by Rachel Ford
“That’s right. Well-” Her eyes were sparkling, and she turned to her purse. Producing a printout, she said, “-I got my hands on a set. Someone was selling them online – he couldn’t make the Thursday showing – so I scooped ‘em up.”
“Oh. Well, uh, congratulations.” Comic book movies were only just more interesting, in Alfred’s mind, than romantic comedies: about two steps up from absolute brain death. But Nancy loved them.
“He was selling them as a pair, though, so I had to buy both.”
He nodded. He was trying to show interest for her sake, but he’d been holding back on his own news since he’d walked in. And it was certainly more interesting than a superhero movie.
“Not sure what I’m going to do with the other yet,” Nancy finished.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But, hey, Nance, I’ve got something that you’re going to want to hear.”
“Oh.” Her brow creased as she returned the paper to her purse. “Okay. Uh, what’s up?”
“You remember that L-L-C I was investigating?”
“Um, remind me again?”
“The one in Sand Plains.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “The UFO place, in Nevada.”
“Yeah: Landing Site Earth.”
“What about them?”
“I told you how they always file a net loss, or just break even? Well I pulled the financials on comparable enterprises along three-seventy-five.” Known as the Extraterrestrial Highway, Nevada Highway 375 was a stretch of state highway littered in extraterrestrial shops, museums and tourist traps. “These people make big money, Nance. I mean, big money. And L-S-E is always in the red, or just barely in the clear.” He shook his head. “No way. They’ve got a gift shop, a café, a museum. And they’ve been in business since the fifties. It was one of the early ones to open its doors. Look at these numbers.”
Here, he produced a printed spreadsheet with decades worth of tax data summaries. He pointed to the top of the list. “Here’s their filings prior to becoming an L-L-C.” He moved his finger down the sheet. “And here’s after. Numbers are about the same. But there’s no way they stayed in business all these years making this kind of money.”
Nancy examined the sheet, then nodded. “It does seem unlikely. You’d have to be pretty determined to keep pouring money into a business doing that badly.”
Alfred scoffed. “Insane, more like.” Then, he reconsidered his word choice. “More insane than you’d have to be to open an alien shop in the first place, I mean.”
Her eyes were still fixed on the paper. “So, you think they’re up to something?”
“Oh, no question of it. I’m talking to Caspersen today. I want to head down there to see what kind of traffic they get, scope the place out before we start looking at who else we have to involve. But mark my words, Nance. They’re either a front for something illegal – drug trafficking, the mob; who knows – or they’re seriously undercutting Uncle Sam. And, either way, I am going to bring them to justice.”
She smiled now, and there was just enough admiration mixed with the amusement to make him preen a little. “Well,” she said, “if they are up to no good, they’re about to have a very bad day.”
Director Caspersen wasn’t quite so easily convinced, but after perusing more of Alfred’s files, she nodded. “Alright,” she said. “You do seem to be onto something. Have you pulled all the financials on the owners?”
“Everything I can get my hands on,” Alfred nodded. “But that’s the thing. They report minimal income too. The son, Mike Cassidy, collects disability from his time in the service.”
“In the service?”
“Navy.”
“Okay.”
“And the parents – Martha and John – get Social Security.”
“Still,” the director said, “that’s enough, in theory, to live on. They could just be lousy businesspeople.”
Alfred shook his head. “No. The numbers don’t add up, and no one’s that stupid. Besides, I got a hunch on this one.”
Caspersen considered for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Your hunches usually pan out.”
Alfred fought the urge to challenge her use of usually: his hunches always panned out. Still, she seemed about to give in, and he didn’t want to push his luck.
“So I’m going to authorize it. I want a plan on my desk before you leave, though, of exactly what you’re looking for, and a summary of your justifications.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And Alfred?”
“Yes?”
“You’re an analyst. Not a cop. Remember that.”
He frowned. “Of course.”
“If this is some kind of front for a cartel, this is no time to be a hero. Once you make sure the place isn’t shuttered, that they’re actually getting the traffic and sales you expect, get out. If we need to call in the guns, we can; but that’s not you.”
His brow creased further, but he said, “Understood.”
He didn’t understand, of course, and he was contemplating his boss’s words as he walked back to his desk. He was, he thought, the soul of discretion. When had he ever charged in blindly or acted without thinking something through? Other than the Futureprise incident. Granted, he might have thought a little longer before taking the plunge sixty-seven million years into the past. But Caspersen didn’t know the details of that one.
He had just convinced himself that her cautions were entirely uncalled for when he passed Justin Lyon’s office. Justin was another senior analyst like himself, around the same age – somewhere in his mid-thirties. But unlike himself, Lyon tended to be eccentric and a bit overbearing. Still, they’d worked together for many years, and their shared pursuit of justice put them on somewhat friendly terms.
“Freddie,” Justin called.
Not that friendly, though. He didn’t do nicknames, as he’d reminded his colleague many times. “It’s Alfred,” he grimaced.
“Getting to your desk at eight thirty? Running a little late, are we?” Justin grinned. “How’s Nancy doing, then?”
“I was talking to Caspersen,” Alfred said. This was technically true, and he felt no compunction in hiding the fact that he’d stopped by Nancy’s office first. “Not that it’s your business.” He wasn’t counting, of course, but he’d come in long before Lyon was in his office; as usual.
Justin just laughed, though. “This that little green man shop you were on about the other week?”
“Landing Site Earth. That’s right.”
“Ah. So, she give you the go-ahead? You off to persecute a bunch of crackpots?”
Alfred was frowning. “I’m headed down there. Probably tomorrow.”
“Road trip to Crazyville.” Lyon shook his head, laughing. “Better you than me, man.”
Chapter Two
Alfred spent the trip wishing he’d been able to figure out a justification for Nancy to come with him. But convincing Director Caspersen that he needed a computer expert to scope out an alien artifacts museum and diner in a one-horse tourist town was beyond even his considerable powers of persuasion.
So he’d made the long journey in solitude. He liked to drive. He liked the open road and quiet stretches of countryside. He liked the emptiness, the feeling of being the only person for hundreds of miles.
But he missed Nancy, too. He’d headed out early to make Landing Site Earth by midday. That meant no trip to the office. That meant no stopping by Nancy’s desk.
He sighed at the thought of that. She’d texted him, just after eight. “Good luck down there by Area 51. And if you do get abducted, remember…don’t tell our extraterrestrial friends anything more than name, rank and serial number.” Then she’d sent an emoji, a smiling face with its tongue sticking out. It had brightened his morning, in a way he never would have assumed a cartoonish yellow face might have done.
But that was hours ago. Now, his coffee was gone, and the long road stretched out indefinitely. The minutes ticked by slowly, and the desert rolled past, fla
t and uninteresting.
It was just after noon when Sand Plains appeared on the horizon. It seemed a little blip among the sand, growing larger and larger – but never too large. A town with more shops than homes, it was the quintessential tourist trap. The alien theme just gave it a somewhat nuttier feel, Alfred thought, than most tourist towns.
There was a bed and bath by the edge of town, with a sign that hung between two wooden aliens. It read, “Our service is out of this world.” Just down the road was a garage called Joe’s Tows, its sign proudly boasting, “Quantum drive down? We’ll fix it!”
Even the post office, Alfred saw, was in on the madness. The tiny building’s lawn – a patch of mostly brown grass – sported flying saucer décor.
He found a spot to park, and reached for his phone. Bringing up Nancy’s texts, he tapped out, “I’m not sure if everyone here is insane, or if they’re just catering to the insane.”
An ellipsis chat bubble popped up to indicate that she was responding, and a few moments later a satisfying “LOL” appeared.
He smiled and set the phone down. Then, he scouted the stretch of road in front of him for Landing Site Earth. It was located near the far end of town. The café was situated on one side of the road, and the museum and gift shop across from it. The buildings were not inspiring. They looked to be cheaply constructed, with an eye for maximizing space and minimizing expense. Still, they were in good repair, and didn’t set off any immediate warning bells.
His stomach was growling, so he decided to start with the café. He paused as he entered. It was like stepping through a portal. Not a space portal, which, apparently, was the intended vibe, but a time portal – straight to the sixties.
Psychedelic colors and patterns assaulted his eyes from every direction, and he cringed. He considered leaving and trying to find provender somewhere less likely to trigger a migraine. But a peppy voice greeted him before he could make his escape. “Good afternoon and welcome to Landing Site Earth!”
Alfred turned toward the voice, and his eyes settled on a young woman wearing a smile that was completely unjustified by her surroundings. Still, he managed a reasonable façade of good humor. “Afternoon.”
“Just one today?”
He nodded, wishing – not for the last time – that Nancy was here, to suffer through this with him.
“Would you like a table or a booth?”
“Uh, either.”
She nodded. “This way, then. So, what brings you to Sand Plains?” She led him to a booth in the back, and he slipped onto the pleather seating.
“Research,” he said evasively.
She nodded, though. “We get a lot of ufologists here. We’re about as close as you can get to Area Fifty-One – without disappearing to a black site, I mean.” She laughed. “And our museum is the best along the Extraterrestrial Highway. We’ve got real artifacts. Stuff from Roswell, stuff from Dalnegorsk. The real deal.”
“Artifacts from outer space, you mean?”
“Absolutely. From downed UFOs, mostly. But there’s a few things – exclusives – we got from survivors.”
“Survivors?”
“Of abduction,” she nodded confidently. “They smuggled artifacts off the ships with them.”
“And you have them?”
“We do,” she said with pride in her tone. “We’ve got interviews too, taped interviews. You can watch them.” She shook her head. “It’ll blow your mind.”
Alfred rather doubted it. Their food certainly fell short of the mark. He ordered a late breakfast of eggs and flapjacks. The eggs were overcooked and the flapjacks under. His coffee tasted like it had been left over from the day before, and reheated. All things considered, the taxman felt it would be a win if he left the café without food poisoning.
Still, he tipped the waitress well and promised to visit the museum. The restaurant had been rather empty when he arrived, with a single couple occupying a table on the far end of the room, but people had started matriculating in soon after. By time he left, half of the seating was taken.
The parking lot reflected this change in situation, too. Glancing over at the museum, he saw that it was worse – he couldn’t see a single open spot – so he decided to leave the car where it was, and walk over. First, though, he grabbed his sunscreen.
Alfred’s abiding fear of skin cancer had made him quite fastidious on this score: he would never go anywhere outdoors without it. So he paused long enough to reapply the protectant, and then, checking in both directions twice, he crossed the road.
The museum’s windows were hung with signs that promised ominously, “The truth awaits” and “Discover the true story of the strangers among us!” Phrases like “just the facts” and “truth will prevail” were written in colorful letters on the glass, along with “FREE ADMISSION.”
Alfred grimaced. He was a firm believer that the more aggressive the marketing, the more skeptical the consumer should be. A good product spoke for itself. But bull manure needs a marching band. Well, the band was playing here.
He pushed the door open, and a bell dinged. The taxman blinked into the interior, giving his eyes a minute to adjust to the dimmer light.
“Howdy,” a voice called. A youngish man behind the counter was scrutinizing him. “You here for the one thirty tour?”
“Uh, yeah,” Alfred said. He wasn’t, but it sounded like a good idea. When in Rome…
“Good choice,” the young man said. “It’s the only way to get the full experience. Plus, you get access to our private collection.”
“Oh,” he managed. “Great.”
The attendant nodded. “That’ll be forty-five dollars.”
Alfred chafed at the fee, but recalled that it was all being expensed. “Sure,” he said, handing over the money.
“I’m Trent Warwick. I’ll be leading our group. There’s a couple of us already here.” He gestured to the rooms beyond, and the figures wandering through exhibits. “We’ll be starting in about ten, so if you want to just look around in the meantime, feel free. And, of course, we’ve got a souvenir counter over here.” He pointed to a set of displays laden with merchandise. “If you’re looking for something particular, you’ll want to check the gift shop. But we’ve got some cool stuff too.”
“Thanks,” Alfred lied, “I’ll check it out on the way out.” He’d wasted enough of Uncle Sam’s money already on this quackery; he didn’t need to sacrifice his own. He turned his steps toward the room beyond the entrance.
It looked much like any small-town museum might, with display cases full of unprepossessing trinkets and placards explaining their import. Alfred wandered around the room, throwing his gaze lazily here and there. There was a large display outlining the types of UFOs people had reported seeing, and this caught his attention. It was entitled, “Classes of Extraterrestrial Vessels.”
He studied the illustrations and grainy photographs, and the accompanying text. There were the flying saucers of popular imagination, but there were orbs and triangles and long, cylindrical craft too.
The bell sounded again, and a few more bodies entered. In a minute, Trent called, “Alright, if you’re here for the tour, let’s meet by the Roswell sign please. If you’re interested in the tour but haven’t paid yet, this is your last chance until two thirty.”
The tour ran about an hour, and Alfred was pretty sure he’d lost dozens of IQ points by time it concluded. Trent did a good job, he had to admit, of delivering his lines with a straight face. Whether he was talking about reports of UFO sightings from medieval peasants or detailing the testimony of so-called abduction victims, he spoke with an authority and certainty that the subject matter and his specious evidence did not legitimately grant.
His spiel was clever, too. He used every rhetorical trick and logical sleight of hand in the conman’s repertoire. Alfred was as impressed as he was repulsed.
“The first thing any honest examiner, no matter how skeptical, of the phenomena must acknowledge is that UFOs absolutely e
xist. Unidentified flying objects: that’s all it means, folks. It doesn’t mean aliens. It doesn’t mean alien abduction or little green men or unsolicited probing.” This last imagery, and his ridiculing tone, provoked a little laughter. “It just means there’s something flying around up there, and we don’t know what it is. It’s been happening for thousands of years, it’s still happening today.
“Now, that doesn’t mean we have to agree on the source of the phenomena. Maybe they’re extraterrestrials. Maybe they’re top secret government test flights. Maybe they’re all sorts of things. I’m not here to tell you what to believe.
“All I’m saying is, we know for an absolute fact that they exist. The ancients wrote about them. Europeans wrote about them in the middle ages. Scientists and pilots in the last hundred and fifty years have been telling us they’re out there.
“They are out there. They’re real. And anyone who tells you otherwise is simply not being honest.”
Now they moved to an interactive display board. Trent brought up a kind of slideshow, and stepped through it. “But don’t just take my word for it. Again, I’m not asking anyone to take anything on faith here. These are some of the most ironclad UFO sightings in history. It’s just a handful. Again, there are hundreds – thousands – of these stories. But it will give you an idea of what we’re dealing with.”
A black and white photo of a crisp-featured young man in military uniform appeared on the television. A few knowing murmurs rose from those around him, and Trent said, “This is Captain Thomas Mantell. A few of you recognize him already, but for those who don’t, Mantell was an American pilot. A decorated pilot; a seasoned pilot, with the Kentucky Air National Guard.
“On January seventh, 1948, Thomas Mantell died in pursuit of a UFO flying near the Ohio-Kentucky border.
“The report of the unidentified flying object first came from Kentucky highway patrol. It was spotted by multiple witnesses at Godman Field at Fort Knox, including the base commander, Colonel Guy Hix. It was spotted by folks at the army airfield in Clinton County, Ohio.”
Trent paused long enough to look over his attentive audience. “Now, we’re not talking kooks here. We’re talking about cops, career military men, normal, well-adjusted, sane people. They all saw this thing. They all attested to it afterwards. These aren’t crazy people looking for attention. This thing was there. That’s fact.
