Saucer: Savage Planet

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.

The ancient spacemen had also worn it; they were long dead, so they had no privacy rights.

When Rip and Charley came back to the house for lunch, they found Egg wearing the headband and hunched over in his chair, with his eyes closed. Charley Pine tapped him on the shoulder, which caused him to open his eyes. Reluctantly Egg removed the headband and looked around slowly, trying to come back to this reality.

“Uncle Egg?” Charley said softly.

Egg reached up and took her hand.

He glanced at her and a concerned Rip. “I know now,” he said slowly, “why the people who flew your saucer came to earth.”

Both Rip and Charley sat down on the couch, side by side, and stared at him.

“Two men and three women were in the saucer. They didn’t come to colonize. They came to implant DNA samples in living creatures.”

Rip recovered his voice first. “Why?”

“That I don’t know. Nor do I know what happened to them. They arrived … searched for a suitable place to land and found it beside a stream in a meadow with trees on the surrounding hills. Then the pilot took off the headband.” Egg gestured futilely. “That’s all I know. Apparently they never returned to the saucer.”

“But why would they want to implant DNA samples?” Charley asked with her head cocked quizzically to one side.

Egg threw up his hands. “To create a DNA library? That would be my guess. But I don’t know. Yet.”

He took a deep breath. “The computer mines the memories of everyone who wears the headband. Your memory is on it, Charley, and yours, Rip. And mine. The computer knows everything we ever learned well enough to recall.”

Charley’s eyes widened. “Everything?”

“Everything,” Egg said with finality, “and it records the emotions you had at the time you had the experience.”

Charley turned slightly green. “I am not sure I want my private thoughts on some machine’s permanent memory.”

“They are there,” Egg said. “The good news is that you are a wonderful person.”

Charley laughed nervously. She eyed Rip. “Maybe I should put on the headband and check out your head,” she told him.

Rip tried to look nonchalant, to hide his embarrassment. “Any time,” he said blithely. “But I’m going to have to think long and hard about whether or not I want to use that thing again.”

All three of them laughed.

They were eating a lunch of chicken salad sandwiches when Rip said, “If the saucer people were creating a database here on earth 140,000 years ago, one suspects they returned occasionally.”

“A database of living creatures,” Egg said thoughtfully, “a database that would be passed along from one generation to the next, a database that would become part of that species’ genome. It would be there until that species became extinct.”

“No,” Rip said. “It would be there as long as there were living descendants of the database creatures, of whatever species.”

“Perhaps the Roswell saucer came so the crew could check the library,” Charley said between bites. “Look up a reference, or add to the database. And take samples of flora and fauna and rocks and dirt. Just like our astronauts did on the moon. They must have been taking samples of everything they could find.”

“It would be amazing if the Roswell visit was the only subsequent visit,” Egg observed, glancing at their faces.

“Makes you wonder,” Rip agreed thoughtfully. “A hundred forty thousand years is a long, long time.”

“Not really,” Egg murmured. “And the library could consist of things beside the on-off switches that govern reproduction. The database could consist of computer code that has no effect on the living creature that carries it.”

“Isn’t eighty percent of most DNA code nonfunctional?” Rip asked with his mouth full.

“Researchers think that the nonfunctional codes are ancestoral artifacts,” Egg suggested. “No doubt some of them are. But what about the rest?”

“I wonder if humans carry a portion of the database,” Charley mused.

“You’re going to explore that computer some more this afternoon,” Rip said to Egg, without even looking at him.

Charley giggled. She didn’t do it often, but when she did she brought a wide smile to Rip’s face.

Egg tried to shrug off the comment. “Maybe,” he acknowledged.

This time Rip and Charley both laughed.

The president was meeting that afternoon with the secretary of state and the national security adviser when an aide slipped him a note. This is what it said:

The FBI says the Cantrells and Charley Pine are at Egg Cantrell’s farm in Missouri. Their telephones are apparently out of service. Three saucer sightings have been reported to the U.S. Air Force. They are being checked out.

The president read the note, put it facedown on the desk, then picked it up and read it one more time.

He was worried. Saucers flying around again, the media in full cry … What in the name of heaven was going on?

He picked up the note again, took a pen and wrote on the bottom, Why did World Pharmaceuticals pay to salvage the Roswell saucer? and passed the note back to the waiting aide.

It was an hour before dawn in the mountains of western Montana when a large black saucer came drifting down the valley just a hundred feet above the ground. In the meadow near the lake, the saucer came to a stop in a hover and the gear snapped down. The saucer settled gently to the ground.

Adam Solo exited the saucer through the belly door, carrying a backpack in his hand, and duckwalked out from under it. He stood silently, listening and looking as his eyes adjusted to the near-darkness. A chill wind blew from the west, swirling down off the peaks, but the sky was clear. Looking up, Solo saw the Milky Way, a billion stars flung like a ribbon across the sky. The moon was down, so they looked extraordinarily bright.

After a long moment, Solo climbed up on top of the saucer. In seconds it rose gently from the ground and the gear came up. As Solo balanced himself on the sloping deck, the saucer moved slowly out over the lake, then gently submerged itself until only the top was above water.

In seconds the refueling door opened and water began pouring into the saucer’s tank. Air came out of the tank in burps and bubbles. The starlight was just sufficient for Solo to monitor the progress of the refilling and to ensure no foreign objects floated into the swirl of water entering the refilling port.

When the water ceased to swirl and all the air bubbles had stopped, the door of the refilling port closed and the saucer rose slowly from the water, inch by inch.

Solo directed it to land again in the meadow. The landing gear snapped down and the saucer came to rest within inches of the spot where it originally landed. Solo carefully climbed from the saucer and stood in the grass with his hand on the curved leading edge.

Without conscious thought, his hand gently caressed the leading edge, running back and forth as his fingertips felt the cool, dark surface while he looked around in all directions, waiting.

Is the water tank full?

Yes.

Finally, satisfied that there were no people about, no witnesses, he slapped the saucer as if it were a horse and said aloud, “Go.”

The saucer would be safe in orbit, out of the reach of everyone on earth who wanted it, except, of course, Solo, who could summon it back whenever he wished. If he wished. He wondered if he ever would.

He turned his back on the machine, picked up his backpack and walked away as the saucer rose several feet from the grass. He turned around in time to see the gear coming up as the saucer began to move forward.

In a swirl of dead grass and dirt, it began rising from the earth, accelerating slowly, and turned to an easterly heading. It was several hundred feet high, heading east up the valley, when he lost it in the blackness.

Solo looked around again, then began walking around the lake to the south. There should be a road over there, he thought, and a camping area. Perhaps there were people.

He had just reached the dirt road when far to the east, near the crest of the peaks, the saucer’s rocket engines ignited. The light reached him well before the sound. Rising slowly, then faster and faster, the saucer roared into the night sky.

Now the sound washed over him, a deep throaty rumble, impressive with its power.

Solo watched the rising fireball until it disappeared behind the highest peak. He waited for his night vision to return as the thunder of the engines faded.

When the night was again completely silent and dark, he turned and walked on down the road. Ahead of him in the camping area, lights were popping on. Now he heard voices, carried a long way in the crisp autumn night.

They must have heard the saucer too, he thought and walked on, toward the lights and voices.

The president was on his stationary bicycle in the White House gym, pumping the pedals and sweating, when an aide found him. “Mr. President, something, probably a saucer, just went into orbit from western Montana. Space Command tracked it. It achieved a sustainable orbit a few minutes ago.”

The president ceased pumping the pedals and sat silently.

“The Cantrells are still in Missouri?”

“The FBI says they are. They have the Cantrell farm under surveillance.”

The president sighed and mopped his face with a towel. “Do the networks have this orbit thing?”

“Space Command is issuing a press release.”

“I suppose they have to.”

“Yes, sir. It would look bad for the air force if someone reported it and Space Command appeared to be caught flatfooted.”

“I guess.”

It’s the media age we live in, the president reflected when he was again alone. He pedaled a few more revolutions, then stopped.

He felt as if he had entered a movie theater with only ten minutes left in the movie, and he had no idea what the plot was.

What in the world is going on?

That very same question occurred to Dr. Harrison Douglas of World Pharmaceuticals when he heard the news on the Fox Network. A saucer had gone into orbit — was it his saucer? Did that thief Solo fly it into space?

Egg Cantrell out in Missouri. He knew all about flying saucers. Hell, his nephew Rip found one in the Sahara! God only knew where the Sahara saucer was.

Well, he might have lost one saucer, but Douglas knew the name of someone who could probably lay hands on another, if properly stimulated.

As the beautiful young women of Fox gassed about flying saucers and aliens and the state of the universe, Johnny Murkowsky of Murk Corporation, another Big Pharma company, was also thinking about how to get information out of Egg Cantrell. And that young man, Rip. And that test pilot, Charlotte Pine.

The possibilities of human drug information on a flying saucer’s computer hadn’t previously occurred to Johnny Murkowsky, yet he could add two and two. If that lizard Harrison Douglas had invested eight million smackeroos trying to get at a saucer, there must be something there that could be turned into money. Drug money, which is the kind World Pharmaceuticals and Murk Corporation made. Big money. Really Big Money, or RBM.

Murkowsky didn’t have a saucer. Maybe the Cantrells did, maybe they didn’t, but they might know something. They would talk. They had to. There was RBM at stake.

A large dog found Adam Solo as he approached the camping area. It came running, barking fiercely, and skidded to a stop just a few feet from Solo, who stood motionless as it approached.

The dog growled and snarled, showing its teeth.

Solo extended his hand and stared the dog in the eyes.

The mongrel ceased to growl. It stood motionless, almost as if it were waiting. Now the upper lip relaxed, covering its fangs.

Solo took two steps toward the dog with his hand extended.

The dog licked his hand, then sat, watching him expectantly.

“Let’s go meet your folks,” Solo said, and resumed walking toward the camping area, which by now was fully ablaze in lights. Behind him, the sky was beginning to brighten with the coming dawn.

The dog fell in behind Solo and matched his stride.

A man in his sixties standing beside an Airstream trailer hitched to a large pickup truck watched them come. He glanced at Solo, then addressed the dog. “A fine watchdog you are, Pag. You are supposed to be barking, scaring off strangers.”

“He did his best,” Solo said, gesturing at the dog, “but we talked and became friends.”

The man snorted, looking Solo over. “And who are you?”

“Just a traveler,” Solo responded. “As we all are. The dog’s name?”

“Paganini.”

“Ah, you are an aficionado of the violin?”

The man smiled. “Retired from a studio orchestra in Hollywood. By any chance, do you play the violin?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“My name’s Stephens. What can we do for you this fine autumn morning?”

“I was wondering if I could get a ride into town.”

“Did you hear that noise, that rumble like thunder a little while ago?”

“Yes, I did. And there don’t seem to be any clouds or storms around.” Solo scanned the dawn sky, looking again at the fading stars.

The man shook his head. “He okay, Pag?”

The dog sat beside Solo and glanced up at his face.

“Well, Pag seems to give you a good bill of health. As it happens, the woman and I are pulling out after breakfast, after we get packed up and police this campsite. Come in and have some breakfast. Then you can ride along.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it,” Adam Solo said and caressed the dog.

“Damn weather in these mountains is weird as hell,” the man said. “We’ve been here too long anyway. Gonna snow soon, and we sure don’t want to be here when it does.”

“Yes,” Solo replied and followed the man and dog into the trailer.

There were two FBI agents waiting in the outer office for Harrison Douglas when he arrived through his private door. The secretary was nervous when she told him about the visitors.

Douglas merely grunted, “Show them in.”

They were middle-aged and wore sports coats and cheap ties. After he examined their credentials, Douglas tried to look appropriately mystified. “What is this about?”

“Just a few questions, sir,” the agent with the tired eyes said. “We understand you paid for the salvage of the flying saucer from the floor of the Atlantic?”

“I didn’t. World Pharmaceuticals did.”

“But you authorized the operation, and were there on the salvage ship?”

Douglas acknowledged the truth of that statement with a nod of his head.

“Could you tell us why you wanted the saucer?” the other agent asked.

Harrison Douglas launched into his explanation, the same explanation he had given his board and expounded upon to the press after Solo stole his saucer. The search for scientific knowledge and all that.

“Did you hope the saucer would have secrets that would be marketable?” the first agent pressed.

“Of course.”

“What secrets?”

“Well, sir, if I knew that we wouldn’t have spent eight million bucks trying to raise the darn thing. We paid for the salvage on speculation. My attorneys assured me that my salvage of that thing was perfectly legal. Said it was abandoned. Sure looked like it to me, sitting down there on the sea floor. Have you people found it, or that thief Solo, who stole it?”

No, they hadn’t.

Twenty minutes later they left, knowing no more than Douglas had told the press.

When they were gone, Douglas picked up the telephone on the desk and asked his secretary to ring up a number that belonged to one of the guys he knew in Philadelphia.

Adam Solo and Abe and Muriel Stephens rode along in splendor in the big Ford diesel pickup that Stephens used to tow his camper. Stephens produced a violin from a battered case, and Solo inspected it carefully.

“It appears to be a Jacob Stainer,” Solo said, “but it has been altered. The neck angle has been changed.”

Stephens took his eyes off the road to inspect Solo again. “What did you say your name was?”

“Traveler. Adam Traveler.”

“You know your violins, Traveler. Play us something.”

“Ah, it has been a long time. And I haven’t practiced.” Actually, Solo hadn’t played the violin in ten years, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “I once played professionally,” he did say, “and they say muscle memory can be a great thing.”

“Play something,” Muriel urged. “Anything.”

Solo inspected the violin carefully, then the bow. He quickly tuned the violin, tightening the strings and plucking them until he was satisfied.

Fortunately, he reflected, the suspension on the pickup was more stable than one would expect.

He played a few chords to ensure the violin was in tune, then without ado began.

The music filled the cab of the truck and mesmerized the small audience. Stephens pulled the truck over to the first wide place on the road he saw and stopped. He turned off the engine and closed his eyes.

When Solo had finished and put the instrument on his lap and was again inspecting the bow, Stephens said, “Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, Third Movement.”

“Yes.”

“I have never in my life heard the artificial harmonics played better. Or Tchaikovsky, for that matter.”

“This,” Solo said, gesturing to the violin, “is a quality instrument. I once played an instrument much like this, a Stainer, for several years. It is a rare privilege to touch one again. To have it in my hands. To play it.”

“When? With what orchestra?” Muriel pressed.

“Ah, it was long ago. When I was very young.” Solo flipped his fingers dismissively. “Drive on,” he said to Abe. “As I told you, I am a traveler.”