that blamed cube.'
'You're being too hard on yourself. That was a masterful job you did with your cuneiform markings. Good Lord, Indy, that artifact is as real as anything from the past I've ever seen.'
'I know, I know,' Indy broke in. 'When does the real word get out?'
'All in good time. Right now whoever it was that forced down the flying boat, the whole bloody lot you already know about, is still convinced the artifact is, or may be, real. That means they'll try to unlock its secrets. Failing that, as only you and I know they will, they'll try to move it to a highpaying buyer. So long as that pattern is followed, Indy, it remains our very best opportunity to start identifying people.'
Indy raised an eyebrow. 'That's your problem, Thomas. All that cloakanddagger dashing about isn't my game.'
'But you're very good at it. Your background suits the situation perfectly, you know. And we do need somebody willing to become a target for this gang, whoever they are. You'll have to keep on the alert, just like any M.I. operative.'
'I'll ignore your lumping me with spies and assassins, if you don't mind,' Indy retorted. Then, in a more serious tone, 'Do we have anything more on those saucer things?
I'm not even certain as to how to describe them. I've heard saucers, discs, crescents, a whole porridge of names.'
'Tell me, Indy, what do you think of them?'
'Assuming that they're real and they perform as we've been told?'
'Yes.'
'Well, all I can say is that they're really remarkable.'
'Do I detect a note of subtle evasion there, Indy?'
'Not at all. Listen, Thomas, not being fully informed doesn't justify drawing conclusions based on a lack of data.
You can go dead wrong in a hurry that way.'
'I'd like you to remember the name of an American you'll be meeting up with soon,' Treadwell said abruptly.
'What's that got to do with those machines?'
'More than you may think. The name is Harry Henshaw. He's a colonel in your military flying force. Brilliant man, really. He's in technical intelligence. That means he's everything from a test pilot to an investigator of anything and everything that flies. He's part of our team. Hands across the sea, that sort of thing.
And right now he is turning heaven and earth upside down trying to find anything and everything in the present, and in the past, that may relate to disc shapes in flight.'
'What's his opinion?'
'The things are real. They fly as we've heard. Blistering speed and all that.'
Treadwell went infuriatingly silent. 'And?' Indy pressed. 'Are they, in his opinion, ours, or,' he looked upward, 'theirs? Whoever and whatever they may be.'
'Too early for conclusions, but he leans to a huge leap forward in aerodynamics, not something flitting about in space.'
'Why?'
'You'd better find out from Henshaw directly. By the by, he's given me a message for you. One with which I concur completely, I might add.'
'Sounds serious.'
'It is,' Treadwell said. 'Henshaw said for you to watch your step and to keep your eyes open. No matter how smart we think we've been, the people we're trying to identify know more about us than I like.'
Indy's eyes narrowed. 'How?'
'Henshaw suspects—no; he's convinced there's a traitor in our little group.
Which means as well, Indy, that you would be wise not to let your own people know too much of what we've discussed.'
'My people are fine,' Indy said defensively.
'I hope so.' Treadwell was unruffled by Indy's sudden change in mood. 'I dearly hope so. But I'll tell you this much from my own experience. You will always be surprised in this game.'
3
Willard Cromwell lifted the bourbon bottle in a slow, deliberate motion to his lips, neatly surrounding the mouth of the bottle with his own, and took a long, gurgling swallow. He brought down the bottle slowly, smacked his lips, belched, and with the ease of long practice replaced the cork. His powerful hand banged the bottle on the table of the living room in the isolated farmhouse Indy had rented for a month.
They felt they were in the middle of nowhere, the fields and farmhouse nestled along the banks of the Maquoketa River in eastern Iowa. But for the moment his companions seemed fascinated with Cromwell's every move.
Cromwell had flown as a squadron commander in Britain's Royal Flying Corps against the best of the Kaiser's sharpshooters in their Albatross and Fokker and Rumpler machines. Flying the wickedhandling Sopwith Camel, he'd twisted and whirled through enough battles to send sixteen of Germany's finest spinning earthward, giving up their lives for the Fatherland in the Great War raging across the continent. Then some snotnosed young replacement, terrified by his first taste of combat and watching his comrades burning to death as their planes whirled crazily earthward, had panicked in the midst of battle and flown wildly through a huge dogfight. Cromwell saw him coming, knew he stood no danger from another Sopwith, but could hardly have imagined that the fearfrozen young man
