by Jeff Sutton
"To live twenty thousand years?"
"It is and it isn't." She wet her lips thoughtfully. "I'm not certain I'd want to live that long," she finished.
"How can we know?" He gazed at her. "Perhaps if we could travel among the stars..." Caught with wonder, he let the words trail off.
"When you talk like that, I do feel like a primitive."
"He won't make you feel that way," he promised. He glanced toward the general store, dismayed at how fast the crowd was increasing. All the fields now were jammed with parked cars, and other vehicles lined the shoulders of the highway for a quarter of a mile in either direction.
"The television broadcast," murmured Linda.
"I guess so," he answered uneasily.
"Can he read their minds?"
"I don't know," he confessed. It struck him that he'd never asked Barlo the extent of his telepathic range or what its limitations might be. But if he could sense the mood of the crowd...The thought was perturbing.
"He might be frightened half to death," she whispered.
"We'd better hurry."
"Gramp is on the porch," she observed. As they drew closer to the house, she waved. Ruff ran out to meet them, wagging his stubby tail.
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"Looking for the gorilla fellow?" called Gramp. His seamed face held a sly look.
"Martians," Linda laughed. "Any little green men around?"
"Not recently," Gramp chortled. He lifted his eyes to the general store.
"Mighty exciting if there was one."
"Yeah," agreed Toby. Flushing guiltily, he looked away.
All at once he shivered.
Ruff barked, his hackles rising. Running to the end of the porch, Toby saw a large black-and-tan hound with pendulous ears scramble up from the wash that ran behind the barn. A file of horsemen followed. He recognized Carl
Cleator's thin figure. Linda hurried to his side.
"The vigilantes," she whispered.
"What is it?" demanded Gramp.
"The VACI," Toby blurted.
"Danged idiots."
Toby nodded violently, suddenly aware that the hound was sniffing its way toward the barn.
Cleator signaled his followers and spurred his horse after it. The black-clad riders fanned out, close behind the hound.
"Wait here," cried Toby. Dashing toward the barn to intercept the animal, he felt the tumultuous taste of fear. If the vigilantes discovered the alien, they might raise a hue and cry that would bring the whole mob storming over from the general store. Desperately he wished the sheriff had remained.
The hound caught sight of him and paused, its head lifted alertly.
Toby reached the barn and halted to face the oncoming riders. His arms and legs felt tremulous, and tiny fingers of ice raced up and down his spine.
He fought to stifle his nervousness. Ruff pranced in front of him, barking at the strange dog.
Cleator reined up sharply a dozen yards away and signaled his men to halt. His horse pawed at the ground before growing quiet.
"What do you want?" demanded Toby. His voice sounded shaky. At the same time he became aware that Linda had followed him, was now standing at his side.
"Those Commies came this way," rasped Cleator. "The hound picked up their tracks in the gully."
"That's crazy," he exclaimed. "It was tracking me. I came that way this morning."
"Is that so?"
"I was rock hunting in the hills."
Cleator smiled sardonically. "I think they're hiding in your barn. The hound was headed directly toward it."
"No one's in the barn," he protested. "I was just there."
"We'll play safe, take a look," Cleator decided.
"You will not," he flared. "This is private property."
Cleator asked nastily, "Are you trying to shield those people?"
"You have no right on this land," Linda broke in angrily.
"Don't let 'em stop you, Colonel," one of the black-clad riders shouted.
"Let's take a look."
"You will not," Toby said tightly.
"What have you got to hide?" demanded Cleator.
"Not a thing, except that this is private property." A door at the rear of the house slammed and Toby glanced back. Grandpa Jed, flourishing a shotgun, was limping rapidly toward them.
Cleator's lips curled at the sight.
"What's all this about?" Gramp roared irately.
"We've tracked those Commies to your barn," snapped Cleator. "This boy Page 27
is trying to shield them."
"Get off my property, yuh danged crackpots," shouted Gramp. He waved the shotgun menacingly.
"We want to look in the barn."
"You'll do no lookin' in my barn," declared Gramp. "Get off my property before I get riled."
"Are you threatening us?"
"Danged tootin' I am."
Cleator stiffened, then swung around in his saddle to look at his followers. "We're sure learning who the Commie sympathizers are, aren't we, men?"
"We sure are, Colonel," one of them called.
"Get out of here," Gramp shouted again.
"Don't get excited," Toby cautioned worriedly.
"Who's excited?" The old man snorted. "I won't have no danged crackpots running over my land."
"Crackpots?" asked Cleator stonily.
"You're the crackpot," a voice from the troop shouted.
"Say that again and you'll eat buckshot," yelled Gramp. He lifted the barrel of the shotgun.
Cleator raised an arm for silence, his eyes resting coldly on the old man. "We'll be around," he said. "You've been warned."
"Is that a threat?"
"Take it however you want."
"You're the one who's been warned," shrilled Gramp. "My finger's gettin'
itchy."
"Come on, men." Cleator raised an arm, let it drop, wheeled his mount, and started back toward the wash. Sniffing at the ground, the lop-eared hound ran ahead of him. Toby caught mumbled threats from the other riders as they followed. He watched them cross the wash, circle the barn to the other side.
"They frightened me," Linda confessed. Her voice plainly expressed her relief.
"Idiots," snorted Gramp.
"Dad?" Mrs. Adam's voice rang sharply from the rear porch. "What's going on out there?"
"Nothing, Mary." Gramp gazed at her, his face bland with innocence.
"Why are you carrying that shotgun?" she demanded.
"That gorilla fellow is supposed to be hanging around."
"Hmph. Ill believe it when I see it." When she returned inside, Gramp gazed at Toby, his blue eyes searching. Toby flushed.
"What's in the barn?" asked Gramp.
"Barn?"
"You were in a mighty big hurry to head those fellows off," he observed drily.
"Well, gee." Toby wrestled with his thoughts.
"Toby," Gramp said sharply.
Tell him, a small voice in Toby's mind urged. Startled, he jerked erect, at the same time realizing that the speaker had been Barlo. Barlo had been reading their minds! Then he realized the danger from the vigilantes. He saw his grandfather's waiting expression. Linda was clasping her hands nervously.
"It's just a friend," he answered desperately.
"A friend, eh? Do you generally keep your friends in the barn?"
"Well, gosh," he sputtered.
Gramp cocked his head quizzically. "I don't suppose he would happen to be that fellow they're looking for?"
It's all right, Barlo said silently. Tell him.
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"I guess he is," Toby admitted.
"From the ship Murdock claimed he saw?"
"Well, yes."
"Russian?" Gramp peered at him.
"Heck, no!" Toby exploded.
"What kind of a critter is he?"
"He's just a little fellow," he blurted. "He's real nice. I met him in the hills after the hunters tried to kill him."
"He's trying to find a safe place t
o stay," Linda broke in.
Gramp asked sharply, "Where's he from?"
"The stars," Toby whispered.
"The stars, eh? Well, well." Gramp lifted his face toward the sky. "I always held there had to be someone smarter than us in this universe."
"His name is Barlo," Toby rushed on. "You'd like him."
"I would, eh? How come you know his name?"
"Well, he knows our language."
"He does?" Gramp's voice sharpened.
"He reads our minds," admitted Toby.
"Looks inside our heads, is that what you're saying?"
"You might put it that way. He's a telepath."
"Sounds like a right smart critter," observed Gramp. "How long does he plan on being around?"
"Only a few days." Toby explained about the disaster in space that had brought the alien to the valley and the rescue operations which were certain to follow.
"We have to keep him hidden until then," Linda broke in.
"I suspect so." Gramp gazed at the throng surging around the general store. "But the barn's no place to hide him. You'd better talk to your mother about keeping him in the house."
Toby shook his head. "He won't go in."
"Why not?"
"He's afraid he'd cause us trouble." He explained the alien's fear of what might happen if someone found out where he was.
"He's probably right." Gramp frowned at his shotgun. "But we can't leave him in the barn with those crackpots around. Besides, that danged hound tracked him; they know where he is."
Toby asked worriedly, "Think they'll come back?"
"I suspect they will. Where's his ship?"
"Hidden in a gully."
Gramp shook his head dolefully. "They'll sure enough find it. When they do, the whole countryside will be here."
"We could hide him in my barn," offered Linda.
"How could we get him there without being seen?" demanded Toby. The complications seemed flowering on every side. He looked to Gramp for guidance.
"You'd have to wait until after dark."
"I could take him there tonight," he urged.
Gramp shook his head. "Tomorrow night, maybe. Cleator's gang will be watching this place tonight. It's just the kind of a move they'd suspect." He peered at Linda. "What would your folks say about it?"
"I don't know," she confessed. "I don't believe they'd mind, not if I explained the whole situation."
"Could cause them a lot of grief," Gramp observed. "You wouldn't want to do that."
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"We have to do something," she insisted.
"Why don't we leave him where he is?" suggested Toby. "They don't know for certain that he's there. If they come back, we won't let them on the land."
"And if they stir up a mob?" asked Gramp.
"I thought of that, but I don't believe they will. The vigilantes want the credit, want to catch him themselves."
"Probably." The old man gazed toward the wash. "We ought to tell Dan.
He'd keep those varmints away."
"We can't," Toby countered. "I suggested that, but Barlo doesn't want him to know."
"Doesn't trust the sheriff, eh?" The old man peered sharply at him.
"It isn't that, it's the people above the sheriff." Toby explained about the star drive and what might happen if the people of Earth suddenly realized that an alien was among them who held the key to the stars.
"I can see that," admitted Gramp. "Sure wouldn't want some of these varmints goin' to the stars."
"I'd feel better if the sheriff did know," said Linda. "He'd keep a watch."
Gramp shook his head. "Dan would have to make a report on it, do whatever the law required him to do." He gazed thoughtfully at the barn.
"Think that critter could learn to play two-handed pinochle?"
"I believe he could," said Toby.
"Well, well." A smile creased Gramp's face. "Think I'll mosey in and get the cards."
FIVE
San Diego Union
San Diego, California, July 27, 1974
FLYING SAUCER, RUSSIAN SPACECRAFT OR HOAX?
REPORTS OF THE SIGHTING of a strange spacecraft in Eklund Valley, nine miles east of El Cajon, yesterday sent thousands of motorists flocking to the scene. The state highway patrol and the sheriff's department dispatched units to control the heavy flow of traffic that for more than eight hours clogged the eastbound lanes.
George Murdock, a valley storekeeper, told the press that the spacecraft bore Russian markings.
"I could see it as plain as a hand before my face,"
Murdock said. At least a dozen eyewitness accounts labeled the vehicle a flying saucer.
Bernard Olson, a valley resident, described it as "discus-shaped, with small circular portholes around the perimeter." He gave its color as "an odd shade of green." Olson said he believed it landed in the nearby hills. He told reporters that he had spotted similar vessels in the area on other occasions.
Rear Admiral Carson M. Turlow, USN (Ret.)' Coronado, told newsmen that
"except for the circular shape and the portholes, the description of the vessel fitted that of the sky sleds the Russians have developed to deliver their fractional orbit nuclear warhead"
(FONW). Turlow warned that this might be an even more advanced design.
A high-ranking officer of the Eleventh Naval District refused to comment on the report that helicopters from the Imperial Beach Naval Air Station had been rushed to the scene. Reports from Eklund Valley indicated that at least two helicopters were scouring the nearby gullies and brush-covered hills. At least a dozen private planes were in the vicinity.
Two hunters, Thomas Carley and Harry Weaver, both city residents, told reporters that they had been fired at by a giant gorilla with a ray gun when they attempted to approach it. Carley said that when the flames burst out around them, they escaped by fleeing through a ravine too narrow for the gorilla to follow. He estimated its height at 14 feet.
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Carley and Weaver led a search party back to the scene of the alleged encounter. A reporter with the group said that while an area of recently burned brush had been located, the searchers were unable to find any footprints in the area aside from those probably made by the hunters.
An Air Force spokesman has denied any knowledge...
Another flying saucer!
Major General John J. Parman, USAF, let the report flutter to his desk.
The file cabinets already overflowed with such nonsense. Yet, uneasily, he had to admit a difference. This flying saucer -- if he could call it that -- had been tracked from the Pole down to a final destination in the foothills a dozen or so miles to the east of San Diego. Moreover, it had changed both course and altitude several times, thus eliminating the possibility that it might have been the reentering debris from some space shot or other. But a flying saucer? He smiled skeptically. He was just thankful that no one had panicked, pushed the button.
Still, an investigation would have to be made. The numerous eyewitness accounts, sensationalized by the news media, demanded official action, if for no other reason than to still the growing hysteria. If it wasn't Russians, it was Martians. As always, the onus would lie with the Air Force.
He drummed his fingers against the desk. Although he was certain that a good 99 percent of the clamor represented either hysteria or opportunists seeking to break into public print, there was still that remaining 1 percent, or perhaps just a shade of that amount. Yet however small, it had to be explained. But the marsh gas phenomenon was out -- the arid region wasn't the spot for that.
A shade of 1 percent. Parman contemplated the figure thoughtfully.
Despite his skepticism, he had to admit that something had come down from the Pole -- had landed in the general vicinity from which the majority of eyewitness accounts had originated. But a spaceship with a Russian flag bearing a fourteen-foot-tall gorilla with a ray gun!
That's what it amounted to. That topped everything!
Parman leaned back and gazed moodily at the ceiling. What had come down from the Pole?
Were it not for the radar trackings, he would assign the whole thing to mass hysteria; but there had been trackings. Was it possible that each station had tracked a different object, thus giving the illusion of shifts in course and altitude? He didn't believe it likely, in view of the sophisticated tracking techniques now employed. Where did that leave him? If he assumed a shift in course and altitude, he also had to assume a manned spacecraft, or at least an unmanned vehicle following a programmed course.
Also, he was positive that it was neither an Air Force nor a NASA experimental vehicle; that determination had been made and noted in the report.
Russian? Yet why would Russia attempt to land a spaceship within the continental limits of the United States? Even if such a landing had been of an emergency nature, the Russians would have been quick to inform them, if for no other reason than that it couldn't have escaped their detection. The whole idea seemed highly improbable. As improbable as a giant gorilla with a ray gun, he reflected. Well, he'd send over a few choppers, get a few investigators on the scene. Then he'd wait for the blast from upstairs. And it would come; he felt certain of that. Let some Senator or other get wind of the trackings, and the well-known cat would be out of the bag.
He read the report again before moodily reaching toward a buzzer.
Early the next morning an Air Force reconnaissance plane came over the mountains from the east. High up, a mote against the blue, it sent its thunder crashing throughout the hills.
Toby guessed what kind of plane it was from its flight pattern -- a long back-and-forth plowing of the sky into even furrows which eventually would grid the entire valley and the surrounding hills into an air photo mosaic of such clarity that each individual bush Page 31
could be discerned. He'd read all about it in Popular Mechanics.
When he'd awakened that morning, he'd had hopes that the excitement was past, but they'd quickly vanished. Now the highway was as cluttered as before, and more people than ever were gathered around the general store. He'd counted at least a score of search parties moving into the hills. And while the two
Navy helicopters remained away, four of the same type of Air Force vehicle had come to take their place. Moving like giant bumblebees under an umbrella of private aircraft, they'd begun a systematic search of the terrain below.
