for a crucial few seconds. Ah yes, he remembered all of it. The twanging of bows, the sigh arrows made as they flew through the air, the thud of arrowheads striking flesh, the thundering war cries and the whispered death songs …
Through the trees, today Solo saw the hangar by the grass runway and walked in that direction. Then he saw the small saucer resting on the stone. It was roughly three feet in diameter, sitting atop the stone on its three landing gear.
He approached it, examined it from a distance of six feet, then got closer. He could even see through the canopy into the miniature cockpit. He found himself staring at the pilot’s seat, the controls, the blank instrument panel … and he knew.
Here it was! The saucer from the Sahara, the one Rip Cantrell had found. They had discovered how to shrink it.
It was beyond his reach. He had never worn the headband, never communicated with the computers inside this ship, so it would not recognize his brain waves. It would not obey his orders.
He ran his fingers over the surface, feeling the coolness and smoothness.
With his hand on the saucer, he stood looking at the hangar and the house on the hill and the trees. The autumn wind was gentle on his cheek.
He heard voices … coming from the hangar. Solo reluctantly abandoned the saucer and walked toward the large wooden building.
The main door was open. He stood in the entrance and found himself looking at an airplane. Two people were working on one of the main wheels, a man and a woman. He recognized them from their published descriptions: Charley Pine and Rip Cantrell.
“Hello,” he said.
Rip and Charley both turned to look at him.
“Who are you?” Rip asked.
“Just a traveler.”
“This is private property. You’re trespassing.”
“I suppose so. I climbed over the gate. Hope you don’t mind.”
Rip looked Solo over carefully. Middle-aged, a small, trim man, clean-shaven. “What did you say your name was?”
“Traveler. Adam Traveler.”
Rip went back to greasing the bearings of the wheel that lay on the dirt floor of the hangar and asked, “Know anything about airplanes?”
“A little, yes,” the man who called himself Traveler said.
Charley smiled. “I saw a photo of you on television. You’re Adam Solo, the man who stole the Roswell saucer from the Atlantic Queen .”
Solo grinned ruefully. “And you must be Charley Pine.”
Charley gestured toward Rip and pronounced his name.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Solo said, and strolled into the hangar.
“The networks are convinced you are in orbit, waiting for a mother ship to pick you up,” Rip said wryly.
“Ah, the networks…”
“So, do you really know anything about airplanes?”
“As a matter of fact, I once flew them for the British. That was a while back, and the machines were not quite as sophisticated as this, but I am sure the general principles haven’t changed.”
“Aerodynamics being what it is,” Charley suggested.
“Quite.”
“And when did you get all this experience?”
Solo eyed her and decided that, for once, perhaps the truth might be best. “During World War I. I flew Camels.”
“Indeed,” Charley said, intent on Solo’s face.
Rip eyed Solo askance, trying to decide if he was lying—and why. “You are the only World War I vet I’ve ever met,” he said. “All the others are dead. Have been for a good long time.”
“Good genes,” Solo responded.
“Apparently so,” Charley said with her eyes narrowed.
“Well, come help us with this wheel,” Rip said finally, waving a greasy hand. “Maybe you can help us figure out how to get it back on correctly.”
Solo dropped his backpack and waded in.
* * *
When the wheel was back on the landing gear and the jack was removed, so that the plane again sat on its own wheels, Rip said to Solo, “Come on up to the house. I’d like you to meet my Uncle Egg.”
“Yes,” Solo said thoughtfully and finished wiping the grease
Through the trees, today Solo saw the hangar by the grass runway and walked in that direction. Then he saw the small saucer resting on the stone. It was roughly three feet in diameter, sitting atop the stone on its three landing gear.
He approached it, examined it from a distance of six feet, then got closer. He could even see through the canopy into the miniature cockpit. He found himself staring at the pilot’s seat, the controls, the blank instrument panel … and he knew.
Here it was! The saucer from the Sahara, the one Rip Cantrell had found. They had discovered how to shrink it.
It was beyond his reach. He had never worn the headband, never communicated with the computers inside this ship, so it would not recognize his brain waves. It would not obey his orders.
He ran his fingers over the surface, feeling the coolness and smoothness.
With his hand on the saucer, he stood looking at the hangar and the house on the hill and the trees. The autumn wind was gentle on his cheek.
He heard voices … coming from the hangar. Solo reluctantly abandoned the saucer and walked toward the large wooden building.
The main door was open. He stood in the entrance and found himself looking at an airplane. Two people were working on one of the main wheels, a man and a woman. He recognized them from their published descriptions: Charley Pine and Rip Cantrell.
“Hello,” he said.
Rip and Charley both turned to look at him.
“Who are you?” Rip asked.
“Just a traveler.”
“This is private property. You’re trespassing.”
“I suppose so. I climbed over the gate. Hope you don’t mind.”
Rip looked Solo over carefully. Middle-aged, a small, trim man, clean-shaven. “What did you say your name was?”
“Traveler. Adam Traveler.”
Rip went back to greasing the bearings of the wheel that lay on the dirt floor of the hangar and asked, “Know anything about airplanes?”
“A little, yes,” the man who called himself Traveler said.
Charley smiled. “I saw a photo of you on television. You’re Adam Solo, the man who stole the Roswell saucer from the Atlantic Queen .”
Solo grinned ruefully. “And you must be Charley Pine.”
Charley gestured toward Rip and pronounced his name.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Solo said, and strolled into the hangar.
“The networks are convinced you are in orbit, waiting for a mother ship to pick you up,” Rip said wryly.
“Ah, the networks…”
“So, do you really know anything about airplanes?”
“As a matter of fact, I once flew them for the British. That was a while back, and the machines were not quite as sophisticated as this, but I am sure the general principles haven’t changed.”
“Aerodynamics being what it is,” Charley suggested.
“Quite.”
“And when did you get all this experience?”
Solo eyed her and decided that, for once, perhaps the truth might be best. “During World War I. I flew Camels.”
“Indeed,” Charley said, intent on Solo’s face.
Rip eyed Solo askance, trying to decide if he was lying—and why. “You are the only World War I vet I’ve ever met,” he said. “All the others are dead. Have been for a good long time.”
“Good genes,” Solo responded.
“Apparently so,” Charley said with her eyes narrowed.
“Well, come help us with this wheel,” Rip said finally, waving a greasy hand. “Maybe you can help us figure out how to get it back on correctly.”
Solo dropped his backpack and waded in.
* * *
When the wheel was back on the landing gear and the jack was removed, so that the plane again sat on its own wheels, Rip said to Solo, “Come on up to the house. I’d like you to meet my Uncle Egg.”
“Yes,” Solo said thoughtfully and finished wiping the grease
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