Saucer: Savage Planet (4 page)

“He’s right, Deb,” Charley said as she opened the door and got behind the wheel.

Rip seated himself beside Charley, on the left side of the vehicle, and Egg and Deborah climbed in the back.

“You’re thinking about the antiaging drug, aren’t you?” Rip murmured.

Egg nodded. “Our civilization doesn’t have the moral and ethical framework to deal with something like that.”

“Yet,” Rip shot back.

“Maybe someday it will, after our scientists take all the baby steps required to discover it for themselves. But not now. And there is the aliens’ concept of God. A lot of people would glom onto that like iron filings on a magnet just because they think the aliens knew more than we do.”

“Oh boy,” Deborah said. “As if religious fanatics aren’t causing enough trouble on this rock already.”

“Too bad about the starship, if that was what it was,” Rip mused. “I would really like to know how old that wreckage was. Was it the ship that delivered the Sahara saucer, or did it come later, perhaps to search for them? Guess we’ll never know.”

Egg kept a firm grasp on the computer case on his lap. “Yes,” he said as he watched the countryside scroll past.

After a bit, Rip added, “I’d like to know if the aliens are ever coming back,” then rolled down his window and stuck his elbow out.

“What I’d like to know,” Charley replied thoughtfully, “is what happened to the crew of the Roswell saucer.” The government had told the world no alien spacemen were ever found, an assertion that no one had yet proven untrue.

Deborah Deehring rested a hand on top of Egg’s. He smiled at her and she returned it. “The computer is a great trust,” she said softly. “You must be very careful with it.”

“I could use your help exploring its contents,” Egg suggested.

“I have to get back to the university. I’ve been gone too long already. Perhaps in a few weeks I could visit you for a weekend.”

They left it there and rode along holding hands. This was a first romance for Egg, a lifelong bachelor, and he was enjoying the sensations. He felt like a teenager.

*   *   *

The morning after the trio arrived back in Missouri at Uncle Egg’s farm, Charley awoke before dawn and listened to the breeze whisper in the pines outside the window. The window was opened an inch or so to let the night air in, and the wind’s gentle song. Rip was still asleep beside her, breathing deeply. Somewhere in the house a telephone was ringing, insistently, urgently. Finally it stopped, then began again.

When she realized there was no more sleep in her, Charley slipped out of bed and pulled on her heavy robe and slippers. She closed the bedroom door behind her and tiptoed down the hall toward the stairs.

She paused there when she heard Uncle Egg moving around the kitchen. She could also hear the coffeemaker gurgling, the babble of unintelligible voices from the television, and the refrigerator door opening and closing. Egg was busy, busy, busy, as he usually was. The ringing telephone was silent.

Charley Pine smiled. It was good to be home.

Home! Now there was a concept new to her. She continued on down the stairs and around the corner into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Uncle Egg.”

“Charley!” Egg said breathlessly. “Sit down, please. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” He turned up the volume on the television as Charley hoisted herself onto a counter stool, then turned back to the pot. “Hope the telephone didn’t wake you up. I unplugged both of them.”

There was a flying saucer on the television screen. She stared, mesmerized, then realized she was watching video taken last month of her chase of Jean-Paul Lalouette in the Roswell saucer over Manhattan. Now the announcer’s voice sank in.

“So to recap, the large saucer, the one in front, was raised from the Atlantic three days ago. Everyone presumed it was totally destroyed after it went into the water last month in a vertical dive from an estimated one hundred thousand feet. Destroyed? Apparently not.

“In an interview this morning, just an hour after his ship,
Atlantic Queen,
tied up here in New York, Captain Johnson of Atlantic Salvage stated that after it was raised, the saucer was flown away from the deck of the ship by a passenger named Adam Solo. Other members of the crew confirm this account, including Dr. Harrison Douglas, CEO of World Pharmaceuticals, which funded the salvage.”

Dr. Douglas appeared on the screen. He was standing on a pier with the salvage ship moored behind him. He discussed the scientific curiosity that had led him and his company to fund the recovery of the saucer from the sea.

Egg stood beside Charley through all this, sipping coffee himself. When the network began an exposition of everything its reporters had learned about Adam Solo, Egg hit the mute button on the remote control.

“What do you think?” he asked Charley.

“Douglas is smarmy.” She took her first experimental sip of coffee, then said, “I am astounded. I thought…”

When she stopped speaking, Egg said, “Just before you came in, Douglas said that Lalouette’s body was in the saucer when Solo opened it. Blood everywhere.” The French pilot had used the Roswell saucer to fight Charley, trying to shoot her down. When he was severely wounded by an antimatter beam from Charley’s saucer, he had attacked the Sahara saucer again. He lost, and his saucer went into the Atlantic.

Charley set the cup on the counter and averted her eyes from the television.

“I’m sorry, Charley,” Egg said softly, “but I thought you needed to know. Reporters were calling, even though my number is unlisted, trying for a comment or telephone interview.”

Charley Pine took a deep breath and said, “Turn off the television and fix me some breakfast, please. Two eggs and bacon would be a treat.”

They talked of inconsequential things as Egg busied himself preparing breakfast and the sun crept over the earth’s rim. Through the window, Egg examined the clouds critically. “Going to be a good day,” he said thoughtfully.

“World Pharmaceuticals,” Charley mused.

“The antiaging drug,” Egg said, finishing the thought. “I guess a thing like that would be impossible to keep secret.”

“So who is Adam Solo?” Charley asked aloud after she had had several bites of egg and munched a bacon strip.

When Rip came downstairs fifteen minutes later, he pecked Charley on the cheek and sat on a stool beside her. Egg used the remote to turn on the television again.

Rip silently absorbed everything Egg and Charley knew about the salvage of the Roswell saucer as he watched a few minutes of the television coverage.

Finally he glanced at Egg, then Charley, and asked, “So who is this Adam Solo?”

“Whoever he is, he’s flying a saucer,” Charley observed sourly. “Bet we hear more about that before very long.”

Rip turned the audio back on. The television reporter finished interviewing Harrison Douglas, turned and looked straight into the camera. “Why did Adam Solo steal the Roswell flying saucer? What does he intend to do with it? Where is it? All the world wonders. We don’t know the answers yet, but we intend to find out. When we do, we’ll tell you, our viewers. We’ll be back, right after this commercial break. Stay with us.”

*   *   *

Harrison Douglas broke away from the reporters and walked quickly to a waiting limousine. Safely ensconced in his padded-leather sanctuary, he began making calls on the vehicle’s encrypted telephone. He was angry, damned angry. The salvage company was demanding their eight million bucks and threatening to sue if he didn’t pony up, even though they failed to deliver the saucer to the dock in Newark; Solo had played him for a sucker and robbed him; and the whole world was laughing at him.

Well, that thief Solo wouldn’t laugh long, by God! Douglas grew up in Philly, and he still knew some guys. Hadn’t talked to them in years, but they knew him too. These were guys you didn’t screw with. They ate thieving little bastards like Solo for breakfast.

After three telephone calls, Douglas was tired. He lay back in his seat and closed his eyes.

*   *   *

The news that the Roswell saucer was no longer on the floor of the Atlantic hit the White House like a small bomb. The news that the saucer had been stolen from a deepwater salvage ship and was out there … somewhere …
flying around
 … greatly enhanced the explosion.

A horrified P. J. O’Reilly, the chief of staff, rushed into the presidential bedroom with the news. The presidential pooch hastily bestirred itself and shot into the president’s closet. O’Reilly ignored the dog, as he did all lesser creatures, which was almost everyone. He found the president eating breakfast at a small table. The morning newspapers were piled beside him, apparently as yet unread.

“What’s the matter, O’Reilly? Did the Canadians invade?”

“It’s a lot worse than that. That saucer that went into the Atlantic last month was salvaged, raised from the ocean, and someone stole it.”

The president felt as if he had taken a punch. He seemed to shrink right where he sat. The color leaked from his face.

“It’s out there now, God only knows where,” O’Reilly continued, digging in the knife. He enjoyed giving the president bad news, although he pretended he didn’t. Now he seized the remote control from the breakfast table and clicked on the television.

The president found he had lost his appetite. Perhaps the fact that he had lived through two saucer crises in the last fourteen months had something to do with his bad humor.

At least, he reflected as he watched the talking heads on CNN, Rip Cantrell and Charley Pine weren’t involved in this escapade. Or were they? “Have the FBI find Rip Cantrell and Charlotte Pine,” he growled at O’Reilly. “Just tell me where they are.” O’Reilly rushed off to make the call.

Charley Pine was a real piece of work, a former fighter and test pilot who could fly anything, but Rip Cantrell was the one the president worried about. The kid single-handedly took on the world’s second-richest man, the president and the U.S. government … and beat them all. Just another all-American boy!
Ai yi yi!

The president decided not to rule out Rip until he saw a photo of Adam Solo.

He opened his bottle of Rolaids and munched a handful. Then he reached for the waiting newspapers.

3

When Rip and Charley wandered off to the hangar to work on Rip’s airplane, Egg retrieved the computer from Rip’s saucer and opened the case reverently. Locked in its memory, he knew, was the scientific knowledge and philosophical framework of the civilization that had built the Sahara saucer, about 140,000 earth years ago, and sent it aboard a starship, the saucer that had reached earth.

Egg carefully donned the headband, ensured it was plugged into the device and said aloud, “Good morning.” The computer came to life. Egg marveled again at the computer’s ability to read the brain waves of anyone wearing the band, and to respond with images that the user saw in his mind’s eye. There was no screen, no keyboard, no other way to communicate, nor was any other method needed. The computer’s memory and logic functions reminded Egg of a 3-D or holographic display … and the presentation occurred inside his head.

Egg had learned to download information from the saucer’s computer onto his own PC and was experimenting with ways to manipulate the data. He hadn’t gotten a satisfactory system figured out yet. He had enlisted the help of several computer scientists, who were having a wonderful time but had yet to crack the computer’s core code. A linguistics expert was working on the computer’s language, if it was language. Still, Egg liked to put on the headband and surf the computer to see what he could find. It was as if he had the Library of Congress in his hands, and yet all he could do was wander through the aisles sampling books.

Even as that thought occurred to him, the computer responded. He saw the organizational outline of the device’s memory and sat studying it for a long moment. He had learned that the computer responded to questions, but what if the user didn’t know what question to ask?

His mind wandered. Idly, he thought of Rip and his airplane, an Extra 300L, and wondered what Rip and Charley were going to need to do to get it airworthy again.

The computer answered. He saw the damage to the airplane, the bullet holes and bent landing gear, that happened when Rip crashed the plane.

Egg ripped off the headband.

How had the computer learned of the damage?

Egg’s mind raced. Well, Rip had worn the headband on several occasions while they were in Australia, idly exploring. So had Charley.

Could it be? Could the computer archive the memory of its user, to add to its database?

Galvanized, he replaced the headband and thought of Rip. What did Rip know about the Extra’s condition?

The machine knew.

Rip’s childhood, his visits to Egg’s Missouri farm. The scenes scrolled past him as if they were on film. Some of the scenes were hazy—perhaps because Rip had forgotten some of them.

The bass—what did Rip remember of the time Egg took him bass fishing? And there it was, a movie filmed from Rip’s youthful perspective. There Egg was, baiting the hooks, showing Rip how to cast … and there he was holding up a fish, grinning at Rip.

Egg’s mind raced on. His trip to the moon? There it was, the French thugs, the obsidian sky full of stars, the weightlessness … he could feel the weightlessness and the G forces as the saucer’s engines ignited, see the moon, stark and burning brightly in unfiltered sunlight. The experience was right there in his mind’s eye and he was reliving it! He even felt the fear that he had experienced then, fear because he knew as he flew the saucer that he was in over his depth.

Now Egg fumbled with the headband, tearing it off his head.

My God!

The computer mined the memories of its users and stored everything they knew.

He sat staring with unseeing eyes at the autumn scene just beyond the window, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Deborah Deehring had worn the headband. Egg was tempted, for a few seconds, then decided no. Her memories were hers and shouldn’t be shared without her permission. Nor should Rip or Charley’s.