GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Read online

  The young man smiled. ‘I want to pay you a visit,’ he said. ‘But you keep all these things in your head; fill me in just a little.’

  ‘There were hundreds,’ the old man said. ‘Every conceivable kind. High-level, low-level, distant, actual contact; electrical and mechanical interference, numerous car-chasing incidents; mental and physical effects on people, animals similarly affected; landings with genuine traces left behind, the materials still unidentified. So, there were plenty.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the young man said. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Good witnesses,’ the old man said. ‘All reliable witnesses. We’ve never had such quality before. Most encouraging. Quite heartening.’

  ‘Irving said that.’

  ‘Irving’s dead,’ the old man said. ‘Irving told me he had found something important… now Irving is dead.’

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ the young man said.

  ‘Alright, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Tell me about some sightings,’ the young man said. ‘Who in hell are your witnesses?’

  ‘Policemen,’ the old man said. ‘We’re running a survey on police sightings. A policeman isn’t prone to hysteria and he’s trained to observe.’

  The old man stroked his beard, offered a sigh, studied his hands. The helicopter roared in his ears, making his head throb.

  ‘October 17, 1973,’ he said. ‘In Waverly, Illinois, in the early hours of the morning, the police chief and three citizens observe an object with green-and-red flashing lights. They watch the object with binoculars for an hour and a half; it gives out glowing embers that fall to the ground, then disappears as abruptly as it arrived… Los Angeles: police officers are summoned to investigate an object on the east side of the city; on arrival the officers see an oblong, bluish-white, very bright object which, when their car moves toward it, rises at a fortyfive degree angle to an altitude of about fifteen hundred feet and then speeds off… Palmyra, Missouri: several high-school students report that a bizarre object with flashing lights has appeared over the Missouri River, beamed a spotlight on a passing barge, lit up the entire river bottom, circled the river quite a few times, and approached onshore spectators before taking off vertically and disappearing. Four days later, Palmyra citizens and police observe an object with red, white and amber lights on it, plus two powerful headlights in front; this object silently and slowly circles the whole town at low level, and only when police officers shine a spotlight on it does it finally move away and disappear…’

  ‘Okay, you’ve convinced me.’ The younger man grinned, shook his head from side to side, glanced sideways at the old man, looked away, saw the silvery-blue sky. ‘Any contact? Anything verifiable?’

  ‘Not with the police.’

  The old sighed, a muted hint of defeat, played distractedly with the collar of his rumpled shirt, his hazel gaze on the desert. The helicopter was vibrating, roaring and rattling about him, lifting up and then dropping down again in a sickening fashion. The old man kept looking down, seeing the mountains and valleys, the red earth, the scorched, writhing rocks, a world untouched by time… No, that wasn’t so: nothing there had remained untouched. He looked down on Two Guns, Winona, Humphrey’s Peak, thought of all that had lived there and passed away because it no longer mattered. The land below was haunted, the dust settling over history, erasing the Apache and the Mojave, the Papago and the Pima, the Hopi and the Hualapai and the Yavapai, the Maricopa and Paiute. The Spanish ricos had disappeared but lonely missions remained, their walls bleached by the sun and eroded by fierce, abrasive winds, their ancient bells red with rust. Arizona was unreal, a dream of legend and myth, its prairies crossed by Kit Carson and Billy the Kid and Wyatt Earp, still sheltering the reservations and pueblos, the sad remains of the Indians. The old man stared down and shivered, felt the clinging, familiar fear, tried to reconcile the past with the present and its possible future. He thought of the White Sands Proving Ground, of Alamogordo, New Mexico, of Los Alamos and what it represented: the ever-threatening Atomic Age. Yes, the future was here and now – in aeronautics and atomic research. It was also in the lights in the sky that now obsessed the whole world.

  ‘There has of course been contact,’ the old man said. ‘Bu, alas, not with policemen.’

  ‘The Air Force?’

  ‘Doubtless. But no announced.’

  ‘No. Those bastards wouldn’t.’

  The old man stroked his beard, looking more tired each minute, a slight, almost imperceptible shiver running down through his body.

  ‘Still,’ the young man said, ‘I think we’re becoming more respectable. Did you know that on 21 February this year Monsieur Robert Galley, the French Minister of Defence, gave an interview on France-Inter in which he stated categorically that UFOs exist, that the phenomenon over France was massive, that they were considered of definite interest to national defence, and that since 1970, in collaboration with the Gendarmerie, all information regarding French sightings has been passed over to the Groupment d’Etudes des Phenomenes Aeriens for investigation? I also note that this very month the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics has revitalized its UFO committee. So, not to pun, things are looking up.’

  The old man seemed lost in thought, fingers scratching at his beard, looking slightly impoverished beside the more colorful presence of his younger friend. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and remote, as if divorced from him.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he confessed. ‘I’m growing old and I’m tired. I’ve been at this business for twenty-five and I’ve had too many friends kill themselves. I’m not tired. I’m just frightened.’

  His young friend did not reply, merely gazed down at the desert, momentarily embarrassed into silence, knowing what the old man meant.

  ‘You’ve heard of Calvin Parker and Charles Hickson?’

  ‘Yes,’ the young man said. ‘The Pascagoula case.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ the old man said. ‘The publicity was astonishing. A close encounter of the third kind that even Hynek was inclined to believe. When was that? Was it last year?’

  ‘Yes,’ the young man said. ‘You’ve got the year right. The mouth of the Pascagoula River in Mississippi. A hell of a buzz.’

  ‘Some can’t be broken down,’ the old man said. ‘Some are just beyond reasoning.’ He closed his fist and coughed into it, shook his head as if disgusted, rubbed at his eyes and glanced down, saw the stark, shadowed mountains. ‘Route 114A near Manchester, New Hampshire. November, 1973, at four in the morning. Driving home from work, a twenty-five year old woman – checked out, highly intelligent – notices a bright orange light that repeatedly vanishes and reappears in the sky ahead. About seven miles farther on, the object is much closer than before, much lower, much larger. Estimated as being about sixteen hundred feet in front of her, it is ball-shaped and honeycombed with various hexagons. The object has a translucent quality about it, with red, green and blue rays emanating from its center; and it is making a steady, high-pitched whining sound that makes her whole body tingle. Briefly, as follows… Though frightened, the woman is unable to remove her hands from the steering wheel and feels that the object is somehow drawing her car toward it. There is a memory-loss during a half-mile stretch. Recovering, the woman finds her car hurtling at the object, which is now about thirty feet above the ground. Still driving, and about five-hundred feet from the hovering object, the woman notices a widow and an occupant inside, the occupant framed waist-up by the window. Description: head greyish, round, dark on top; eyes, large and egg-shaped; skin under the eyes loose or wrinkled. The witness didn’t notice any eyes or ears, though this may not mean anything… The witness seemed to be genuine.’ ‘Any trace cases?’

  ‘Too many to recount.’

  ‘Actual contact?’

  ‘Yes, your Pascagoula case.’

  ‘That,’ the young man said, ‘was a humdinger.’

  ‘Greyish skin again. Conical appendages for nose and ears. Round feet and hands, crablike claws, lot of w
rinkles, no eyes recalled.’

  ‘But five feet tall.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Almost human.’

  ‘That’s right. Almost human…’

  The old man’s voice trailed off, was drowned out by the roaring helicopter, which was turning and dipping toward the earth, sunlight flashing around it. The old man felt ill, his stomach rumbling, heart fluttering, as he looked down on Dinosaur City, a gleaming maze in the desert.

  ‘We’ll soon be there,’ his young friend said.

  ‘Good,’ the old man said. ‘I want to get this over and done with. I’m not as young as I used to be.’

  ‘Well, you’re still working. You’ve kept the institute going. I’m glad you haven’t given up yet. You’re doing valuable work there.’

  ‘I hope so. I’m not sure. We can only do a limited amount. On the other hand, we are more organized these days – and nowadays they cooperate.’

  ‘The Air Force?’

  ‘Yes. To a certain extent. However, what’s more important – indeed, as you’ve just said – is the fact that witnesses from all walks of life are coming forward more willingly. The crank reports are now almost at zero, while reports from flight personnel, astronomers, and even astronauts, are being received at an astonishing rate. We now have a computer data bank for analysis of reports and storage of information. Areas covered include medical examinations of people and animals affected, psychological studies of witness reliability, theoretical studies of UFO movements and properties, photographic and special graphic analysis of UFOs, and analysis of plants that a UFO may have affected. In short, we’re covering the subject pretty thoroughly.’

  The young man smiled, flicked blond hair from his blue eyes, glanced briefly at the pilot in front, then looked again at his older friend.

  ‘I believe it,’ he said.

  ‘And now Irving.’

  ‘Jesus Christ… yes… I’m sorry.’

  They fell silent after that, both plunged into gloom, each locked into his personal concept of what might have happened. The helicopter rolled and dipped, started shuddering and falling, and looking down they US 66, curving back toward the mountains. The old man rubbed his eyes, the sun dazzling him, blinding him, then he reached for the knot in his tie and nervously tightened it.

  ‘There they are,’ his friend said.

  The old man looked down, saw the dark line of the road, a ribbon winding around buttes and through valleys, shades of green, rose and lavender. Panic came and then departed, left him drained and forlorn, silvery sunlight exploding around him and then disappearing, leaving blue sky, white haze, a flock of dark birds, a jagged barrier of mountains in the distance, a stream of dense clouds above them.

  The taste of death and its aftermath; the accumulation of fresh pain… His heart pounded and he let the fear depart and opened himself to his anger. He was old, most assuredly, growing older every, but gazing down upon the highway, seeing it widen and rush up toward him, seeing the police cars and the ambulance and the men around the other car, he let the rage wash away his grief and fear and charge his blood with new life. That was Irving down there. Back in Phoenix, Mary wept. The old man coughed and muttered and oath and sat back looking grim.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.

  The helicopter dropped lower, roared louder, shuddered violently, brown rock and parched grass and yellow cacti racing up to enfold it. Looking down, he saw the police cars, the ambulance, the milling men, the latter staring up, waving hands, shading eyes, the red dust being swept up by the helicopter and swirling around them. The helicopter moved on, crossed the road, still ascending, and then settled down a couple of hundred yards from the road. There was a bump, a brief shaking, a creaking subsidence, then peace, the engine whining into silence, the rotor blades finally stopping.

  ‘Okay, you guys,’ the pilot said loudly. ‘Here we are. It’s all yours.’

  The young man with the blond hair and colorful clothes unsnapped his safety belt and stood up. The old man was slower, fumbling clumsily with his belt, finally managing to unsnap it and rise, breathing harshly, laboriously. There was a rattling and banging, a beam of sunlight poured in, then the pilot slid the ladder through the doorway and motioned them outside. The young man went out first, held his hand up to the older man, took his elbow and guided him down the ladder to the safety of solid ground. The air was filled with swirling dust. The old man coughed and blinked repeatedly, shaking his eyes with one hand; he felt the sudden, claustrophobic, burning heat and then followed his young friend. They kicked sand and trampled shrubs, saw a lizard, a line of ants, then they arrived at the edge of the road and saw their friend, Irving Jacobs.

  Irving was in his car, his face flattened against the steering wheel, the back of his head blown away, a bloody mess all around him. His arms hung down by his sides, the wind rippling his shirt-sleeves, and his face was turned slightly toward them, staring at them with dead eyes.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ the young man said.

  The old man said nothing, simply shuddered and turned aside, tightened his tie and then took a deep breath and looked slowly around him. He saw police cars, the ambulance, the white-clad medics, the milling cops, then a fat man wiping sweat from his forehead walked over to him.

  ‘Stanford?’

  ‘No, I’m Stanford.’ The young blond man stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you all this time. I had a bit of a hold-up.’

  The fat man stared at Stanford, wiped from sweat from his face; he was big, but that didn’t stop his gut from flopping over his belt.

  ‘I’m Toland,’ he said. ‘Captain Toland. Homicide. I don’t know what you birds want out here, but you better be quick. He’s startin’ to stink already. He’s been cooked by the sun. He shot himself early this morning. Put the gun in his mouth.’

  ‘What gun?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ Toland said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stanford said. ‘This is Dr Frederick Epstein. Of the Aerial Phenomena Investigations Institute in Washington. I told you I’d bring him.’

  ‘Washington, eh?’ Toland said, mopping sweat from his brow. ‘He must be a big fish.’

  ‘Not big at all,’ Epstein said. ‘He was just a close friend. Now what’s this gun you’re talking about? My friend didn’t own a gun. In fact, he didn’t even know how to shoot one. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘You don’t have to know how to shoot one to blow your own head off.’ The captain pulled out a handkerchief, mopped the back of his neck, glancing around at the cops taking measurements and photographing the dead man. ‘You just unclip the safety catch,’ he said, looking down at Dr Epstein, ‘and stick the barrel in your mouth and squeeze the trigger. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘He didn’t own a gun,’ Epstein repeated stubbornly. ‘He wouldn’t have known where to buy one.’

  ‘What are you, Doc? A scientist?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m a scientist.’

  ‘You sound pretty melodramatic for a scientist. You can buy a gun anywhere.’

  Epstein glanced at Stanford, saw him shrugging his shoulders; he glanced briefly at the dusty red Ford: at the policemen around it. The cops were dressed in tan, wore dark glasses and brimmed hats, seemed threatening with their pistols and clubs, murmuring jokes, laughing raucously. Epstein saw the side of the car, the door open, an arm dangling. Beneath a limp hand the sand was stained with a patch of dried blood. Epstein shuddered and turned away, felt anguish and choking rage, rising out of himself and floating back to take a grip on his future. Captain Toland was staring at him, towering above him, gazing down, his fat face burned by sun and desert wind, his shirt rumpled and sweat-soaked.

  ‘It was a Luger,’ Toland said. ‘A German Luger. We’ve wrapped it up for the lab boys.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have bought a gun,’ Epstein said.

  ‘Then he stole it,’ Toland said. ‘He got a Luger and he shoved it into his mouth and that’s all there is to it.’ />
  ‘I don’t believe that,’ Epstein said.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Toland said. He turned his head and looked appealingly at Stanford. ‘The Doc thinks it was murder.’ The thought clearly amused Toland, made him grin and scratch his belly; then he turned back to Epstain, held his shoulder, and said, ‘Here, come with me, Doc.’

  They went around some lounging cops, past the ambulance, toward the Ford, Epstein feeling a deep surge of revulsion at the sight of that dangling arm. Then he looked down at his friend, saw the bloody, shattered head, turned aside and lowered his gaze to see a dark stain on red earth.

  ‘Don’t look at him,’ Toland said. ‘Just take a good look around you. Tell me what you see or what you don’t see. Just have a good look.’

  Epstein did as he was told, a small man, tired and grim, rubbing nervously at his beard and looking around him, his hazel eyes lined with age. The desert lay there before him, scorched eternally by the sun, rolling away between the buttes, into valleys, the distant mountains in blue haze. Stillness. Desolation. His gaze returned to the men around him. The medics had taken a stretcher from the ambulance and were advancing on the dusty red Ford. They dragged Epstein’s friend out, a dead thing, meat and bone, and he choked back his revulsion and rage, looked once, turned away again. The sky, the white clouds, the ochre mountains beneath them; the mountains fell to the wilderness floor that stretched across to his feet.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He said.

  Toland sighed with satisfaction, twisted his body, glanced around him, then waved one hand languidly at the road, at the tracks of the vehicles.

  ‘Those tracks there,’ he said. ‘The tracks right in front of you. They belong to your friend’s car and there isn’t the trace of a skid mark: he drove up here and stopped.’ Toland waved his hand again, indicating more tire tracks – tracks criss-crossing each other and spread out to the police cars and ambulance. ‘He was found by our patrol car. There were no other tracks here. Those tracks you see belong to our vehicles – before we came, there was nothing. Just one set of tracks – your friend’s tracks – there were no other vehicles. Our own car was the first to find him. No other cars had passed this way. No tire tracks, no footprints. No nothing. He did it all on his own, Doc.’