a pint sized Hiroshima, if it has atomic power in it?”

Morgan grinned at him, as though he was a kid. “I said it was powered by atomic energy, not atomic bombs. There’s a kind of difference in...”

“Hey, Sam! C’mere!”

Both of the men turned to look across the twisted mass of wreckage to where Cartwell and Dickson were standing. The blond Fed was holding up a piece of the wreckage and his face glowed with excitement that he didn’t try to cover.

“C’mon, Nolan,” Sam grinned. “Let’s go see what my buddy dug up ... I’ll bet its a Russian manufacturer’s trade mark.”

They skirted the wreck and trotted up to where Cartwell stood with the piece of metal. “Russian, huh?” asked Sam.

[p82]“Russian, hell,” Cartwell snorted. “It looks like a cross between Chinese and Arabic.”

[p82]

[p

]

Sam took the piece and looked at it, the cigar clamped belligerently in his jaws. After a tense moment, he grunted noncommittally and passed the thing to Nolan Brice.

He knew nothing of Russian, Chinese or Arabic, but he knew what Chinese characters looked like. The imprinted marks on the metal bore a certain resemblance to the Chinese language, but yet were not the same. It consisted of strange marks that were like nothing Brice had ever seen before.

“There are similar markings on the control panel,” Dickson said into the silence.

“Crap,” Sam Morgan snorted. “I say Russian. How about you, partner?”

Cartwell furled his blond brows. “I think I’d rather let an expert look this piece over before I make any kind of guess as to where that wreck flew from.” He turned to Nolan. “Where can we find an expert, Brice?”

“Everett College would be the only place I know of.”

“Okay, we’ll give them a try. Where’s Lieutenant Peters?”

Morgan jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the other side of the clearing. “Over there,” he said, “dressing 

 Prev. P 48/96 next