from his hands on a red mechanic’s rag. Then he picked up his backpack and shouldered it.
They were about to start climbing the hill toward the house when a large SUV raced along the driveway and slid to a stop in the gravel parking area, right beside the rock with the small saucer on top of it. Another SUV was right behind and parked beside the first. Television cameramen and sound techs piled out, complete with cameras and lights and satellite transmission equipment. A sign on the side of one SUV said FOX NEWS .
“Uh-oh,” Rip muttered. He raised his voice and shouted, “This is private property. You people must leave. You don’t have permission…”
His voice trailed off because no one was listening. The cameramen scattered like quail, carrying their equipment. A reporter with a microphone braced Rip and Charley. Behind her stood the last cameraman, looking through his eyepiece.
“This is Rip Cantrell,” the reporter said breathlessly into her microphone, “the man who found a flying saucer in the Sahara and flew it to America last year. Mr. Cantrell, what can you tell us about the drug formulas in your saucer’s computer?”
“Not a damned thing,” Rip snarled into her microphone, which she had thrust toward his face. “Now you people get off this farm, which is private property.”
Whether the reporter and cameraman would have left under their own steam will never be known—this was, after all, award-winning television journalism. What happened next was totally unexpected and gave great joy to the producer of this television news show.
Two more SUVs came roaring into the parking lot.
Four men climbed out of each vehicle. Rip recognized the man who climbed from the passenger’s seat of the first SUV. Dr. Harrison Douglas of World Pharmaceuticals.
“Well, well, well,” Douglas said nastily. Ignoring the television reporter and cameraman, he produced a pistol from his coat pocket. “I thought we would merely have a quiet chat with the Cantrells and Charley Pine, and instead we hit the jackpot and found you here, Solo. You thief! Where in hell is my saucer?”
Solo said nothing. The television cameraman moved so he had a nicely framed face shot of Solo, whom he had ignored up to now.
The men from the SUVs surrounded Rip, Charley and Solo as Douglas waved his shooter around.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time, Solo. Where is my saucer? ”
Solo ignored everyone except Douglas, whom he regarded calmly.
“Better tell him,” Rip whispered. “I think he’s a few cards short of a complete deck.”
“Up there,” Solo said, jerking a thumb skyward. “Don’t you watch television?”
“Who is flying it?” Douglas demanded. His face was red; his hand holding the pistol, a semiautomatic, was shaking. The reporter was waving the microphone around, trying to catch every word.
“A friend of mine,” Solo replied slowly.
Douglas lowered the pistol and looked at the three of them. Then he put the gun in his pocket. “Let’s go up to the house. We’ll have a little talk.”
Before they could take five steps, another vehicle roared into the parking area and stopped beside the first. A tall man got out, followed by two musclemen and a woman, a brunette with short hair.
“Johnny Murkowsky, you bastard,” Douglas exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see what it is you are trying to steal, Douglas.”
“I’m not—” Douglas roared but was cut off by Rip.
“Murkowsky? Haven’t I heard that name before?” he asked the newcomer.
“Of course you have,” Douglas thundered. “Murk Drugs. That’s the bastard, right there, along with his masseuse. Never goes anywhere without her. Hey, Heidi, still giving ol’ Johnny the happy endings?”
“Let’s go up to the house, get acquainted and have a pleasant conversation,” Johnny Murkowsky said and began shooing the others up the path. The female reporter for Fox News and her cameraman followed
They were about to start climbing the hill toward the house when a large SUV raced along the driveway and slid to a stop in the gravel parking area, right beside the rock with the small saucer on top of it. Another SUV was right behind and parked beside the first. Television cameramen and sound techs piled out, complete with cameras and lights and satellite transmission equipment. A sign on the side of one SUV said FOX NEWS .
“Uh-oh,” Rip muttered. He raised his voice and shouted, “This is private property. You people must leave. You don’t have permission…”
His voice trailed off because no one was listening. The cameramen scattered like quail, carrying their equipment. A reporter with a microphone braced Rip and Charley. Behind her stood the last cameraman, looking through his eyepiece.
“This is Rip Cantrell,” the reporter said breathlessly into her microphone, “the man who found a flying saucer in the Sahara and flew it to America last year. Mr. Cantrell, what can you tell us about the drug formulas in your saucer’s computer?”
“Not a damned thing,” Rip snarled into her microphone, which she had thrust toward his face. “Now you people get off this farm, which is private property.”
Whether the reporter and cameraman would have left under their own steam will never be known—this was, after all, award-winning television journalism. What happened next was totally unexpected and gave great joy to the producer of this television news show.
Two more SUVs came roaring into the parking lot.
Four men climbed out of each vehicle. Rip recognized the man who climbed from the passenger’s seat of the first SUV. Dr. Harrison Douglas of World Pharmaceuticals.
“Well, well, well,” Douglas said nastily. Ignoring the television reporter and cameraman, he produced a pistol from his coat pocket. “I thought we would merely have a quiet chat with the Cantrells and Charley Pine, and instead we hit the jackpot and found you here, Solo. You thief! Where in hell is my saucer?”
Solo said nothing. The television cameraman moved so he had a nicely framed face shot of Solo, whom he had ignored up to now.
The men from the SUVs surrounded Rip, Charley and Solo as Douglas waved his shooter around.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time, Solo. Where is my saucer? ”
Solo ignored everyone except Douglas, whom he regarded calmly.
“Better tell him,” Rip whispered. “I think he’s a few cards short of a complete deck.”
“Up there,” Solo said, jerking a thumb skyward. “Don’t you watch television?”
“Who is flying it?” Douglas demanded. His face was red; his hand holding the pistol, a semiautomatic, was shaking. The reporter was waving the microphone around, trying to catch every word.
“A friend of mine,” Solo replied slowly.
Douglas lowered the pistol and looked at the three of them. Then he put the gun in his pocket. “Let’s go up to the house. We’ll have a little talk.”
Before they could take five steps, another vehicle roared into the parking area and stopped beside the first. A tall man got out, followed by two musclemen and a woman, a brunette with short hair.
“Johnny Murkowsky, you bastard,” Douglas exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see what it is you are trying to steal, Douglas.”
“I’m not—” Douglas roared but was cut off by Rip.
“Murkowsky? Haven’t I heard that name before?” he asked the newcomer.
“Of course you have,” Douglas thundered. “Murk Drugs. That’s the bastard, right there, along with his masseuse. Never goes anywhere without her. Hey, Heidi, still giving ol’ Johnny the happy endings?”
“Let’s go up to the house, get acquainted and have a pleasant conversation,” Johnny Murkowsky said and began shooing the others up the path. The female reporter for Fox News and her cameraman followed
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