[p

]

“That leaves the big one, then. Russian?”

Cartwell shrugged. “Could be. If it is, we want the wreckage. No matter what it is, or whose it is, we are very interested in any aircraft that travels at speeds of fifteen to nineteen thousand miles per hour.”

Nolan whistled again. “That’s rolling,” he grinned.

“Yeah,” mused Sam Morgan, “and we’d kind of like to know what makes it roll like that.”

“Okay. Let’s go into a huddle,” Nolan said. “But I can tell you this. If the thing went down in north central Pennsylvania, it’s in some pretty rugged country.”

“Great,” Cartwell snarled.

[p27]CHAPTER THREE

[p27]

[p

]

The dream was of a woman.

He was lying on a strangely made bed, the warm breezes of evening rolling in off the crashing sea and the woman stood in the ornate doorway that entered the bedroom. About him lay all manner of bright silks and strange colored cloths. The woman smiled and his eyes caressed her.

Her hair was as gold as the noon sun and her eyes, lifting slightly at the outer corners, were as blue as the sea. Her lips petaled back over the white strength of her teeth and her fingers did strange things to make the flimsy robe drop from the rounded softness of her shoulders. He watched her walk, upon curvaceous legs, to the edge of the bed. For just a second, she smiled down at him.

“Father is sleeping like a baby,” she whispered.

He felt himself talk: “Good.” Then his fingers curled about the curve of her thigh. His fingers tightened and the crimson smile broadened; he pulled and felt her resist him with maidenly demureness, but in the end she came to him.

He felt the yielding firmness of her body pressing down into his on the bed and 

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