by Jeff Sutton
Dressing hurriedly, he ran outside to peer at the sky. Dark shapes, like monstrous bugs against the star field, flew in from the east. Dropping into the dark bowl of the valley, their thunder crashed against his ears.
He glanced anxiously around. Lights had come on in Linda's house and in several other dwellings scattered here and there. The headlights of a car coming down the grade from the west suddenly seemed to slow to a crawl, as if the driver were trying to discern what was happening in the valley.
He heard movement behind him and whirled nervously. It was Gramp.
Wearing a bathrobe over his pajamas, he was carrying his shotgun. "What's happening?" he asked.
"Helicopters." Toby gestured toward the east.
"Reckon Barlo will have to scramble some."
"We can't leave him at the Jackson barn much longer," Toby blurted anxiously. "We have to find a better place for him to hide."
"Hide? There's no place for him to hide." Gramp gazed at the shadowy choppers. "The world's too small for that now." Toby started to protest but fell silent with the realization that Gramp probably was right. The FBI or CIA
or some military agency undoubtedly had already inspected the site of the blast, had determined that Barlo's ship had come from the stars. That would account for the big helicopters swooping down. They were probably carrying soldiers or Marines. They'd fling a net over the whole valley and the hills
for miles beyond, search every inch. This was the prelude. He had the sense of time speeding up, running out.
He wondered what Barlo was feeling. Fear? He couldn't quite imagine that. Despite Barlo's Page 47
predicament of being trapped on a strange and seemingly hostile world, he didn't strike Toby as one who would scare easily. He suppressed the desire to visit him; crossing the fields to the Jackson barn at night could be dangerous, if Cleator had someone watching. Still, he had to help him find another place to hide. Torn by indecision, he watched the shadowy forms in the sky.
The helicopters scarcely seemed to touch down before they lifted again. Their engines rising to a high whine and their big blades sending their pulsing beats through the air, they rose in the starlight one by one and headed back into the east.
As the sound of their passage diminished, Gramp said, "We'd better catch some sleep."
"Shouldn't we do something now?" Toby licked his dry lips.
"We'd better see what they do first. No use runnin' off half-cocked."
"Think they'll search the houses?" he persisted.
"Could be." Gramp scanned the sky. "Reckon there'll be plenty of activity in the morning."
Gramp was right.
Toby was awakened at dawn by the sound of trucks. Scrambling to the window, he looked out.
A long line of the vehicles was turning into the valley from Interstate 8. Their headlights were baleful yellow eyes in the dawn hour.
Led by a jeep, they bounced along the rutted road that skirted the eastern edge of the valley.
Although the light was too dim for him to discern any insignia, he felt certain they were Army trucks.
He dressed and went outside to watch. Ruff greeted him with a bark. As the light grew stronger, he saw a cluster of pyramidal tents near the head of the valley, where the convoy had gone earlier. Beyond, on the lower slopes, small figures were visible working upward along a fire trail.
The seven o'clock newscast reported the valley to be the site of Army war games. An announcement was made that the entire area had been restricted to the public for the duration of the exercises. The only exceptions were through traffic on Interstate 8 and travel to and from private dwellings and ranches. An Army spokesman had declined to comment when asked if the unexpected maneuvers were related to the earlier destruction of the strange spacecraft. The announcer left scant doubt that he believed that such a connection did exist.
"War games, hmph," Toby's mother snorted as she served breakfast. "You'd think they'd find something better to do."
Gramp said slyly, "Maybe they're looking for that gorilla fellow." He winked at Toby.
Another roaring came that shook the windows. "More helicopters," said Toby. He gulped his food hurriedly and went outside to watch. The lead chopper was settling toward the floor of the valley in the vicinity of the pyramidal tents. He looked toward the old Jackson barn. Set against the eucalyptus trees, it was scarcely discernible. Although there was no sign of life in the neighboring fields, a sizable crowd was already gathering around the general store. Estimating there must be forty or fifty vehicles there, he wondered what the Army might do about it.
He should have sneaked over to see Barlo during the night, he reflected.
Now he was barred by daylight. Even looking in the direction of the barn could be dangerous.
At least he could hope that the presence of the Army would keep the vigilantes away.
He switched his attention to a jeep coming slowly down the grade from the east. Pulling off to the side of the road every hundred yards or so, it waited while the figure next to the driver hopped out to do something. As the
jeep came closer, he saw the man was tacking signs to the bordering trees and fence posts. He ran to the edge of the highway. The sign read:
RESTRICTED AREA
KEEP OUT
U.S. ARMY
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Toby studied the crowd as he passed the general store. A car parked off to one side caught his attention. Three men in the rear and a fourth in the front seat were sitting as immobile as if carved from blocks of wood. Leaning against the fender, a fifth man was scrutinizing the valley in the direction of the Army encampment. Dark-haired and stocky, with neatly pressed tan slacks and a brown sport shirt, he appeared quite dapper. The FBI? His heart thumped at the thought.
He had the feeling that the dapper man's gaze followed him every step of the way home.
He was sitting on the porch with Gramp when the sheriff's car turned off from the highway and came toward them. Gramp laid aside his newspaper as the sheriff heaved his bulk from the car.
"Mary, the coffee," he yelled. "Dan's here."
"I can't stay but a moment," the sheriff protested. He nodded to Toby and leaned against the porch rail. "Plenty of excitement," he observed.
"That ape fellow," said Gramp.
"Could be." The sheriff was noncommittal.
"Seems strange they'd hold war games right here at this time." Gramp was fishing, and the sheriff knew it. "Why do you suppose that is?" persisted Gramp.
"Couldn't say, Jed."
"Don't they cut you fellows in on what's happenin'?"
"Not the Army."
"At least it'll keep Cleator and his gang away."
"Not necessarily," answered the sheriff. "Several of them live nearby.
The rest of them can gather at their places or claim they're going there. The restrictions don't apply to that; at least, I don't believe they do."
"They'd better not come around here."
The sheriff looked at Toby. "There's talk going around that Cleator's bunch jumped one of the critters from the ship the other night. Cleator claims he was a Russky -- some kind of a midget.
Seems the fellow stopped them with a ray gun -- started a grass fire." His eyes were questioning.
"A midget Russian spy with a ray gun," cackled Gramp. "That beats the gorilla yarn. What'll they think up next?"
"I don't know," admitted the sheriff. He kept his gaze on Toby.
"Sounds goofy," said Toby. He squirmed uneasily, thinking the sheriff knew far more than he'd said. Cleator had probably identified him. But he couldn't know about Barlo! The thought that he might shook him.
The momentary tableau was broken as Toby's mother brought the coffee.
Glad for the opportunity to get away, he hastily excused himself and went around to the rear of the house. Gazing toward the Jackson barn, his thoughts were tumultuous. He really didn't mind if the sheriff suspected the truth, or even knew, but if the word was getting around, the Arm
y would hear of it.
Perhaps they'd search the house. They would, if they really believed he knew anything about it.
And they must know that the ship had come from the stars, else why the war games? He had the feeling of an immense net being cast over the entire valley and wondered if, for Barlo, there was any escape.
The question rang hollowly in his mind.
EIGHT
Los Angeles Times
Los Angeles, California, July 30, 1974
MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSION TIED TO SPACECRAFT; WAR GAMES LINK DENIED
WASHINGTON, JULY 29 (AP) -- A high government official who refused to allow his name to be used told reporters today that the mysterious explosion that rocked large parts of San Diego Page 49
County two nights ago "definitely was connected to the landing of a strange spacecraft." He stated that the spacecraft had been destroyed by internal explosions following its discovery.
He declined to comment further.
A Pentagon spokesman, also unidentified, stated categorically that the war games called in San Diego's Eklund Valley, where the spacecraft allegedly landed, "was in no way connected with the alleged spaceship." He said such surprise maneuvers were not uncommon. He denied the rumor that the vehicle had been identified as Russian.
Congressman Leonard Wheelhart (Rep. Cal.) told reporters that "the nation is alarmed."
Wheelhart hinted that the vessel was of Russian origin. He referred to it as "a possible bomb carrier."
Wheelhart later told reporters that he was unable to comment further
"because grave problems of national security are involved." He said that any additional statements might lead to widespread hysteria.
A Congressional committee headed by...
Major General Norland T. Brockler, U.S. Army, glanced up inquiringly as his aide entered the big pyramidal tent that served as his field headquarters.
The aide clicked his heels together, snapped a salute, and said, "Sir, Lieutenant Benton's patrol has returned with an armed troop in custody. Nine mounted men apprehended inside the restricted area," he added.
"Civilians?" The general frowned. "The orders were to warn them the first time, escort them outside the area."
"Sir, the troop leader identified himself as Colonel Cleator."
The general's head came up. "What organization?"
"He won't say. He won't speak to anyone except the commanding general."
"Have him brought in," the general instructed. He wondered what to expect. If this job held even a small part of the importance indicated by his secret orders, the government might throw all kinds of forces into the field, perhaps many of them unknown to him. The FBI and CIA would certainly be somewhere in the picture. Cleator possibly fitted into one of those categories, but he doubted it.
The aide returned, accompanied by a thin, narrow- faced man garbed in black. A gold-colored VACI insignia adorned one shoulder. The aide snapped his heels together smartly and said,
"General Brockler, Sir...Colonel Cleator."
The general nodded dismissal to the aide. He didn't offer to shake hands or even rise. Instead he regarded his visitor through cerulean-blue eyes that had taken on a frosty look. He asked brittlely, "What is your organization, Colonel?"
"The Vigilantes Against Communist Infiltration, sir." Cleator tapped his shoulder patch. "We're known as the VACI."
"You are aware that you are in a restricted area?"
Cleator's lips curled slightly. "We're tracking Russian spies, General.
There was no time to request a special clearance."
"Russian spies?"
"From their spaceship -- the one they destroyed."
"I've heard those stories," the general replied coldly.
"We've seen them."
"Seen them?"
"Almost caught one, as a matter of fact." Cleator relaxed. "We just about had him, when he used some kind of a ray gun to start a grass fire. As it is, we know just about where he's hiding, who's shielding him. We expect to nab them both before the night's out."
Up to that point the general had been on the point of summoning his aide to have Cleator and Page 50
his men escorted outside the restricted area; now he hesitated. The ray gun angle, although mentioned in the news, had been classified TOP SECRET. Crackpot or not, the fellow might possibly know something. He asked, "Did you actually see the weapon?"
"The ray gun? I told you, he used it to start a grass fire. I had my light right on him. He's small, a midget."
"What leads you to believe he's Russian?"
"The insignia on the spaceship," declared Cleator.
"Did you see the insignia?"
"Not personally, but a lot of people did. Solid citizens."
"You know where this man is?"
"Where he was," corrected Cleator. "But he's close around, we're certain of that."
"And the person shielding him?"
"The Adam boy." Cleator jerked his head in gesture. "He lives down the road."
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen or so."
"A teen-age boy shielding a Russian spy with a ray gun?" The general's wintry smile returned.
"These kids don't know any better," argued Cleator. "Neither do most adults. Most of them couldn't identify a Russian in Moscow. That's the reason for the VACI."
"What would the boy be doing with a Russian spy?"
"You tell me, General. They brainwash 'em in the schools, I can tell you that."
"Thank you for your information. I'll have you and your men escorted outside the restricted area. And it is restricted; you'll find a posting to that effect."
Cleator's face clouded. "You can't keep us out of here, General. Some of us live around here."
"Do you?"
"No, but I visit."
"Not with an armed troop on horseback," the general snapped. He summoned his aide, gave curt instructions, and looked back at his reports. When Cleator had departed, he sat back musingly. Crackpot or not, the man's story tended to substantiate the belief that members of the alien crew had escaped into the hills, probably were still hiding in the vicinity. Certainly no evidence of bodies had been found in the wreckage. Cleator's story of the ray gun, if nothing else, held a ring of truth that he couldn't afford to disregard.
Was it possible that an alien from another star could be so human in appearance as to be mistaken for a human? While the question intrigued him, what knowledge of evolution he possessed told him how slim such chances were.
But whatever the true story, it was a good thing the VACI thought the creature
-- if there was one! -- to be Russian. All hell would break loose if the real truth ever got out.
A boy shielding whatever it was! The Adam boy, Cleator had said. And he lived just down the road. He could check that angle easily enough. Or could he? His first impulse to have the boy questioned gave way to the realization that he could scarcely pursue that course without revealing what they really were after. If the boy talked, the rumor of the interrogation could sweep like
wildfire. The news media would make a circus of it, which was the last thing he wanted. A better course was to have the boy watched. He would know quickly enough if the boy made any contacts and with whom.
He smiled cynically. He couldn't openly admit it, of course, but the entire affair held an air of total unreality -- the kind of thing he would expect to be hatched by the CIA. Yet he had to admit that the unreality held a hard core of substance that he couldn't laugh away. The metal that couldn't have originated on this planet, for example. And the ground scorched by a radioactive flame. Those things held the verity of laboratory tests. Neither could he deny that something had Page 51
been tracked down from the Pole. But he couldn't buy that ape bit or even the spacecraft with the Russian insignia.
They were simply too farfetched.
He walked outside to gaze over the valley and surrounding hills. His practiced eye told him that every inch within view
could be combed easily enough; and if the land refused to yield a clue, the barns and dwellings would have to follow. But they would be last, for that would raise the greatest cry of all. He only hoped Washington came up with a plausible excuse for such an action.
Figures moving along a distant ridge caught his eye. Beyond them, far beyond them, another ring of steel was being forged to cut off every possible escape route. The inner ring would work outward, the outer ring inward, and the valley itself would be combed by still other troops.
Were it not for the necessity of secrecy, he could probably complete the entire job within a few days. But secrecy was paramount. A star drive!
He had to admit that it was one helluva big secret.
Igor Kuznetsov, alias William Clayton, was a dedicated Communist. He was also courageous, imaginative, ambitious, and possessed of the cunning of those who survive for any long period in his particular trade. When his superior had first informed him of the emergency nature of his assignment -- "the terrible urgency of which could allow no failure" -- he'd been struck by the knowledge that fate had thrust upon him probably the most crucial task ever levied on a single agent, at least as far as the stakes were concerned. His determination not to fail glowed constantly. He couldn't fail! The thought lived with him every hour.
A spacecraft from another stellar system! Clayton didn't question the fact. Questions could lead to doubt, indecision, and such things could be fatal. The assumption always had to be that his superiors were right; that was the practical way, for it both put him on the side of his superiors and allowed a positive blueprint for action.
In the present instance, such a spacecraft spelled multiple dangers --
and a golden opportunity. The spacecraft implied a civilization technically far in advance of any on earth, hence far more powerful. If war-bent -- always a safe assumption -- such a civilization could emerge as the new masters of
Earth. That was one danger. Another was that the United States, through some knavery or other, might secure the technical knowledge necessary to duplicate the alien vessel's propulsion and astrogation systems or might ally itself with the aliens. The inevitable result, should either occur, would be a disastrous shift in the balance of power in which Russia could well sink back into the obscurity of history.
