she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It would not be hard
to love her, he thought again.

He reached out and took her by the shoulders, pulling her gently against
him to kiss her. Her mouth moved against his, satiny with desire, until
they parted.

"I'm ready, if you are," he said.

"For what, darling? The bedroom, or the car?"

He chuckled. "The car. The bedroom will keep until we're up in the
woods."




CHAPTER SEVEN


In the glow of the headlights, the car swallowed the road voraciously
and they moved toward the north country - not, he noticed, on route 87.
They had not been seen leaving the city, nor had they been seen packing
the car. The garage had a door that led into the kitchen, and Nick had
laid on the back seat floorboards until they were in the country. Now,
sitting in the front seat, he wondered vaguely if Beth, in her joy at
having him home, had given herself away to her friends. He hoped not. He
glanced sidewise at her and noticed that she drove with a smile on her
face.

"Is it far to the cabin?" He asked.

"Not now. We're almost to the turn off."

He lapsed again into silence, the old questions still whirling about in
his mind. Who were the men who were after him? What did they want? How
much had the FAA learned of the plane? Had they found something to pin
it on him? What were these tiny, fleeting thoughts that cropped up in
his mind? Was his mind trying to tell him something via the nightmares?
And what of his best friend, Nolan Brice. Where has he been? What is he
up to? It struck Nick as odd that he had not encountered the detective
yet: surely he and Beth had been close the past year. How close? Suppose
Brice stumbled upon Andy Hocum. Would the old man talk?

Feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life, at least the
life he remembered, Nick stared at the road until Beth turned off on
another road that was little more than a wagon track beside a small
creek. A few minutes of bouncing over ruts and stones, and she turned
off again, parking beside a grey, frame cabin.

"Here we are, darling."

They got out, each taking a box from the back seat, and Nick followed
her up the stairs to the porch. Beth set her box down and found the key.
A moment later the lock clicked and she shoved the door open.

"Wait'll I find the light, Nick," she whispered.

A moment later, the light snapped on and a soft glow filled the front
room of the cabin. They took the boxes to the kitchen and set them on
the table, then went back into the front room. Nick studied the place.

He liked the room a lot; there was a rugged manliness in the stone
fireplace and the knotty pine walls, mingled with just a touch of Beth's
femininity to make it neat. All in all, it was a well laid out place. He
was attracted to the oil paintings that hung about the walls.

"Like it?" Beth asked.

He nodded.

"But it doesn't bring back any memories?"

"No. Hell, honey, I can't even remember what I did for a living."

She smiled sadly. "Want to see?"

When he nodded, she motioned him to the other side of the front room and
opened the door. She flicked on the light and he stepped into a small
study filled with the trappings of an artist. Tubes of paint lay on
small tables, beside cans of turpentine, lacquer and old paint rags. A
half finished nude adorned one of the heavy easels. There were a few
water color sketches laying around as well as several oils.

"Want to see some of your favorite models?"

He nodded numbly, and she drew open a drawer in the table and pulled out
four fairly large oil paintings done on commercial painting boards.

The first two were of Beth, one a nude and the other a semi-nude, with
only her lovely breasts exposed. The second two paintings were of a girl
who was not familiar at all. In the first picture, a portrait, she was
seated before a table, contemplating a vase of flowers. A rather good
looking girl with jet black hair and a soft, warm looking face. The next
painting was of the same girl, but this time she had been painted as a
Hawaiian dancer and her skin was a trifle darker. She was a pretty girl,
but her face and nicely formed body didn't ring a bell.

"Who is she?" He asked.

"Her name is Janet Holman. She lives about four or five miles from here,
on her father's farm." Beth nodded toward the green filing cabinet in
the corner. "You have her file over there with your records. Doesn't any
of this ring a bell, darling?"

"No."

She looked at him sadly, her face mirroring the way she felt. "I hope
it'll come back, darling."

He reached out and pulled her to him, holding her tight. "It'll come
back," he whispered. "C'mon. I want to build a fire in that fireplace.
It's cool in here, even if it is summer."

They went back out into the front room and, while Beth found some
kindling, Nick wadded up some newspapers and stuffed them in the
fireplace. When she brought it in, he lighted the stuff and after it was
going good, he added a couple of logs. He snapped off the light and
grinned at her.

"I like firelight," he told her. "It's restful."

She smiled back at him. "Restful? I think it's sexy." She had kicked off
her pumps and was lying before the glow of the hearth on the thick rug.
He arranged the mesh screen before the fire and laid down beside her.

"Sexy, huh?"

"Uh huh. I don't know, darling ... the warmth of the fire warms me up, I
guess."

He grinned and dropped his head to the cushions of her breasts. Her
fingers played in his hair.

"I'm glad," he told her.

"You used to be. That used to be our favorite way of spending an
evening."

"Laying in front of a fire?" Nick asked.

"Not just _any_ fire, darling. This particular fire, sans clothes."

"Sounds like fun," he mused and rolled over to kiss the ripe redness of
her lips. Her tongue stabbed a blade of passion at him and her arms
pulled him close; then, after a moment, she shoved him away and stood
up.

He propped himself on one elbow and looked at her. Her smile was impish
as she unfastened the buttons of the white blouse and pulled it from the
waistband of the navy blue skirt. Her fingers unhooked the snaps of the
bra and dropped it to the floor beside the blouse. The firelight was
golden against the swelling lift of her breasts and the flat expanse of
her stomach. Nick felt the thundering beginning again to slam through
his veins with the holocaust of a napalm bomb exploding against the
ground as she unzipped the skirt and dropped it into a puddle on the
thick rug. He watched in pounding fascination as she stepped daintily
from the whorl of the skirt, clad only in the pinkish transparency of
her panties. Then they too were a thing of the past, and Beth was
smiling down at him, passion spearing from her eyes.

"Will I still do?" She asked.

"Do what?" He croaked.

"You know?" She laughed at him, kneeling on the rug. "Will I still do as
a model?"

He laid down flat and chuckled. "A model, sweetheart, is a small
imitation of the real thing. You don't look imitation to me." He reached
up and grabbed her arm to pull her down with him onto the rug, but she
jerked away.

"Oh, no, you don't. You have to undress too."

He grinned at her and peeled off his clothes quickly. She came into his
arms then and they made love, letting the glowing warmth of the fire
caress them hotly. His hands smoothed her breasts while his mouth worked
at the fire that was coming to life throughout her body.

"Just like old times?" He asked, softly.

"Better, darling ... much better."




CHAPTER EIGHT


Sometime near midnight, Beth took the car and went home. Nick poured a
cup of the coffee she had made for him and went back into the study to
look at the paintings a second time. It was good, professional work, and
he wondered if he could do the same stuff again. Hell, he decided, it'll
be a long time until I get back at an easel. He finished the coffee and
went up to bed.

It took awhile to get to sleep. Thoughts of the wrecked plane, Beth, the
strange men and Nolan Brice kept running around in his head without
finding answers to the enigmas they presented to him. Finally he slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was looking at himself, in the dream, but it was not in a mirror. He
was standing inside a polished room and the other Nick Danson lay on a
bed wrapped in sleep. Nick blinked at the still duplicate of himself on
the bed and turned away to look at the room he was in. It wasn't large.
It appeared to be some kind of bedroom, and it was well lighted although
there were no lights to be seen; the walls seemed to glow, and
everything was of a bright metal. The mirror caught his eye and he saw
himself in the same blue and yellow uniform that he'd worn before. The
Danson who lay asleep on the bed was dressed in blue dress pants and a
white shirt. The tie had been loosened at his throat and his clothing
was wrinkled badly.

Suddenly the other Danson opened his eyes and looked at Nick. For a
moment he appeared to be startled at seeing him, then he smiled. The
smile erupted in a chuckle that became a laugh. The other Danson's face
grew large and full, roaring out laughter at Nick until the whole scene
changed from one of odd curiosity to one of absolute horror, the kind of
weird horror that can come only from peals of loud, echoing laughter
rolling through the caverns of the mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nick awoke gasping, his fingers knotted in the sheets of the bed and a
cold sweat beading out upon his face. His heart hammered in his chest
like a drum, threatening to leap to his throat at any moment. He looked
around anxiously for Beth, but the silence of the room reminded him that
she had gone back to the city and her job. Dawn was breaking and the dim
light filtered through the unwashed windows. There was little point in
trying to sleep now. Might as well get his clothes on and try to start
unraveling a long thread of odd events.

He pulled on his clothes slowly and slid his feet into his shoes,
wondering where to begin the climb back to himself. It would be bad
enough for an amnesia victim to regain all his memory if given an
unlimited length of time - this way, with people closing in on all
sides, the whole damned thing seemed impossible.

He hooked the last button on his shirt, stuffed it into his pants, and
headed for the kitchen. He warmed up last night's coffee and it tasted
like warm sulfuric acid, but it brought him around to full
consciousness, even if his stomach did object to it.

When he had finished the coffee, he found the library in the den and
began reading a few of the titles; often, he remembered, a lot could be
told from a man by his reading habits. There were books by Bridgeman,
Zaindenburg and Loomis, almost everything on the shelves pertained to
art in some form or another - except for the last row. There were about
fifteen science fiction volumes, mostly collections of short stories,
from Asimov to A.E. van Vogt. He had a fleeting idea to start reading
the stuff in an effort to determine whether or not his strange dreams
came from somewhere within the pages, then he rejected it. It would take
a hell of a long while to even skim through that mass of literature and
he didn't have the time.

He shoved a copy of H. Beam Piper back onto the shelf and straightened.
To hell with it. He had the whole house to search, before he started
fumbling through something as far out as science fiction. He started
rummaging through the various rooms of the place with systematic
carefulness. Hoping...

When he finished the search, it was noon. He knew a lot about the cabin,
but damned little about himself. The cramped, dismal attic contained
what was left of pictures, odd bits of furniture and clothes after the
local field mice and porcupines had their annual convention up there.
The three bedrooms revealed nothing except the usual gear to be found in
any bedroom, and of the downstairs section of the place, only the art
studio and the combination den-library was of interest. And even these
places shed no light upon the ghost of the man that haunted him. The
studio contained all of the trappings of an artist, even though it was
in rather battered up shape, and the den was a wall to wall replica of
what a woodsman might have owned. There were the books, the stuffed
heads and, of course, the guns.

The rack, on the far side of the room, contained a table with bullet
loading equipment scattered around it, with cans of DuPont powder on the
floor. Above it, in the gun rack were the weapons - enough to hold off a
small revolution. There were two handguns and three rifles and a
shotgun. He looked them over.

A Smith and Wesson .38, model 36 and a Ruger Blackhawk .44 Magnum that
looked like the old peacemaker model. One of the rifles was a Marlin
saddle carbine, model 336 and the other was a Winchester African rifle
with a .458 bore. The last gun on the rack was a Stevens .410 single
barrel shotgun. Nick grinned at the arsenal and took the .44 magnum down
from the rack to clean it. It wasn't in too bad of shape, even for as
long as it had remained idle; even the western style holster and gunbelt
contained enough oil to make them pliable.

He slipped the magnum into the holster and buckled the gunbelt about his
waist, letting it hang a little on the right side. To hell with it, he
thought. If those two characters show up now, at least I'll have an
edge. He pulled five .44 Special slugs from the belt and loaded the
weapon, being careful to see that the hammer hung on the empty chamber.
Then he decided to see how good he was.

Where the hill rose sharply for a small distance behind the house, Nick
found a good area where he could test his marksmanship. He lined up five
cans, a few feet apart, at the base of the rise and snapped off five
fast shots at them as quick as the single action would operate. Either
amnesia had nothing to do with a man's gun knowledge, or he was a
natural. All five cans were blown to hell and sent skittering against
the side of the hill. Stunned, but satisfied, he reloaded the revolver
and dropped it back into the holster.

He prowled the grounds about the cabin with the aimlessness of a man
looking for something but not sure what. Beyond the lawn furniture and
the shed that contained his tools, the only other interesting thing was
the creek. A fast running little stream, barely a foot deep but filled
with numerous little holes that bragged of trout. He walked along the
gurgling water for a ways, then he went back to the house, still unsure
of what to do.

He went back to the cabin and shoved the door open and stopped dead!

She was just like the painting. Her raven black hair hung loose and free
while, beneath the scant confines of the shorts and halter, the warm
flesh rose and fell temptingly. Nick stood there, unable to say a word.
It was Janet and the light in her eyes made him wonder what kind of a
guy he'd been more than ever. She gave a little gasp of pure pleasure
and flung herself into his arms, planting the ripe sweetness of her lips
squarely on his.

"Janet," he managed, but she had a strangle hold on him.




CHAPTER NINE


"Russian?" Brice asked, looking at Sam Morgan.

The dark complected Fed pulled the mangled cigar from his mouth and
pointed it toward the twisted wreckage. On the far side, Cartwell and
Dickson were looking it over.

"Why not?" Morgan asked.

"It seems outlandish, somehow."

Morgan grinned, his peg-like teeth flashing. "You small town cops are
good. I won't take that from you. But you look at everything from a
local viewpoint. In our business, you broaden, you might say.

"Look at the facts, Nolan. The Defense boys spotted the thing up north.
Radar locked on it and gave it a speed of over two thousand miles per.
So it crashes and we find no wings, no tail assembly ... and I have the
hunch that the damned thing ran on nuclear power."

"Atomic?" Nolan whispered, amazed. While the Federal cop talked about
nuclear power and fantastic speeds, all Brice could think of was the
watch he'd found at the scene. How the hell could an artist learn to
pilot a thing like that in a mere thirteen months, and what the hell was
behind it all. "You mean, atomic power?"

Morgan nodded. "See that funnel shaped gismo over there, with the round
ball-like affair?" He was pointing to what was probably the tail of the
ship, at least it was not the section that had absorbed the smash into
the ground.

Nolan nodded.

"That's a nuclear reactor," Sam went on. "Uncle Sam doesn't have
anything in the air with that kind of power. I think we're testing a few
engines, but nothing flying yet."

"Then it is Russian?"

"That's my guess. No other country would build it. Oh, Great Britain
could, but if it was one of theirs, they would have plastered the red
and blue targets on it. Offhand, it looks to me like a glorified version
of the old U-2 thing, only on their side."

Brice didn't answer. He stared at the wreckage as though it were some
sort of demon, while a million thoughts burst in his brain. Nick Danson
was in this? He flew it? Where did he get it? How did he get it? Was it
Russian? Was Nick a Russian spy?

He tried to cover the amazement on his face by lighting a cigarette.
"How come it didn't develop into a pint sized Hiroshima, if it has
atomic power in it?"

Morgan grinned at him, as though he was a kid. "I said it was powered by
atomic energy, not atomic bombs. There's a kind of difference in..."

"Hey, Sam! C'mere!"

Both of the men turned to look across the twisted mass of wreckage to
where Cartwell and Dickson were standing. The blond Fed was holding up a
piece of the wreckage and his face glowed with excitement that he didn't
try to cover.

"C'mon, Nolan," Sam grinned. "Let's go see what my buddy dug up ... I'll
bet its a Russian manufacturer's trade mark."

They skirted the wreck and trotted up to where Cartwell stood with the
piece of metal. "Russian, huh?" asked Sam.

"Russian, hell," Cartwell snorted. "It looks like a cross between
Chinese and Arabic."

Sam took the piece and looked at it, the cigar clamped belligerently in
his jaws. After a tense moment, he grunted noncommittally and passed the
thing to Nolan Brice.

He knew nothing of Russian, Chinese or Arabic, but he knew what Chinese
characters looked like. The imprinted marks on the metal bore a certain
resemblance to the Chinese language, but yet were not the same. It
consisted of strange marks that were like nothing Brice had ever seen
before.

"There are similar markings on the control panel," Dickson said into the
silence.

"Crap," Sam Morgan snorted. "I say Russian. How about you, partner?"

Cartwell furled his blond brows. "I think I'd rather let an expert look
this piece over before I make any kind of guess as to where that wreck
flew from." He turned to Nolan. "Where can we find an expert, Brice?"

"Everett College would be the only place I know of."

"Okay, we'll give them a try. Where's Lieutenant Peters?"

Morgan jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the other side of the
clearing. "Over there," he said, "dressing down one of his Weekend
Warriors."

"Sam. How about going over and remind him to keep any characters off the
site. I have a horror of having the news boys scoop us on this."

Sam nodded and took off to talk with the Army. Dickson looked at
Cartwell.

"Anything for me?" he asked.

"No. Just continue with your investigators. You can make the
arrangements about having this thing hauled down to Everett, but check
with me before you do. Okay?"

Dickson nodded.

"C'mon, Brice," Cartwell said. "Let's get Morgan and find out what the
college professors can tell us about this screwy thing."

They wrapped the piece of metal in Cartwell's jacket and the three of
them headed through the forest toward the road in the valley.

       *       *       *       *       *

Professor Nichols was a wisp of a man who peered at them through small,
bright eyes nearly hidden in fleshy folds. Although his body was about
the shortest Brice had ever seen on a man, the brain beneath his crop of
white hair had made him a giant. A linguist all his life, Professor
Nichols spoke a dozen languages fluently, in addition to reading and
writing them. Brice knew him by reputation and grinned at him as he came
into the empty Dean's office.

"Gentlemen?" He favored them with a smile. "I'm Nichols. Doctor Bendtolz
said you wanted to speak with me."

Brice introduced himself and the Federal men and, after a round of
handshaking, Cartwell handed the chunk of metal to the professor.

"We'd like to know about the writing, Professor," Sam put in.

Nichols examined the etching on the metal for some time before he looked
up. His small eyes searched their faces in turn, then he smiled thinly
as though witnessing a very bad gag.

"Are you gentlemen playing some sort of joke?" he asked.

"The Government doesn't pay us to play jokes," Cartwell informed him
cryptically. "Do you know the language?"

Professor Nichols shook his head. "I know every spoken language in the
world, and I know many of the dead languages at least by sight. I don't
know this one."

"You're serious?"

The old man nodded. "This must be some sort of jest on me. There is no
language on Earth, dead or alive, that matches this."

"We aren't joking, Professor," Nolan said seriously.

"Then, my friend, someone must be playing a joke on you. No linguist can
identify this language. I'll stake my reputation on that. Where did you
get this?"

Cartwell smiled. "I'm sorry, professor, but we cannot disclose that
information. We'll also have to ask you to forget about it. Government
business, you know."

"Yes, of course. Is there anything else? I have a class in three
minutes..."

"No, that's all. Thank you, Professor Nichols."

"You're welcome. Good day, gentlemen."

As the door closed behind him, a thick silence fell over the three men.
Cartwell looked out the window and pulled at his lower lip with a blunt
thumb and forefinger; Nolan sat on the edge of a desk, looking at the
strange writing as an ethnologist might stare at the bones of the
missing link.

"What now?" Sam asked, softly. "Call in a Martian to get his opinion?"

"It's not funny, Sam."

"Don't I know it," Sam shot back. "We've got some kind of tiger by the
tail in this case ... a tiger bigger than the Kremlin, and I'm wondering
how this will all sound in a report to the capital."

Cartwell snorted and ran a hand through his blond hair. "I'll let you
write the report, Sam."

"You go to hell. I like my job and I don't want to get booted out
because of a science fiction twist on an otherwise normal
investigation."

"What's the next move?" Nolan asked, trying to ignore the sinking
feeling in his stomach.

Cartwell shrugged. "Go back to the wreck, I guess and try to figure out
something."

Sam suddenly slammed his fist on the table and several textbooks danced.
"John," he exploded. "You _know_ what this means, don't you? If the
professor's right, and this gibberish on this chunk of metal _isn't_ an
Earth language, then we got problems! You know what we got up there? We
got a Flying Saucer! A space ship!"

"Oh, my God, Sam cut it out! I don't believe in the damned things, I
refuse to."

Sam snickered. "It looks to me as though you haven't any choice in the
matter. It's like refusing to believe in a Ford V-8; it don't make any
difference whether you believe it or not, it's there."

"Jesus," Cartwell said softly.

"And that isn't the payoff. We didn't find a body in the wreckage.
Unless that ship traveled by remote control, it had a pilot who is
wandering around the country right now. I can see it now. A wounded
little green man running around trying to hitch a ride back to Mars.
It'd be funny if it wasn't so damned serious."

Cartwell nodded at his partner. "We'd better get back up there to the
site. Maybe the air search or the rescue squads picked something up.
Coming, Brice?"

Nolan forced a grin. "With little green men running around?" Then he
became serious. "I'll be up a little later. I have something to do down
here."

Morgan snorted as they headed for the door. "See if you can locate a
Buck Rogers ray gun. We might need it."

They went back to their cars and Nolan Brice wedged himself behind the
wheel but he didn't start the engine. He sat there, instead, watching
the Government men drive off down the street, his mind whirling with a
million jangling thoughts that tore through him viciously. Flying
saucers, Martians, little green men! The whole damned thing was
impossible, ridiculous...

But true. A man just couldn't sit down and say "I refuse to believe in
lightning." It didn't make sense. You had to believe what your mind told
you ... and his mind was telling him wild things.

It all fit. Hell, it fit with a perfection that was absolutely
fantastic, but crazy enough to be the truth. Nick Danson, commercial
artist, disappeared thirteen months ago and every police agency in the
country can't locate him. It was as if the earth had opened and
swallowed him; but it hadn't been the earth, it had been the sky. _They_
had done it ... the Martians, or whatever the hell they were.

Why? Why steal a Terran?

To replace him? To send an alien being down to take the place of the
Terran they had stolen. That took care of the confusion the watch had
represented. For awhile it had looked as though Nick had piloted that
space ship, but now Nolan knew better. It wasn't Nick. It was an alien!

Beth!

Had an alien, posing as Nick, located Beth and was now engaged in using
her to help in whatever they had come here to do? How many other Missing
Persons cases were wrapped up in this thing? How many aliens were
walking the streets of earth right now? To hell with that, Nolan, he
roared at himself. The important thing is Beth. You've got to find out
about this thing and stop it, before something happens to her.

He started the car, slammed it into gear and gunned it out onto the
street, the tires screaming a protest...




CHAPTER TEN


Janet was more than a beautiful woman and a good model. She was white
heat and surging womanhood all dolled up in a body like that of a French
movie star. She was as wanton as a Polynesian dancer and as demanding as
a nympho. Lying there beside her relaxed nakedness, Nick Danson felt
like another man - a tired one.

He laid his hand over the swelling rise of her breast and slid it down
the flat velvet of her stomach. She made a small sound in her throat and
kissed him on the cheek with lips like branding irons.

"I'm glad you have amnesia," she cooed against his ear.

"Why, for God's sake?"

She snuggled the curling warmth of her body against him and chuckled.
"Because of this. You used to kiss me, but that was all. I wanted more,
but not you."

He blinked at the ceiling at her words. She'd tricked him! It was a nice
trick, but still she'd cheated. All the time he'd figured that she was
some sort of mistress, or something - obviously that's what _she_ had
wanted, but in his other life he'd never given her a tumble. It was
funny, in a way.

"You mean ... we never..."

"Nope." She chuckled again. "Aren't I a rat?"

"Vixen, is more like it."

"That's a good word. I like it. Janet Vixen. How would you like to kiss
Janet Vixen, Nick Danson?"

"Suppose I get another knock on the head," he suggested, "and I lose the
memory of all this, too? Then what?"

"I won't embarrass you in front of company. C'mon, kiss me again,
stranger!"

He rolled over and kissed her again and, tired or not, he could feel the
desire surging through him again. Her small hands moved over the muscles
of his shoulders, digging into his flesh, her teeth nibbling at his
neck. Janet was one of those odd women who can't seem to take a darned
thing serious. No matter what the risks were involved, to her making
wild love was a hell of a lot of fun and that was that. He had the hunch
that if he tried to get serious with her - marriage serious - she'd
bounce him fast. But hell, it was impossible to think of things like
that with her, besides he was having too much fun. If, he thought later,
you can call it fun when you're so weak you can't move.

"I have to go, lover," she said finally. "Beth might come up, and I
think she would be apt to get a little put out if she caught us in bed."

"That's putting it mildly," he grinned. "Besides, I have to start trying
to find out about myself."

"Do me a favor and don't." She pecked him lightly on the lips. "I like
the new Nick Danson a hell of a lot better. C'mon. Snap my bra."

They climbed out of bed and he helped her into her shorts and halter.
She kissed him lightly again, said; "Good-by, lover," and bounced out
into the hall, leaving him standing there, naked in the bedroom.

What a world, he thought for the hundredth time and began to gather his
clothes. When he started to put his pants on, his wallet dropped from
the hip pocket and flopped open on the floor. He picked it up, his eyes
absently noticing the card that was exposed in the clear, plastic
window. It was a Selective Service Registration Certificate and someone
had written "small scar on right forearm" under the column for general
markings. Absently he glanced at his right forearm, then his eyes
widened in shock.

There was no scar!

A man cannot lose a scar, he told himself. He checked the card again. It
was his, made out to Nicholas Howard Danson; but the scar was missing.
He searched his arm and it wasn't there. The full realization of the
whole thing struck him suddenly like a punch in the mouth. He was _not_
Nicholas Howard Danson!

Who was he? What the hell was going on? Had he killed the real Danson
because they were obviously look alikes, and stolen the guy's I.D. Why?
Was he escaping from some kind of crime? Was he a criminal, and what did
the strange dreams have to do with it?

Numbly he climbed into the rest of his clothes and made damned sure the
.44 magnum was loaded when he strapped it on. His hands shook
uncontrollably and he felt trapped. It would only be a matter of time
before those people at the wreck figured out the whole story and came
howling after him. He had to get out.

The screech of car brakes startled him and he leaped to the window. A
police car was in the lane and a single, plainclothes cop was getting
out. It could only be Nolan. He watched as Brice pulled his Police
Positive from the speed rig and headed toward the house. Then Nick
hauled out his magnum and slammed it into the window.

Brice dived behind a bush as the magnum threw a .44 slug that barely
missed the cop. The .38 barked back and Nick ducked the splinters as the
bullet chipped the window frame.

"Come out, you fool," Brice roared.

"You go to hell," Nick yelled and fired again. "Who tipped you off,
Nolan? Beth?"

"You left Danson's watch where your flying saucer cracked up!" Brice
snapped another shot at the window.

Flying saucer? Nick blinked. What the hell was that stupid cop talking
about?

"What'd you do with Nick," Brice roared.

Nick let the magnum answer for him, not trusting his voice. In the few
seconds that followed Nick, in his nervous excitement, emptied the
revolver at Brice, but never even grazed him. He cursed and began
thumbing cartridges into the Ruger. He was almost finished, when Nolan
caught onto the maneuver and decided to come in closer. He stood up and
began sprinting toward the house. Nick had just yanked the hammer of the
gun back to fire as Brice came into the open but he never made it.

Suddenly, in the middle of the yard, Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice
disappeared into thin air! Nick heard him yell for help, but he could
see nothing. The yelling kept going straight up into the air until it
grew faint in the distance.

Nick stared dumbfoundedly at the area where the cop had suddenly faded
out of sight. What the hell was going on in this screwy place? Then he
heard the shout below him and he twisted to stare at the borders of the
small creek. It was the two men from Andy Hocum's gas station - the
blond giant and the sandy haired guy. Panicky, Nick snapped off a shot
and the blond dived for cover.

"The dumb bastard is shooting," the blond yelled to his companion
several yards away. "Let's get the hell out of here, before he hits
something!"

He got a brief glimpse of them as they took off through the brush and
snapped a shot at them to hurry them along, just as Beth's car rocked up
the rutty road and braked beside the police car. She leaped out yelling
for him and he went down the stairs to meet her, the gun still in his
hand.

Her face was drained of color as she came into the house, the red of her
lips looking even more red against the pale wash of her face. "Nick!
Where's Nolan?"

"I..."

"Oh, my God, Nick! Have you killed him?"

"I couldn't hit him," Nick told her. "I emptied the magnum at him and he
disappeared into the air." His eyes had a wild look in them, "Right into
the air," he added inanely. Everything was so balled up. Everything was
crazy. He wasn't Nick Danson ... he didn't know his name ... Brice
vanished into thin air ... the two guys were dogging his tracks ...
women came out of the woodwork to make love to him. What the hell else
could possibly happen?

Beth was staring at him. "You killed him," she breathed.

"No, no! He vanished. He vanished ... honest to God, I never even came
close to hitting him. I might as well have thrown rocks."

"Men do not disappear into thin air," she said.

"Listen, forget that for a minute. How'd he know I was here?"

She sank wearily onto a chair and looked at him. "He found the watch I
gave you a few years ago. It was lying at the crash site. He came to the
office where I work and asked about you. I denied that I knew you were
back and he began to yell at me about my life being in danger and that I
should stay away from you until he had a chance to put a bullet into
you. My God, Nick! What have you done?"

"I dunno," he lied. Should he tell her that he was not her husband, that
he didn't have the foggiest notion of who he was? He decided against it.
"How'd he know where to find me?"

She sighed. "He helped you build the place. Now where is he?"

"Goddammit, Beth, I told you! How many times do I have to tell you that
he vanished!"

"Stop yelling at me!"

"Then believe me! It happened! I saw it happen, and I wasn't seeing
things! Go out and look. If you can find his body out there, I'll eat
it."

She uttered a little cry and came into his arms, holding him tightly.
"Oh, darling, I want to believe you. I want very much to believe you;
but men can't vanish."

"Brice did."

"All right. If you say he did. All right. Now what?"

"I don't know. I have to think. I have to try and remember what happened
to me. It's the only way that this crazy whirl will make sense, and it
has to make sense. It has to."

She nodded. "Let's go into the room. I want to be with you tonight. Let
me have the gun, dear?"

He stared at her, his jaws knotted. "You think I'm nuts, don't you? You
think I'm crazy."

"Darling, darling, of course not. But I wish you'd give me the gun."

Resignedly he unstrapped the gun and gave it to her. He shrugged. "I
don't blame you. Hell, I think I'm crazy too."

She didn't argue the point.

They both went into the front room and sat there staring into the ashes
of the dead fireplace while dusk fell about the cabin. Finally Beth
started the fire. When she had finished, she bent and kissed him.

"Why don't we get some sleep, honey," she said. "That may help."

"I'll be up later," he told her and she kissed him again. Then she went
to bed.

How long he sat there he had no way of knowing, but the fire was
steadily dying. The thoughts hammered in his head and he became lost in
them, trying mentally to find the key that would tear away the veil and
grant him a peek at his past. Bits and snatches had filtered through,
garbled and incoherent, that had tried to shed light yet could not. And,
while he leaned toward one conclusion, drawn from the dreams, he felt it
too fantastic for belief.

He was so absorbed in his thinking that he never heard the door open
slowly. When he did hear the soft tread behind him, it was too late! A
handkerchief of chloroform was clamped strongly over his face! He
struggled, trying to get away from the hands that held him, but he was
powerless! The chloroform got to him. He couldn't breathe...

He slept.




CHAPTER ELEVEN


The ship came to rest upon a flat, ochre colored plain beside a
brilliant white city encased in thick, heavy walls. There was a dull
pain in his head and fire in his leg, but he was alive. He lay limply
upon the bed while Firstspacer Narvi plied him with honeywine to dull
the pain.

He grinned, studying the blond giant's warm, friendly face. He was among
friends; the tall, yellow eyed Thistians had failed to kill him and
Narvi had whisked him away into the violet sky.

"Thought we'd lost you, Lors," Narvi grinned. "You almost did," he
replied, choking on the Thista honeywine. "Haven't you anything else,
something from Darkkan?"

"Sorry, friend," Narvi grinned, "but you can be glad to get this. The
36th Command has been drinking up even this stuff. I'll see you later,
in the hospital."

"All right, Narvi." The big man started away, but Lors stopped him by
grabbing his blue sleeve. "Narvi?"

"Yes."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

Firstspacer Narvi punched him playfully on the arm and left the
compartment. The medical men came in then, hooking the anti-gravity
capsules to the bed and setting them into motion. The cot-like stretcher
lifted and the men towed him out to the freight elevator. As they stowed
him into the ambulance, he could see Narvi's staff car skimming toward
the Commandant's building to make out his report.

No doubt Commandant Imry would be coming to see him, later on.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nick groaned. Another dream that was beginning to clear things up a
little...

"He's coming around." The words were not English, but Nick understood
them.

The big blond cursed softly. "Speak English, Thesa. Someone might hear
you!"

"There hasn't been anyone around this farm in months," Thesa replied,
lapsing into English. "But if you're getting particular, don't call me
Thesa."

Nick opened his eyes and blinked at them. It was the two watch dogs, the
blond and his sandy haired friend. The giant was grinning at him.

"Hello," he beamed. "Remember me?"

"No! Who in hell are you?" Nick struggled to get out of the chair he'd
been dumped in, but was pushed back firmly.

"When you didn't report, we went out to find you. The old guy at the gas
station covered up for you, so we had to watch Beth's house. Used all
kinds of tricks, Lors. Why in the blue heaven didn't you make contact?"

"You're Narvi!" Nick stared with wide eyes. "You're the man in the
dream!"

"Dream? Say, what's wrong with you, Lors? You refuse to report, you take
pot shots at us... That crash was a bad thing; don't tell me your
head..."

"Narvi," Thesa put in quickly. "The crash! He was lucky to get out of it
alive. Maybe he can't remember what went on. That right, Lors?"

Nick stared at them and foggy pictures swung vaguely into his mind.
Galaxies of stars whirled about, silver ships streaking in the sky and
tiny points of light whipping across ochre deserts. Men in blue uniforms
drilling beneath a violet sky in the heat of a solar wafer splotched
above them. It was real! The fears he had had, the crazy alternative
that the dreams presented to him ... it was all real.

"It wasn't a dream," Nick muttered, shaking his head like a punch-drunk
fighter. "I really am Firstspacer Lors! And I know you! I know you!"

"Take it easy, boy," Narvi said softly. "You've had a bad time. I might
have known you _couldn't_ report to us. Thesa, get some water! He looks
as though he's going to pass out!"

"I'm all right, I'm all right." He looked at Narvi and the memories, at
least a few of them, came fluttering into place. The temporary amnesia
slipped aside and the veil began to rise.

"You're sure you're all right, Lors?"

"Yes, Narvi. Things are beginning to make sense. Tell me about what I'm
doing here."

Narvi cursed angrily. "Commander Imry, the stupid thistlebug! It's all
his fault! All this fouled up thing is his doing. It would have been bad
enough even without your ship crashing; that just added to it. Luckily,
Imry has been ordered back. Someone back home heard of his idiotic plan
and the government is yelling for his hide."

"What plan? I ... can't..."

Thesa came in with a glass of water and handed it to Lors, who sipped at
it slowly while the big blond explained things to him. While Narvi
talked, it all began to come into sharp focus in his mind.

"After you and I finished campaigning on Darkkan and Thista, we applied
for assignment in this galaxy. They wanted to split us up, at first,"
Narvi grinned, "but we got mad, so they left us together and we were
shipped here under old Commander Imry. After a couple of years, Terran
time, studying on Mars we became agents on this planet. I got an easy
one here with Thesa, but Imry had bigger plans for you. Damn him!"

"But why are we spying on these people, Narvi? For war?"

"I hope not. The Terrans are getting close to space travel, and you know
what that would do to our colonies in this galaxy. They're entering a
primitive Atomic civilization and they're like little children playing
with weapons. Oh, they're serious enough, but they're so damned careless
they're likely to ruin the planet in atomic wars..."

"Sounds like the ancient history of our own planet," Lors said softly.
The memories were coming in faster now.

"True. And you know what happened to us? Damned near lost the whole
planet. Anyhow, you know the other planets in this galaxy? Well, since
Terra has a life form like ours, we could use this place as a link in
the supply chain. That is our main purpose. Trade.

"But these people have a strange attitude. Why, if we would land a ship
now, they'd rip us to shreds before you knew it. These people fear what
they don't understand, and anything they can't understand they kill. So,
right now, we're sending agents, or spies, down here with instructions
to probe about. They're coming along rather well, getting out of the
trees, you might say; but we'll have to keep an eye on them for awhile
yet."

Lors finished the water. "But what has this got to do with Commander
Imry and me? Apparently I was to take the place of Nick Danson, but
why?"

"That was Imry. You see, many times our agents are handicapped by the
very lives they lead. In order to learn about people, one has to live
with them; when our agents do this, they have to get jobs and settle
down in one area. Imry picked Danson because he's a footloose artist who
paints illustrations for magazines. All he had to do was snatch Danson,
work a little plastic surgery on you and put you in Nick Danson's place.
You then, would not be confined and could roam all over the planet
without being questioned."

"That's crazy," Lors told him. "I couldn't take Danson's place for the
rest of my life. He was gambling on a hell of a lot."

Narvi grunted. "You're a good spacer, Lors. You follow orders, even when
they're dictated by a madman. When you left the ship, you _were_ Danson.
You were processed so beautifully that no one could tell the difference.
When you cracked up, a blow on the head, or something, must have created
a temporary amnesia and you thought you _were_ Danson. We certainly had
a time locating you. Anyhow, you're to go back to the ship as soon as
you can. The new commander wants to talk with you." Narvi grinned slyly.
"I imagine you'll want to talk to him too. It's Zark, our old friend
from Thista."

"Zark. Yes. I remember him." Lors stood up and paced the room in
thought. He remembered grey haired, friendly Zark, but more than that,
he remembered Commander Zark's beautiful, blond daughter, Jela. "I
remember a lot now, Narvi. It's too bad they didn't send him sooner.
Things wouldn't be so messed up."

"It's not so bad."

"No?"

"No. You'll probably be going back to the home planet now."

"I can't go back," Lors mused. "I have to stay and see this through.
It's personal, now."

"Personal?" Narvi was clearly puzzled. "What can be personal about a
Spacer and an alien race?"

He looked at his friend levelly. "I can't leave this planet, Narvi,
because of Beth Danson. I'm in love with her."

"Love!" Narvi exploded.




CHAPTER TWELVE


In the heavy silence that followed, the two men stared at one another.
Lors regarded his friend with matter-of-fact calmness, but Narvi's mouth
was open in astonishment. The situation wasn't covered in the manual.

"Love," Narvi choked finally. "With an alien? You must be joking."

"I'm serious."

"That blow on the head must have been solid as a rock."

Thesa just stared, without speaking.

"Beth is a wonderful woman and I'm in love with her. If the blow on the
head did that ... well then, I'm glad the ship cracked up."

"But, Lors! She's an alien! It's like a farmer, falling in love with his
stock! It's crazy! You couldn't live on this planet the rest of your
life, and she couldn't live with you!"

Lors shrugged.

"What about Jela," Narvi demanded swiftly.

He didn't answer him. Memories of the blond woman with the trim ankles,
the slim waist and the large breasts floated back to him; memories of
the many evenings they'd shared walking along the sand under the stars.
He sat there fingering the thoughts as they rolled past, without feeling
anything. He was aware, finally, that Narvi was speaking to him.

"... know how you feel, Lors, but forget it. You could never work
anything out. Go on back to Jela and forget about this alien. It doesn't
matter how wonderful she is; probably nothing short of killing her
husband would gain her for you."

Lors smiled thinly. "We can do that, too." He paused and looked
thoughtful for a moment "What did Imry do with Danson?"

"Nothing. He lives better than most spacers. Since we are minus prisons
on starships, Imry installed him in your quarters, under guard, of
course. Commander Zark hasn't been able to figure out what to do with
him, yet. That's what he wants to talk to you about."

"Have you a scout ship here?" Lors asked.

"Certainly. We use them to make reports. The Terrans would pick up the
radio waves otherwise."

"How about a uniform?"

"You can borrow one of Thesa's. You'd never get into one of mine."

"Fine. As soon as I'm properly attired, we'll go see Zark." Grinning at
Narvi, Lors followed Thesa into the bedroom for the uniform.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, dressed in the uniform of a Firstspacer, Lors checked himself in
the mirror of the bedroom making certain that he was properly dressed.
Trousers bloused neatly into the black, half boots, the yellow stripes
perfectly aligned, the cuffs of the tunic fastened at his wrists and
throat, the emblems of the 8th. Terran Command on the collar, the patch
of rank on his left shoulder sleeve. Yes, he was all set. Precise.

He grinned at Thesa. "Feels good," he said.

The sandy haired spacer handed him the black leather belt containing the
auto-pistol and the cartridge belt. He buckled it on, feeling the
familiar weight drag at his right hip.

"Okay?" Thesa asked.

Lors nodded. "Thanks for the loan," he said and went out to where Narvi,
already dressed, awaited him.

"How's your head?" Narvi asked.

"Fine."

"Let's go, then."

They walked, wordlessly, out to the barn. The blond snapped on a small
light near the scout ship and Lors went up close to examine it.

"Climb in," Narvi invited. "I have to scan the area and make sure no one
will see the take-off."

Lors leaped to the cockpit and opened the plastic-dome; he dropped
lithely into the seat, his feet moving automatically to the rudder
pedals, his hands impatiently fingering the controls. So much was coming
back. So many remembrances with each second of time. He was _not_
Nicholas Howard Danson, and he had never been! He was Firstspacer Lors
of the 8th. Terran Command, and he felt his heart thrill to the
knowledge of who he was and where he was. It was slow, this strange
process of regaining his mind, but it was coming along. He would soon be
whole again, no longer some freak caught in the vortex between two
worlds.

"Ready?" Narvi asked, slipping into the seat beside him and pulling the
cockpit shield into place.

"Ready. Where's the starship?"

"Bearing 204.5, off-planet. We'll be there in no time."

The barn door swung open as Narvi started the scout ship and they moved
out into the night, hovering a foot off the barn floor until they were
outside.

Narvi conned the ship, working the verti-control expertly and the
little craft whistled upward at a gentle speed. The radar screen before
them disclosed no aircraft in the area. Narvi grinned at Lors and shoved
the speed control forward, working the elevators with his other hand and
the scout ship streaked into the night sky.

Home.

Lors, watching the screen, saw the oblong shape of the mother ship blurp
into view and called out its position to his friend. At once, Narvi
altered the course, whipping the scout ship onto a collision bearing.
When they were close enough, they used their signal and heard it
answered.

The ship slipped in easily as the port opened in the starship's side.
Narvi guided the craft in with tender hands and settled it gently on the
floor. A positioner hooked a line to the ship and pulled it quickly into
the repair bins. A light winked in the wall. The area was again
pressurized.

They climbed out and dropped to the floor as a crew of repair men went
to work on the ship. Narvi slapped Lors on the arm.

"I'm going below for a drink. Join Me?"

Lors shook his head. "No, thanks. I might be down a bit later, but right
now I'd best talk to the Commander."

"Right. Just don't tell him that you're thinking of jilting his only
daughter for an alien, or he'll turn four different shades of purple."

Lors grinned and watched the big blond stride away to the elevator that
would take him down to the bar on the first level. Then he walked off in
the opposite direction, heading toward the forward end of the ship
where he would find his "future" father-in-law, Commander Zark. Spacers,
in the gleaming halls, saluted him in the traditional manner - a hand
clasped to the hip that held their holstered auto-pistol - and it was a
good feeling. He had almost forgotten.

The Commander's guards stopped him outside the door, but when he
explained who he was and what he wanted, they nodded in unison. One of
them pressed a button which opened the door to the vestibule outside the
Commander's office.

Lors stepped inside and the door hummed shut behind him. The vestibule
was little more than a box-like room, containing a small visi-screen. He
pressed the small, black button at the base of the dark screen and kept
his finger on it while the lines waved.

"Firstspacer Lors to see the Commander," he said, as the rotund face of
his future father-in-law waved and blurred into focus.

"Come in, Lors! Come in!" Zark's voice was a bellow of pleasure.

The heavy door swung open and Lors stepped into the room to click his
heels and slap his right hand against the black holster before the
Commander's desk.

"Firstspacer Lors reporting, sir," he said, as Zark got up from the
chair and came toward him.

"Lors, Lors, my son! How are you?"

They grabbed each other by the shoulders and laughed like children.
Lors, despite his love for Beth Danson and the trouble that was
undoubtedly coming up, was happy as a Terran child at Christmas to see
the older man.

"Lors! Let me look at you! It's been eons since Thista! Jela's fair
dying to get her hands on you again." He winked at Lors. "And I imagine
you are, too."

"She's here?" A ray of panic touched him and he hoped that it didn't
show.

"Not that I know of, unless a ship came in. The last I heard, she was
waiting for a ship to take her off the base on Mars. She swears she'll
get you this time, or she's going back home to find an old mushshell
gatherer."

Lors laughed with Zark, who released him to pull a flask of wine from
his desk. As he poured two tumblers of the milk-white wine, he winked at
the young spacer.

"From the home planet," he grinned. "Mallowine. I'll wager you haven't
tasted it in a long time."

"Not since Thista," Lors assured him, accepting the tumbler. He held up
the glass for a toast. "To you, sir, and your daughter. May she be saved
from marrying a mushshell gatherer."

Commander Zark chuckled and they drank, the soft, mellow taste of the
wine lingering fondly in their mouths long after the drink had found its
way into their stomachs.

"Now then, Lors. Tell me what that fool of an Imry did to you."

He told the Commander everything, watching the older man nod his head
from time to time, the stubby fingers of his hands forming a pyramid
before his lips as he slumped in his chair. Lors left nothing out,
except his love for Beth Danson. He couldn't bring himself to tell about
that. When he had finished, Commander Zark's eyes were hot with angry
indignation.

"I'll see that Imry cannot get a command on a planet with a pure ammonia
atmosphere for this trick! I'll see him tortured by Thistians!" The old
man stopped his tirade as quickly as he had begun it. "You know what
this means, Lors?"

"I'm afraid to guess."

"The wrecked scout ship can be covered up easily enough because of the
Terran politics; they always arrange it so that one branch of government
has no idea of what the other branches are doing. We'll have some of our
men in Washington mumble in their beards about experimental aircraft
until everyone is taken from the scene except our people. Then we'll
have the ship taken somewhere, ostensibly to be studied, and they'll all
forget it.

"But these Terrans are another matter. If they can get their people to
listen to them, we're in trouble..."

"Perhaps," Lors said softly, "if they were believed, it would speed up
our relations with the Terran governments."

Zark shook his grey head. "No. They aren't ready yet. They're still in
such a fluctuating state that half the population believes in witchcraft
and superstition, while the other half understands science and looks
toward the future.

"Besides, Lors, others have tried those same tactics and were not
believed. To tell the truth, I'm not quite sure _what_ to do."

"We could continue the bluff."

The Commander's brows lifted. "You mean you continue as our agent down
there?"

"Yes, sir. The way it worked out, with the crash, it merely supported
the story I was to tell Danson's wife. I really did have temporary
amnesia. No one knows anything, except about the ship. Brice found
Danson's watch at the crash site, but we could work a little mental
trick on him and make him forget everything he knows, couldn't we?"

"It would be risky. You never know if that process will work until it is
tried. As much as I hate the thought, it would be best to kill both of
them and send you back to the Terran woman. After we had tried to bluff
out Imry's plan for a month, or so, we could arrange an accident for you
in which it would appear that you were dead - perhaps utilizing the real
Danson for the accident. Does the woman suspect anything?"

"I don't think so," Lors told him. "She seems too happy in having me
back, at the moment."

Zark smiled at him and clamped a hand to his shoulder. "You're tired, my
boy. Get some rest and we'll talk about this thing later. You can use
Firstspacer Thesa's quarters. Danson is in yours."

"And Brice?"

"Unconscious. In the hospital. The shock of what took place down there
has him recalling every old wives' tale about witches that he has ever
heard."

"All right, sir," Lors said smiling. "I'll get to my quarters, then.
Thank you."

"I'll send Jela to you, if she comes in."

"Thank you," Lors said, but felt shaken at the thought.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Outside, in the corridor, Lors nodded to the guards and began walking
toward Thesa's quarters. In his mind, now that he again _had_ a whole
mind, was the feeling of being trapped, the feeling of being caught in a
mesh-like web that was about to strangle him.

Perhaps they could patch things up on Terra, but the two Terrans would
have to die, or at least one - merely to gain him another month, or two,
with Beth. Was it worth it? In the long run, was it practical? Perhaps
he didn't really love the Terran woman - maybe it was just infatuation,
or gratitude, or even the result of long abstinence. If that was the
case, it would be brutal for them to kill the one man who could make her
happy.

Then, on the other hand, suppose his love was genuine. If he really
loved her, the coming accident which he was to stage would never come to
pass. He knew himself too well to believe that. He would take Beth and
run, get away into another country, change his name, his features...

He smiled to himself and remembered his training on Mars, and the
ability of the spacemen to reach out with a long arm to stop anything.
Anything! _We are the gods, he remembered. We are the gods who move with
lightning and speak in thunder. The Terrans are like so many cows that
need a watchful eye upon them at all times..._

Gods. Yes, in a manner of speaking, he decided that they were gods ...
but what did the book say about one of the minor gods being caught up
in a crazy thing like this? It had never happened before.

Without actually realizing it, he found himself standing at the door to
his own quarters. A single guard, armed with an auto-rifle stopped him
when he approached the door.

"I'm sorry, sir," the Spacer said. "You cannot enter here."

Danson was on the other side, he knew. Nicholas Danson, the artist, the
man with whom he had traded places. Suddenly he wanted to speak with the
man, find out about him. All at once, Danson was not just another Terran
- he was a man, with feelings, emotion...

"I'm Firstspacer Lors," he heard his voice rumble with authority. "I'd
like to speak with the Terran."

The guard stiffened. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know who you were."

"You will open the door, spacer?"

"Yes, sir, but you'd best leave your sidearm with me."

Lors nodded and pulled his auto-pistol from the black leather holster
and handed it to the guard who stuffed it into his belt. He reached back
and unlocked the door. As it swung open, Lors stepped inside.

The room was not large; it couldn't be very big on a starship, but it
was serviceable. There was a dresser and locker for uniforms, as well as
a visi-screen, a couch and a small bed. The Terran was lying on the bed,
reading.

Lors smiled at him. They could have been twins of the same mother, were
it not for the fact that Terran's disposition was different. He hadn't
shaved in a few days, and his black hair was tangled. Even the fatigue
uniform he wore was rumpled badly.

"Hello, Danson," Lors said, in English, and to his acute surprise, the
Terran answered in Lors' tongue.

"This mortal bids welcome to the great god, Lors," Danson said, with a
faint smirk.

"You speak my language?" Lors asked, puzzled.

"Why not? You speak mine. When they checked my brain, they found that I
had a rather high I.Q. Besides, I've read all your reading material and
decided that you have lousy taste. So I decided to learn the language,
and try to make conversation with my watch dogs."

"You are comfortable?"

Danson nodded. "Wonderful. First rate. Now that I know the language, I'm
going to get a deck of cards and teach my jailers how to play draw
poker. Then I'm going to win this starship and take it to Washington for
analysis."

"I didn't come here to jest."

Danson lit a cigarette and smiled thinly. "Why did you come here?"

"To see you. Are you well taken care of?"

"Certainly. They've hooked up my pint sized T.V. set so that I can look
at the earth. I've been to the Lunar Base ... terrific real estate. A
rock pile. Elaborate, but still a rock pile. I eat very well. I sleep
occasionally, except that I cannot get used to the total darkness, and I
have minor grievances ... like I want to get the hell out of here!" He
stood up suddenly and glared at Lors. "Am I happy! Am I content! Hell,
yes! I'm so goddam content I'm going stir crazy from it!

"I'm sick of the whole damned mess, Firstspacer Lors, plain downright
sick and..."

"Take it easy, Danson."

"Shut up! Shut your damned mouth because I'm not finished! Tell me, god,
have you ever been confined to a pint sized prison? You ever had your
brain picked clean by a flock of intellectual buzzards? You ever sat in
a room, with the walls closing in on you, listening to a couple of
blue-uniformed knotheads stand outside your door talking a babble of
language that sounded like Chinese, and not be able to speak to them?
Not be able to take a piss because you don't know how to find the toilet
and don't know how to ask where it is?

"Well, I have. I have and I'm up to my ears with this whole bit. I lie
here every night and dream about taking this so-called starship and
ramming it up your ass, plate by plate..."

Danson broke off suddenly, unable to continue his wild tirade. He sat
there on the edge of the bunk, his face a livid white, with the
cigarette dangling from his lips. His left eye closed against the bite
of the smoke and his jaws knotted as he stared at the wall.

"All finished," Lors demanded quietly.

Danson grunted. "Yeah. Yeah, ace, I'm all finished. In a way, I'm sorry
... but it felt good. I've wanted to get all that off my chest for a
long time."

"I can see your position, Danson," Lors told him. "I know what you've
been through, but I can't do anything about it. I follow orders."

Danson grinned. "Who're you trying to kid, pal. You got Commander Zark's
daughter eating out of the palm of your hand. Hell, I'll bet you pull
more strings around this ship than a puppeteer."

"I've underestimated you, Danson," Lors told him in a soft voice. "You
have an interesting mind. Quite a grasp."

Danson snorted again. "You guys aren't the sharpest people in the world.
I will give you a bit of advice, for free. You better either return me
to earth, or kill me. In another thirteen months, I'll figure out a way
to blow this hulk into a million pieces."

"I doubt that," Lors mused.

"Go ahead and doubt it, but you'd better keep the powder magazine under
double guard. And while you're at it, you better have the boys be
careful of what they say around me, since I know the lingo."

"How many Spacers have you talked to?" Lors asked. "How many of them
know how intelligent you are?"

Danson shrugged. "Why?"

"Just wondered."

Nick Danson looked at him narrowly. "You have something on your mind,
Lors?"

"Maybe. Right now, I'll keep it to myself. Until then, keep your mouth
shut about how smart you are. A weapon, Nick, is only useful when the
enemy doesn't know how well it will work. When they know, a
counter-weapon can be made." Lors moved to the door. "I'll be back,
probably," he said and went out into the corridor, leaving the Terran to
ponder on what he had said.

The guard snapped to attention, then handed Lors his auto-pistol. The
Firstspacer slipped it into the holster and snapped the flap. Then he
walked rapidly toward Firstspacer Thesa's quarters with the germ of an
idea filtering and dancing through his mind.

It wasn't a complete idea, but it certainly was a wild one. The chances
of its working were about a thousand to one, but if it did things might
work out.

He hoped so.

He reached the door of Thesa's quarters and jerked it open. His fingers
fumbled for the button, inside the door, that would switch on the
lighted walls. When he found it, he closed the door and flicked on the
lights. He stared at the inside of the room in amazement.

She was lying on the bed, with her golden hair falling about her
shoulders like a waterfall of sunlight, and her lips pulled back over
white teeth to smile at him. But he was stunned, frozen to the spot.

"Jela," he whispered, in shock.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN


For a moment, she didn't move and, in the silence, he allowed his eyes
to finger her.

Beneath the blond tumble of hair, her blue eyes watched him, her lips
toying with a bemused smile. She wore the odd toga-like dress that had
recently become popular among the women on the home planet; it was a
white color, trimmed in a pale blue that went well with her hair, but
Lors hardly noticed it. His eyes were fixed upon the twin lift of her
breasts as they fought against the material.

She swung her long, curved legs to the floor, a momentary flash of
creamy flesh showing at her thighs, and stood up. She came to him on
slippered feet, whispering against the floor and stopped before him, her
breasts faintly brushing the material of his tunic.

"I thought I'd never get here, darling." Her voice was soft and warm.
Sex, love and desire hung in her words; the emotion dripped from her
voice the way water falls from the roof of a cave, giving her tone a
throaty huskiness that started the blood racing in his veins. Yet she
held herself back, restrained her urge to fling herself into his arms.
It was a game with her, one she had always played. "Did you miss me?"
She asked.

He nodded, unable to trust his voice. It would crack, he knew it would.
He would be able to say nothing beyond a mere croak. Too much was
happening, too damned fast. It was almost impossible to keep up with it
all.

"Well," she mused. "I realize you're stunned to see me, but you ought to
kiss me. At least, that."

He reached out his hands slowly, feeling the tremble begin in his
fingers as he closed them over the softness of her upper arms. A drum
began pounding in his temples as he touched her, a flashflood ripped
through his veins, and his stomach churned like a storm. He brought his
mouth down slowly against hers and felt her lithe body flatten up
against him the way a candle melts against a sheet of hot metal.

Her mouth was a pliant sweetness that shoved all his thoughts of Terra
into the back of his mind; her body trembled against the lean hardness
of his in a shiver of passion. The very touch of her tongue against his
lips beat aside all the problems that swirled about his muddled mind and
awakened the desire and need that had lain dormant within him all this
time.

"Darling," she breathed, when he had pulled his mouth from hers. "Oh,
Lors..."

"Shhh."

There was no need for talking, no sense in it at all. Her body mashed up
against him and he allowed his hands to smooth down over the material of
her dress, along the curve of her spine to the twin globes of her
buttocks. Her mouth lifted to his again, eager, demanding, while her
fingers dug through his tunic and into his flesh with a sharp need that
thrilled him.

Her hand reached behind him, her fingers finding the light button and
suddenly the room was sheathed in the soft cloak of darkness. Only the
tiny nightlight gleamed like a small, yellow eye in the center of the
ceiling. She spoke to him, without removing her lips, her breath hot and
demanding against his mouth.

"I don't want to wait any longer, darling," she panted, "not another
minute."

His arms slid around her, lifting her at the shoulders and the thighs to
carry her to the bed, but she twisted away from him, whirling off into a
darkened corner of the room where the yellow light could not touch. He
could hear the sigh of the toga-like robe as she whipped it away from
her soft flesh. Then she stood there, before him, framed in the alluring
gold of the circle of light.

Lors felt his breath suck inward at the sight of her, standing there
nude. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered and he felt
shaken, to the very roots of his being.

The smooth curve of her shoulders glowed in the light and her face was
kissed by shadows. The arching lift of her breasts and the impassioned
nipples threw a wash of dark shadow downward over the flat of her
stomach and the lithe curve of her thighs. With the light covering the
beauty of her face, Jela lost her identity.

She was woman. Period.

Any and all, from time immemorial, or immoral, perhaps. She was somehow,
standing there, a composite of every woman who had ever drawn a breath.
She was the best of woman, the choicest parts of all women since the
dawn of time, suddenly thrown together in a high breasted, slim waisted
creation that was being offered to him, only to him.

And Lors?

It moved in him, churned through his guts like a forest fire. He was
man! All men, glaring with the red eyes of passion at all women. He too,
in the wash of lust that had swept over him, lost his identity and he
didn't give a damn. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that she
was waiting...

His fingers ripped away his clothing and he was at her side in no time
at all, his arms sliding about the pliant warmth of her flesh to clasp
her to him. To take her. To love her with a fever that was equal to the
challenge she presented.

She made a small sound and he hushed it with his mouth, planting his
lips roughly against hers while he lowered her to the bed. He hurt her,
but she didn't try to get away.

It was the kind of hurt she had waited for, that they both had yearned
for all the long months that had kept them apart. His hands closed over
her. Smoothing the tender flesh and feeling of life beneath his palm.

She moaned, tearing the sound from the very depths of her as his hands
smoothed the satiny texture of her thighs, his fingers working against
her flesh. He felt the nails of her hands digging into his shoulders,
but he paid no attention to it.

Nothing mattered now. Nothing except the warmth of their love and the
expenditure of the raging passions that threatened to engulf them both.

       *       *       *       *       *

They laid there for a long time, basking in the heat of their love, and
he knew. Finally he knew that it all would not work. There could be
nothing between him and the Terran woman. It was impossible. She could
not live in his worlds, nor could he live in hers. Jela was his world
and the past was merely an emotional thing. A moth and the flame.

Yet ... somehow, he _did_ love Beth. Somehow her and her life was
important to him. Her happiness was something that he had to assure. Had
to guarantee for her.

He had to work out a plan that would solve everything and return the
whole business to a state of normalcy. It would be difficult, if not
impossible, and he knew that Zark would never listen to him, never allow
him to carry it out.

But he had to do it.

There would be all kinds of risks and, if he failed in the thing, he
might have to pay with his life. If he managed to accomplish it, he
would get nothing as a reward, except perhaps the hand of the
Commander's daughter. That wasn't such a bad reward, though.

He kissed her and the fires began to burn again.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Lors finished dressing himself, buckling the black belt about his waist;
then he looked down at the still form of Zark's daughter, Jela, golden
in the light of the overhead bulb. She slept like a baby. He blew a kiss
to her and let his breath out in a rush.

"If everything goes right," he whispered, "I'll be back before you know
I'm gone. If not..." He let it hang there and checked the loads in the
auto-pistol.

Then he went out into the bright light of the corridor.

       *       *       *       *       *

The guard merely accepted his auto-pistol when he stopped at the door to
Danson's prison. Lors gave it to him and the spacer opened the door.
Nick Danson rubbed the beard on his face and grinned at him.

"Forget something, Firstspacer?" He asked.

When the door closed, Lors said: "Shut up."

Danson blinked.

"Sit down."

Danson sat.

"How badly do you want to get off this ship, Danson?"

"How badly do you want to make Commander?" Danson countered and lit a
cigarette.

"You willing to risk your life?"

"Why not? It isn't worth a hell of a lot anyhow."

Lors reached into Danson's shirt pocket, found the pack of cigarettes
and filched one. Nick touched a match to it and Lors dragged the smoke
into his lungs. He could see the Terran regarding him suspiciously.

"What's the play, Firstspacer?" Danson asked.

"You're dead, Nick," Lors said softly, "if you stay on this ship. That
can be either literally, or figuratively speaking, I don't know. It all
depends on Zark's plans for you."

Nick snorted, "Hell, Lors, it can't be any worse than whatever Imry had
cooked up for me."

"It'll be better. That I can assure you. Zark is a just man, but he
hasn't much feeling for Terrans..."

"Yeah, I know. The "god" theory."

Lors nodded.

"Well, look, Firstspacer," Danson said, snubbing out his cigarette.
"Your concern for my welfare touches me deeply, but I don't get it. How
come?"

Lors grinned. "I've been asking myself that same question, and while I
can get answers that make sense to me, I sincerely doubt if they'd make
sense to you.

"Why don't we just say I like you."

"That's rich, but I'll buy it. All I've got to lose is my chains..."

"And your memory."

"Come again?"

Lors sucked on the cigarette. "You can't talk about this thing to anyone
except your wife."

"Who'd believe me anyhow?"

"It's bigger than that, Danson. If you talk to anyone, I'll kill you."

"You don't make sense. Why not kill me now?"

Lors sighed. "Look, Commander Imry made a booboo, to use one of your
terms, and I got caught in the middle. This whole operation is fouled up
because of what he did. If we don't try to put things back, it's going
to be in a real tough light.

"For the first time in history, Terra is in possession of a scout ship
even though it is wrecked. Not only that, but they know it. They're hot
on the trail of us. And if enough Terrans get wise to us, we'll be in
trouble. You've read my diaries and journals. You know what it's like up
here. My planet needs Earth as a trade base, and if you people ever wake
up as a race, we'll be able to help each other a hell of a lot. Maybe
that's why I want to take you back to your wife. Is that good enough for
you?"

Danson nodded. "I guess so. I know enough about this situation to tell
that you're either on the level, or you're a damned convincing liar.
What's the plot?"

"The plot, as you put it, is to get you and Brice back to earth..."

"Brice? Nolan Brice? He's here?"

Lors nodded. "Brice found your watch where my scout ship cracked up and
guessed who I was before I did. I was hiding up at your cabin, trying to
figure things out when he decided to put a bullet into me. Both Beth and
I thought I was you and she was trying to help me figure out what I'd
been doing for thirteen months. Brice came in shooting and my people
kidnapped him."

"Great."

"In any event, I think I can get Brice to the scout ship. I'm going to
rely upon you to spring yourself out of here and get down to the hangar.
You'll pass for me easily. Okay?"

"How do I get past the guard?"

"I'll fix it. If I can't, I'll be back."

"Okay, Buck Rogers. It's your show."

Lors grinned at him. "Keep your fingers crossed," he said and went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I won't do it," Narvi said flatly. He lifted his glass and took a large
swallow of the drink to punctuate the sentence. "You've got to," Lors
insisted. "You know as well as I do, it's the only way to straighten
things out."

"You talk to Zark?"

"How can I tell him about it? What am I supposed to do? Tell him that I
love a Terran and want her to be happy?"

"Thunder and lightning! What's so important about Brice and Danson?
They're only Terrans. This woman you're so silly about will find someone
else. Lors, by the gods, if you take those two back they'll talk to
everyone they can get their hands on..."

"No they won't, not Danson. Narvi, that's the beauty of this whole plot.
Danson understands that our people simply want to begin trade
negotiations with Terra; he's learned to speak and read our language and
he knows how badly we want to trade with his people. He'll help us..."

"What about Brice," Narvi snorted.

"Brice can be handled by Danson. If that doesn't work, we can threaten
to do all sorts of things to him."

"And you want me to take the guard's place, outside Danson's quarters,
and give you time to steal a scout ship?"

"Yes."

Narvi cast his blue eyes toward the ceiling and groaned aloud. "If I
keep doing all these goofy things for you, I'll never make commander. I
won't even make Vice-commander."

Lors smiled. "Don't worry about it. If things work out, you'll have had
a hand in opening up a new planet for our trade rockets."

Narvi sighed. "All right. I'll do it, although I should have my head
examined by the ship's doctors."

Lors grinned at him and finished the last of his drink. "It'll work out,
Narvi, and you'll probably get a medal."

"A prison cell, likely," Narvi snorted, "on Thista."

Lors slapped him lightly on the arm and left the ship's wardroom. He had
a lot to do, and damned little time to do it in.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Lors left the wardroom and walked along the hollow, brightly lighted
corridors toward the hospital where Detective Nolan Brice was being kept
a prisoner. He would be the tough one of the two, because his mental
roots were still very close to the witchcraft believing parents who had
given him birth.

Brice was a Pennsylvanian; he was fairly intelligent, but like all
Pennsylvanians he had an unconscious closeness with tradition. He was of
the type who would stoutly deny he was superstitious, yet would refuse
to walk under a ladder. How would he react to Lors' proposal? Would he,
with typical Dutch stubbornness, tell him to go to hell, or would he
co-operate? It was a difficult thing to predict.

Lors shoved the door to the hospital open and grinned at the spacer
behind the desk. "You've a Terran here?" He asked.

The spacer nodded and laid down the sheets of paper he had been ruffling
as Lors came in. "Yes sir, we have one. He's in the care of Doctor
Zuloe."

"What are they doing to him?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I understand he was in a great state of shock when
he arrived. I would imagine they're giving him rehabilitative
treatment."

Lors grinned again. Apparently the method by which they had snatched the
detective had completely unnerved him. "I'd like to see him," he told
the spacer. "Where can I find Doctor Zuloe?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Only authorized personnel will be allowed to
interrogate him."

"I'm authorized, I believe. I captured him. I'm Lors."

The young spacer flushed. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know who you were."
He pointed to the door behind him. "You may go through there. Straight
down the corridor until you reach the fourth ward."

"Doctor Zuloe will be there?"

"I think so."

"Thank you."

Lors shoved the door open and walked down the long hall toward the
fourth ward, not quite sure in his mind how he could spring the Terran
from the hospital and get him down to where the scout ships were
hangared. But it had to be done. If he failed, and they all ended up
dead, or thrown into the penal colonies on Thista, the trade program
with Terra would be set back at least fifty years. All the ground they
had gained, all the knowledge and plans they had formulated, would be
useless. They would have to start from scratch.

The wrecked scout ship could be covered up, but the loss of Detective
Lieutenant Brice and Nicholas Danson would not go unnoticed, especially
when Beth Danson spilled her story about the strange events that had
gone on at the cabin. Of course, Terra would never be able to
corroborate what she had experienced - yet they were on the verge of
space travel, and they were a war-like race. They could cause all sorts
of unnecessary trouble in space.

It had to work. He had to get both of them back to the planet, even if
it meant stopping a slug from an auto-rifle to do it.

He reached the door to the fourth ward and went in to look for Doctor
Zuloe. The man wasn't hard to find; he was the only person in the small
anteroom.

"What can I do for you, Firstspacer?" He asked. "I'm Doctor Zuloe."

"I'm Lors."

For a moment, they stared at each other. The doctor was a middle-aged
man with a weathered skin stretched over a rather aquiline set of
features. His small, bird-like eyes were piercing in their study of
Lors' face. He smiled thinly and ran a hand through greying hair.

"Lors, huh? You the one who went down there?"

"I was in the accident. In a sense, I suppose I'm to blame for having
brought Brice up here."

"You know him?" Doctor Zuloe's eyes narrowed visibly.

"Yes. At least, I think I know him better than you people do."

"Then perhaps you can help us with him. When he arrived here, he was in
a state of acute shock in which he was almost violent. He kept screaming
about witchcraft and all sorts of Terran nonsense. We gave him as much
treatment as we could, under the circumstances, and he stopped acting
like a wildman."

"How is he now?"

"Numb. He's sitting on his bed, in a special room, and staring at the
wall."

"He isn't out of his mind, is he?"

"I don't think so, but he has had a tremendous strain and shock. It'll
take awhile. He isn't of the same structure as the other one."

Lors sighed wearily. "I'll see what I can do with him. Commander Zark
has plans for him."

"Another switch?" The doctor made no attempt to cover his disgust over
the idea.

"An accident, I believe."

"From bad to worse, huh?"

Lors didn't answer him. He merely made a motion with his hand for the
doctor to show him where the Terran was being kept. Doctor Zuloe nodded
and pointed toward a door at the far end of the ward. A blue uniformed
spacer stood guard before the door. He clicked his heels as Lors
approached.

"I want to see the Terran, spacer," Lors said briskly.

The spacer nodded and opened the door. Lors stepped inside and listened
to the lock click into place behind him.

Nolan Brice was seated on the edge of the bed staring at the wall, but
Lors did not believe that he was in a state of shock. He had the knotted
jaws of a man who is firmly determined to betray nothing to his captors.
He sat there with his fingers laced together, hanging between his knees,
his clothing rumpled and hanging loose from his broad frame.

"Nolan?"

Brice swung his eyes to the Firstspacer, the muscles of his jaws
working. "I'll kill you," he said, with a horrible softness in his
voice.

"Nolan. Listen, I'm here to help you."

"You've done a lot of helping, spaceman. I know what you want. Earth."

"Don't be silly. I want to help you and Danson to get back home..."

"I don't need you!"

"Shut up and listen. I'm risking my neck coming in here to help you, so
you damned well better follow orders. In a minute I'm going to call that
guard in here, and we're going to borrow his uniform. Then we'll head
for a scout ship and get you to hell back to Terra. Will that suit
you?"

"This is some kind of trick..."

"Do you want to go, or stay here," Lors demanded coldly. "I don't have
time to lecture you. I'll leave that up to your friend, Danson."

"Play it your way, spaceman," Brice said tightly.

"Okay." Lors stood up and spoke through the door to the guard, pulling
his auto-pistol from the holster. "Come in here, spacer!"

The guard shoved the door open and came in. "What is it, Firstspacer?"

"Him."

The guard swung to look at Brice and, as his head turned, Lors brought
the butt of the pistol down hard. The guard grunted and dropped heavily
to the floor, his auto-rifle falling with a loud thud. By now, if
everything was working out right, Danson should be on his way to the
scout ship hangar. Lors looked at Brice.

"Come on, Nolan. Get into these clothes!"

Between the two of them, the stripping of the guard was fast. In a few
minutes, Brice was wearing the spacer's blue uniform and was buckling
the black cartridge belt about his waist. He gripped the auto-rifle in
his hands eagerly and looked at Lors.

"Hand me his helmet," he said.

Lors picked it up and straightened to hand it to the Terran. Lors saw
the punch coming, but surprise prevented him from making any move in his
defense. Nolan Brice's fist smashed into the side of his face with
stunning shock and he flew backwards onto the bed.

"Thanks," he heard Brice snarl.

Lors rolled off the bed and onto the floor, the force of the punch
making his head reel. He heard the door to the room close and the sound
of Brice's running feet outside as he staggered to his feet. You damned
fool, he thought. You can't get off this ship alone!

He started running after the Terran, drawing his pistol as he ran...




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Lors dashed down the hallway into the main corridor, passing the limp
body of the doctor and the young spacer who had been on duty at the
desk. Apparently, Brice had come into the place fast, swinging the
auto-rifle like it was a club. Both of the men were unconscious, but
there was no blood in sight.

"Crazy fool," Lors said aloud and slammed the door as he dashed into the
corridor.

Brice was running blindly.

"Brice! Stop!" Lors fired the auto-pistol over the fleeing man's head.

Brice stopped and whirled, dropping to one knee to bring up the rifle he
carried. He snapped off a fast burst and Lors dived across the polished
corridor to hug the wall. He landed, rolling, his pistol zeroed on the
Terran, but he couldn't bring himself to shoot.

Nolan Brice, however, had no scruples about shooting at Lors. He fired
continually, cursing as the bullets missed. Beyond the Terran, Lors
could see four other spacers running down the hall toward Brice. One of
them fired.

Brice whirled, spotted them, and brought up his rifle. The gunfire, in
the emptiness of the hall, sounded like a machinegun being fired in a
cave. Lors saw a spacer slam backwards, rolling crazily from the impact
of the bullet that Brice had triggered.

The Terran was hunched over in a crouch, like an old gunfighter,
shooting from the hip. Suddenly he jerked to his feet, spun crazily in
two directions at once and fell flopping to the floor. The auto-rifle
clattered as he let it fall.

Lors came slowly to his feet and shoved his gun back into its holster;
then he walked over to where Brice was staring at the ceiling through
unseeing eyes. It was a damned shame, but he had brought it on himself.
One of the spacers looked at him.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Lors nodded.

"Is he a spacer?" One of them asked, looking at the uniform.

"An escaped Terran," Lors said, then he remembered that Danson was
probably down at the hangar. "Don't jettison this body until I give you
the orders. Put it in quick freeze."

"Yes, sir," the spacer said.

But Lors was already on his way down the corridor. He could do nothing
for Brice now ... perhaps it had even been a good thing. The shooting
would have drawn most of the high ranking officers toward the end of the
ship, leaving a comparatively clear space between him and the hangar. He
hoped that the doctor would stay out for awhile.

As the Terrans said, they weren't out of the woods yet.

He found a vacant elevator and took it down to the hangar level. As the
door whirled open, he raced into the corridor, nearly upsetting a
startled spacer with his rush. He had no idea how long it would be until
it was discovered that Narvi had let Danson out, but he knew the escape
would not remain unnoticed for long.

He burst into the repair bin area of the hangar and jerked his head
toward the tubes. When a ship came into the side of the mother-ship,
they entered through a large port which made it easier for the pilot of
the scout ship. But to leave the starship, one had to install the
smaller craft into one of the many blast tubes on either side of the big
hangar.

He looked frantically about the area for Danson and spotted the Terran
standing unobtrusively near the pilot entry to one of the blast tubes.
Nick Danson, garbed in the blue and yellow of a Firstspacer, was a twin
for Lors. He hoped anxiously that none of the repairmen would notice the
trick.

Lors grabbed a mechanic by the arm. "Spacer! I'm on an urgent mission.
Where can I get a ship?"

The young spacer looked thoughtful for a moment, then pointed toward a
tube on the other side of the hangar. "In that tube, sir."

"Thank you."

"I'll help you rig it," the spacer said.

"Never mind, I'll do it myself. Go about your work."

"Yes, sir." The spacer turned away, a puzzled look on his face.

Lors motioned to Danson and headed toward the tube door. He could well
understand the spacer's bewilderment. While it was possible for the
pilot of a scout ship to launch his own craft, it was highly impractical
and not normally done. He hoped it didn't arouse their suspicions. He
yanked the door open and looked over his shoulder. Danson was almost to
him, running hard. Heads turned as the mechanics watched him run.

"Hurry!"

Danson reached the door and Lors shoved him into the tube.

"Where's Brice," Danson demanded.

Lors slammed the door and whirled the wheel of the spider lock. He
didn't answer. He was too concerned with getting the door secured.
Through the port in the heavy door, he could see spacers gesturing and
pointing at the blast tube.

"Where's Brice!"

"He's dead." Lors secured the wheel and noticed that a Vice-commander
had come into the hangar area. "Get in the ship! Fast!"

Outside, the hanger workers were milling about like a fleet of bees.
Lors turned to Danson and saw him standing beside the ship, his eyes
wild with disbelief.

"Get in the ship!"

"Not without Brice!"

Lors exploded in his native tongue. "Get in that ship, Danson! How long
do you think it'll be before they come in the emergency door?"

Nick's eyes were wide and violent. "I'm not leaving Nolan up here,
goddammit! Get out of my way!"

Lors shoved the Terran as he came in and watched him backpedal into the
side of the scout ship. Danson muttered a curse and dived at the
spaceman. Lors had no choice in the matter. He swung hard, Terran style,
in what had come to be known as the "ole one-two." His left fist dug
into Nick's stomach and, when he bent with the blow, Lors brought his
right fist up from the floor and felt it smash into Danson's face. The
Terran slammed backwards against the ship, his head striking the metal
sides. He crumpled into an unconscious blue mound beside the ship.

He wasted no time. Casting a glance at the lifeless panel that was the
emergency door at the far end of the blast tube, he grabbed Danson under
the arms and hauled him up the short ladder to the cockpit of the ship.
If they came through that emergency door, he was finished. He could not
push the button in the wall that would open the huge port in the side of
the starship.

They would die if he did!

It would be one thing, to free an alien, but to intentionally kill
members of his own race would mean disaster. Thirty seconds after he
pushed the wall button, would open the port at the end of the tube and
send the void of space rushing into the chamber. Anyone who did not have
adequate pressurization would be a fond memory.

He stuffed Danson's body into the cockpit seat and buckled the strap
about him. Lors left the cockpit canopy open and leaped to the floor of
the tube. How long do I have? A minute? Two? Keep them outside, he
pleaded, and dived for the button.

"Lors!"

The shout echoed hollowly in the tube. He glanced toward the door and
saw three mechanics inside the tube. Thunder and lightning! One second
after he had slammed the button and all the doors would have locked
automatically and the port would have opened.

Panicked by the sight of them, he whipped out his pistol and fired. In
the tube, the weapon sounded like a firecracker going off in a steel
drum. The unarmed mechanics stopped dead, whirled and ducked back
through the door. In another four seconds, the armed guards would show
up.

Lors shoved the weapon back into the holster and slammed his hand
against the button. It would lock them out now! He had his thirty
seconds now. He dived for the ship, dropped into the cockpit and slammed
the canopy forward, twisting the lock into place.

His fingers moved over the controls and the engines whined into life as
the port opened before him. He was on his way! He revved the engines
impatiently as the big door rolled away and the stars burned in at him.
Then he shoved the speed control forward and the scout ship surged out
into the blackness of space. His feet kicked at the pedals and his hands
worked the stick. The scout ship rolled over and streaked toward the
lighted ball of the earth.

He turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the mother-ship. Tiny
flashes of brilliant light speared from the starship. They lifted,
fluttered and followed him like a swarm of bees.

They were giving chase!




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


He had thought there would be a pursuit. He kicked at the rudder pedals
and threw the stick; the scout ship rolled over and plunged toward the
ice cap at the north pole of the planet. At 16,000 m.p.h., the rocket
was little more than a guided missile and he knew that when he reached
the ice cap, he'd have to throttle back - but then so would his
pursuers.

Beside him, on the seat, Nick Danson's head rolled from side to side as
the ship streaked toward the earth. The four scout ships were fanned out
behind him and trying to close, yet he was holding them at bay with a
mere 16,500 m.p.h. He wished frantically that he could have figured out
a way to stymie the chase, but starships were not built to be sabotaged.
The designers had done a damned good job on them, fitting them with
every device known to prevent crippling, or damaging by the enemy,
whoever it may be.

The four ships were hanging on him.

I've got to lose them, he thought feverishly. I've got to lose them long
enough to get Danson back to the cabin and get the hell out again. After
that, they can have me. But not now. He looked behind him, trying to
determine whether or not they were getting set to fire on him.

They didn't look it, but he couldn't tell. Weapons were not a scout
ship's strong point. Each ship was armed with a large rocket launcher,
but it was seldom used. Speed was the greatest weapon they needed and
the military designers of the home planet had poured all their energy
into the fast maneuvering of the craft.

The heavy caps of ice that covered the continent of Greenland loomed up
before him and he hoped that he could lose them in the white wilderness.
He would have to throttle back when he reached the jagged waste of ice,
but then so would the four behind him. They saw what he was attempting,
and poured all the power they could into their ships.

Lors flattened the ship out in a shallow dive and pushed the throttle
control until it stopped. The needle on the airspeed indicator leaped
violently. 24,000 m.p.h. The ice rose against the windshield swiftly.
One of the scout ships closed and fired a rocket.

He kicked at the rudder pedal and threw the ship to the left. The scout
ship responded like a nervous horse and fluttered away as the rocket
burned and arced beneath the underbelly.

He pulled the throttle control back, cutting the speed of the ship and
shoving on the rudder as he hauled at the stick. The maneuver was too
fast for the ships behind him. They tore past him in silver flashes,
trying to correct their error. He streaked off toward the Azores
Islands, slicing into the atmosphere viciously, while he watched the
other ships whirling off to come back at him. They would soon have to
break radio silence, or they would never get him. It was almost
impossible to close on a quarry at these speeds, unless each man knew
what his buddy was doing.

At 15,000 miles per hour, a micro-second of delay before acting, could
slam two ships together with a violence that would atomize everything.
Still they refused to make radio contact with each other.

Lors watched them coming back at him, minute silver specks on the radar
sweep. He shoved the stick forward and dived for the ocean in a shallow
plunge. He had the biggest advantage, in that they had to anticipate
_his_ moves, in order to get him into their sights. One of them got him
in his sights and fired.

He watched the rocket spearing toward his ship and slammed the stick
over to the right. The discus-like scout ship flipped over in a slow
roll, the rocket barely missing the ship. Lors felt a little sick. He
eased the throttle back, flattening the ship out not fifty feet above
the water of the Atlantic Ocean. Then he shoved the throttle to the wall
and raced north.

The Scout ship speed indicator swung crazily and stopped at 24,500
m.p.h. Behind him, the other four were firewalling their throttles just
to keep within range. They couldn't possibly fire at him, because going
away at speeds like they were using, he could outrun any rocket made.
Not only was that in his favor, but should one of them fire, they would
fly into their own weapon.

He glanced at Danson. Nick had awakened and was staring wide eyed at the
ocean that was spinning past them as they streaked north. Then Nick's
mouth opened and Lors looked ahead. They were almost on the freighter!

Lors lifted the ship and whipped over the spars of the ship in a rush
that had probably broken lines and smashed windows all over the vessel.
Behind him, the others were streaking over the ship and Lors could
imagine the terrified crew-members who had probably been knocked flat
by the wash from the scout ships.

Danson had fainted.

Ahead of him was a heavy cloud cover. He streaked for it, with his four
buddies in hot pursuit. He hit the cloud cover and began dodging
recklessly through it, changing his course constantly to throw his
pursuers off. He burst out on the far side of the bank of clouds and
couldn't see the other four ships. He streaked for the cabin in the
mountain country of Pennsylvania, with Danson still out.

Lors throttled back and hovered over the cabin. It was deserted. In the
sunlight, it looked like a child's toy house in a miniature clearing. He
settled the ship in another small clearing, in the woods beyond the
house and shut off the engines. He threw back the canopy and removed the
belt from around Danson.

He slung the Terran over his shoulder and headed for the cabin. Still
nothing moved about the place. Lors breathed a sigh of relief. All he
had to do now, was dump Danson and get out. Nick could tell his wife
everything and get things straightened out. Brice could be reported as
missing in the woods and the wrecked scout ship could be covered up by
the men in Washington.

He eased his way into the house and flopped Danson's unconscious body on
the couch. He had started to pull off Danson's borrowed uniform when he
heard the footstep. He whirled about!

Beth!




CHAPTER NINETEEN


She stood there for a moment and stared at the two of them, and he could
see from her face that she was not sure which one was her husband. Lors
came to his feet and looked at her, not quite sure what to say or do.

"Beth..."

"Don't explain, Lors," she told him. Her voice was as calm and as
unruffled as though she found men from outer space in the cabin every
afternoon.

"I brought him back," Lors began and felt silly. He wondered vaguely how
she had known about him and his being a spaceman.

She came into the room and up to where he stood, her eyes boring into
his. "Why did you bring him back? You could have come back by yourself
and continued the whole thing."

The realization of her words dawned upon him slowly and he blinked. "You
_know_ about me? How..."

"I'll tell you later. Why did you bring him back?"

"You want him, don't you? It couldn't work out. Any fool can see that."
He reached out and gripped her shoulders firmly. "It wasn't supposed to
happen this way, Beth. It was all supposed to go like clockwork; we
never figured on the scout ship being wrecked, and I never figured on
falling in love with you..."

"That's why you brought him back? Because you love me?"

He nodded, trying vainly to brush aside the trembling emotion that
lifted within him at the touch of her flesh. It was a weird feeling.

"I thought about taking his place, Beth. I thought about it - but I knew
it wouldn't work. It was a half crazy thing in the beginning. I ... I'm
sorry."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Don't be. I'm not the least bit
sorry, but I'm glad I know the truth. Now it doesn't seem so ridiculous
- Brice disappearing into thin air." She looked about the room. "Where
is he?"

"Dead."

"Dead?" Her eyes widened.

Lors nodded. "I brought your husband back against my Commander's orders.
When I tried to get Brice out of the hospital, he went berserk and began
shooting things up. One of the spacers killed him."

"Poor Nolan," she whispered and he could see the tears welling in her
eyes. Then she looked at him sharply. "You acted against orders?"

He nodded again.

"What will happen to you?"

"Nothing. It'll all come out all right. But, Beth, how did you know? Who
told you about this?"

"I did."

Lors whirled about, his eyes swinging against those of the husky blond
in the dress suit who stood in the doorway of the cabin. Automatically,
his hand dropped toward the pistol at his side, but the blond stopped
him.

"Don't bother with that, Lors," he grinned. "I'm not about to draw."

"Who are you," Lors demanded.

"Here, I'm Cartwell, of the Secret Service. But actually I'm
Firstspacer Nesso of the 6th. Terran Command."

"You told her?" Lors asked, amazed.

The blond nodded. "I had to. I came here to check on Brice and found her
ready to call the police because first Nolan had disappeared and then
you had. I had to think of something to keep her quiet, and the only
thing I could think of was the truth. I'm a lousy agent," he added
grinning.

Lors nodded and bit his lower lip. "How do things stand now?" He asked.

"Not too bad," Cartwell told him. "I've made arrangements to have the
wrecked ship hauled out of the area for study. This will be hush-hush
for awhile, then left to dissolve of itself. Everyone will forget it..."

"What about Brice?"

Cartwell pursed his lips. "That was a rough break, but unavoidable. We
can cover up by saying that he was searching the wooded area with the
rescue squads and apparently became lost. After searching and finding
nothing, we can let the people draw their own conclusions."

"Risky," Lors told him.

"It'll work, unless you have a better idea."

Lors shook his head. "You can handle things down here, Cartwell. I have
my own problems up there." He pointed at the ceiling to indicate the
starship. "And I'd better get Danson's uniform off and move."

Beth caught has arm. "Let him keep it, Lors. It won't get into the wrong
hands. I promise."

Lors looked at Cartwell, who nodded. "Let them have it," he said.
"They're on our side anyhow."

"All right." He paused. "I'll be going..."

Beth linked her arm in his. "I'd like to walk to the ship with you."

"I'd like that."

He grinned at Cartwell and led her outside into the afternoon sunlight.
They didn't speak until they reached the small clearing where the scout
ship waited for them. Then Beth pulled his head down and kissed him.

"Good-by, Lors," she whispered.

"I'll come back, Beth, I'll come back. One of these days both our people
will be friends and we'll meet again."

"I hope so."

He glanced up at the sky and saw two of the scout ships flashing about,
high above the clouds. "My escort," he told her grinning.

"You'll have trouble..."

He kissed her lightly on the mouth. "No. I'll marry the Commander's
daughter and it'll all be okay."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Yes." He caught the sudden flash of womanly hurt rise in her eyes and
smiled. "Almost as beautiful as you."

He kissed her lightly again and leaped to the cockpit of the scout ship.
He motioned her away from the blast area and eased the ship up above the
trees. She waved to him and looked very small among the trees. He lifted
a hand to her, then swung the ship upward, slamming the throttle forward
to head back to the starship.

And Jela.


  THE END




    Transcriber's note: Punctuation preserved as originally printed.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Sex Life of the Gods, by Michael Knerr

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40284 ***