The Flying Stingaree: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story

by Harold L. Goodwin

  CHAPTER VI

  The Saucer Sighters

  "We shoot a line straight north," Rick explained, "for a distance ofabout twenty miles. Then we start asking questions. If we getaffirmative answers, we head north again for another ten miles andrepeat the process. We do this until we come to an area where saucershave not been sighted. Okay?"

  Scotty nodded. "Okay. There is only one tiny flaw in this plan. If wehead straight north, we drop Steve's car into the Little Choptank. If wecross that safely, we'll get wet in the main Choptank."

  Rick sighed. "If there is anything I detest, loathe, and despise, it ispeople who get up in the morning feeling full of humor. We will go toCambridge, missing the Little Choptank, and cross the Choptank on thebridge. Route 50 goes almost straight north. Is that more precise andacceptable, Donald?"

  "It is indeed, Richard. I'm a stickler for accuracy."

  "You're a stickler in the mud. Let's get a notebook and starttraveling."

  A conference after dinner the night before had resulted in a plan ofaction. The boys had decided to reduce all the rumors about flyingsaucers to statistics that could be examined to see what elements thevarious sightings had in common. The way to obtain the statistics wasthrough interviews.

  The problem of the white-haired man with the familiar face stillremained. Steve's books had disclosed that Calvert's Favor was famous,that it had been so named by the original settler because he had beengranted the land by Lord Calvert, that it had changed hands only twicein more than a century. What the books didn't give was its location. Theplace was identified only as "a quiet creek, entirely within theoriginal land grant." There was no mention of a Calvert Creek in thevicinity. They decided to put the question of its location aside untilSteve's return.

  It was a lovely morning. The convertible hummed smoothly over theblacktop roads to Cambridge, onto Route 50, across the Choptank Riverand north. Rick braked to a stop as the highway met the turnoff toEaston. "Think we're far enough north?"

  Scotty had been consulting a road map. He shook his head. "Not yet.Easton is almost due east of Knapps Narrows, and we know the saucershave been sighted there. Better go on to Wye Mills."

  "Okay." The road was dual-lane cement, now, and Rick relaxed while thecar sped northward. "Odd name, Wye Mills. Lots of Wyes around here.Three Wye Rivers on the chart, a Wye Landing, and a famous old Wye Oak."

  "Sounds like a song," Scotty said. "Wye, tell me Wye, are there saucersin the sky--"

  "Please," Rick protested, "I'm in pain."

  Route 50 turned at Wye Mills, leading to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge thatcrossed the bay to Annapolis. There was a gas station and lunch stand atthe intersection. Rick pulled in and drifted up to the gas pump. "Fillit up, please. Any bottles of Coke around?"

  "In the machine." The attendant pointed to the red automatic vendor.

  The boys equipped themselves with Cokes and walked back to watch theattendant fill the tank. "We must be somewhere near where all thoseflying saucers were sighted," Rick remarked.

  The attendant looked up. "Farther south. Never heard of anyone this farnorth seein' one. They see plenty down toward Cambridge. Ask me, they'reseein' spots in front of their eyes."

  The boys exchanged glances. When the car was ready, Rick turned andstarted south again. "See any stores on the way where we could askagain?"

  "There's a restaurant. I saw two grocery stores, too, but from the waythe attendant talked, we'll have to get closer to Cambridge." Scotty wasmaking a note in their notebook.

  Five miles back toward home, Rick stopped at another gas station andasked the attendant to look at the oil. None was needed, so the boysbought another pair of Cokes and engaged the man in conversation.

  "Ever see any flying saucers in this area?" Rick asked.

  "Nope. My brother did though, late one afternoon when he was on duty."

  Scotty took out the notebook. "We're trying to get some informationabout them for a story we're writing. Do you remember when it was?"

  "Let's see. I was workin' in the evenin' that day, so it must have beena Saturday. Last month, it was. Oh, I recall it now. Next day I took thekids to my mother's. It was her birthday. That would make it the tenth."

  "Where was your brother when he saw it?" Rick queried.

  "Pumpin' gas. Right here. He said it sort of came up over the trees,glittering like fire." The attendant pointed to a patch of trees downthe road. The direction was almost directly southwest.

  Scotty scribbled in the notebook. "Any other details you remember? Whattime in the afternoon was it?"

  "Between four and five. Can't say exactly. He was still buzzin' when Icame on duty at six. Wanted to call the newspapers, but I talked him outof it. People would think he was a fool."

  "Did you?" Rick asked quietly.

  "Nope. I know Chick. He's got a straight head on him. It may not havebeen a flyin' saucer, but you can bet it wasn't anythin' common, oranythin' he'd seen before."

  "Score one," Scotty said triumphantly as they drove off.

  "One flying saucer doesn't make a Martian invasion," Rick reminded him."Let's keep it up."

  By lunchtime they had interviewed a dozen people who claimed to haveseen flying saucers. All details of the sightings had been noted inScotty's book. During lunch, at a small restaurant in the old town ofOxford, they scored three more times after interviews with fishermen.

  After lunch, they crossed the Choptank and headed south to the littletown of Vienna. From there the route led to the shore town of Elliott,back to Vienna, and past the corner of Delaware to Salisbury, agood-sized town on the Maryland Eastern Shore.

  There was a newspaper office in Salisbury. A chat with the editor and aquick skim through the back files added more data to the growing list.Rick had a hunch there was a pattern shaping up, but he could not besure until the information was all laid out for examination.

  By the time the boys met Steve at the small airport, both Rick andScotty had writer's cramp, and the notebook was nearly used up. They hadrecorded over half a hundred sightings.

  Steve listened to a report of their day with an appreciative smile."Nothing like a mystery for keeping you two out of mischief," he toldthem. "Want to eat out? Or cook a steak in the yard?"

  "Eat out," Scotty said promptly.

  "We can get steak at home," Rick added. "But not Chesapeake Bay clamfritters or Maryland crab cakes."

  Steve had a favorite place of his own, a small, nondescript joint called"Louie's Crab House" up the Choptank River, near the town of Denton.There, on wooden trestle tables covered with brown wrapping paper, heintroduced them to a favorite Chesapeake Bay pastime known as a "crabfeast."

  The waiter set wooden blocks in front of them, with a round piece ofhardwood, a fork, and a sharp paring knife. A stack of paper napkins wassupplied, and individual pots of melted butter completed the setting.

  The boys waited impatiently, hungry, but trusting Steve's word that theresult was worth the wait. The waiter reappeared carrying a huge tray,stacked with a towering pyramid of whole crabs, steaming and red, coatedwith the spices in which they had been cooked. Placing the tray on thetable, the waiter asked, "Anything else?"

  Scotty said, dazed, "I don't believe there's anything else left in thekitchen. We have all the crabs in the world right here."

  "Only three dozen," the waiter said. "Jumbos, of course. You wantanything, you yell."

  Unidentified flying objects were forgotten as Steve initiated them intothe proper method of eating fresh crab. It turned out to be quite anart, but one that they mastered quickly. Soon all three of them weremunching succulent back-fin crab meat drenched in fresh butter. Thewooden block served as an anvil, and the round hardwood piece as ahammer for cracking claws. The paring knife was used for trimming andfor scooping out delicious bits of meat. The fork was utilized topersuade small tidbits to leave their shell cages. Three or four napkinswere used between each tidbit to mop buttery hands, and even chins, downwhich the butter sometimes dripped. It was a feast,
indeed.

  "If I hadn't been a heavy eater before, I'd be one after this," Scottyobserved happily.

  "Beats hunting flying stingarees," Rick agreed. "Pass another crab,please."

  Not until the table had been cleared by the waiter, who simply removedthe utensils and tray, then wrapped up all the shells in the brown paperand carried it off, did the conversation return to the mystery.

  Rick hadn't told Steve of last night's meeting with the white-haired manor of the thinly veiled warning. He described them now in detail.

  "Odd," Steve said. "This familiar face needs identifying. No normalperson worries about anyone asking casual questions. That's a sure markof insecurity. In other words, the man is afraid. People who are afraidoften have something to hide. Do you have any reason to think he may betied up with the flying stingarees or saucers?"

  "None at all," Rick answered.

  "Do you know where Calvert's Favor is?" Scotty asked. "The locationwasn't given in your books. There was quite a lot about the plantationhouse."

  "No, never heard of the place. But we'll find out when we pass throughCambridge. I know a man there who knows everything about this area."Steve held out his hand. "Let's see your notebook."

  Scotty handed it over. The young agent leafed through it rapidly."That's some list. If I had any doubt that people were seeing things,it's gone now. How are you going to arrange the data?"

  "In tables, and on a map," Rick explained.

  "Fine. We can do it tonight. Want anything else?"

  Scotty groaned. "I couldn't even drink a glass of water."

  "Same here," Rick agreed.

  "Then let's leave the crabs behind and take a ride."

  On the way back to Cambridge, Steve Ames mused aloud. "You know, it's anodd world. A few years ago there were flying saucer reports by thedozen. Each one was given lots of newspaper space. The Air Forceconducted investigations. Then flying saucers got unpopular, the AirForce closed its project, and the newspapers wrote a funny story everytime a report came in. Now we have a rash of sightings in one smallarea. People talk about it, but no one gets excited. The authoritiesbrush it off as just hokum. Yet, your investigation today shows thatpeople are seeing _something_, even if we don't know what."

  Rick nodded thoughtfully. "What's even odder is that a well-known mandisappears, people search for him for a couple of days, and then donothing but talk about it. The police aren't even interested, so far aswe can tell."

  Steve laughed. "You're right. But look at it in another way. Assumeyou're the local policeman. Someone rushes in and tells you that JoeDoakes has been carried off by a flying saucer. You don't believe inflying saucers, but you know Doakes. You investigate. His boat has beenfound, but his body is missing. What do you assume? That he was reallytoted off by some mysterious object? Nope. You assume he was hurt orkilled falling out of the boat. You know that sharks come into the bayand sometimes swim up creeks. You figure that the currents sometimes actin odd ways, depending on the winds. You figure a dozen natural kinds ofthings, none connected with mysterious flying objects. You call acoroner's jury, and not a man on it is willing to say for the recordthat he believes in flying saucers. What happens?"

  "Case closed," Scotty said slowly, "because the body isn't around. Noproof of death, or even of accident. Pending proof of death--meaning thebody--the jury finds that Joe Doakes is missing under mysteriouscircumstances and may have met with death or an accident by misadventurewhile engaged in his lawful business of crabbing."

  "That's about it," Steve agreed. "It isn't really odd when you look atit that way. But you can bet the case isn't closed. It's just inactive,until something turns up. Remember there's no detective squad in a smalltown."

  There was a combination gas station and store on the outskirts ofCambridge. Steve drove in and honked the horn. A young boy looked out ofthe store and called, "Howdy, Steve. Want gas?"

  "Not tonight, Jimmy. Ask your grandfather where Calvert's Favor islocated, will you?"

  The boy came out of the store and walked toward the car. He was afreckle-faced towhead, with a grin wider than the Choptank River. "Heck,Steve, I don't have to ask gran'pop that. Everybody knows whereCalvert's Favor is located."

  "Not everybody," Steve returned. "I don't. How about letting us in onthe secret, Jimmy?"

  "It's no secret. Everybody around here knows it's located across theriver from you. It's at the head of Swamp Creek."