When Bill Taggart got back to the circle of light from the propane lamp, the professor was explaining: '… Modern man appears in the archaeological record about one hundred thousand years ago, but the story is mixed, hard to decipher. At least two other species of hominids lived at the same time. All we know for a fact is that modern man survived and the other hominids became extinct.'
Professor Soldi gestured into the larger darkness. 'A hundred millennia ago this area was probably a lot like parts of Arizona are today, with wooded hills and mountains rising above the arid desert floor. People lived wherever there was a dependable source of water — didn't have to be much, just a little, but steady. The desert encroached and retreated with variations in rainfall.'
'How do you see what's under the sand?'
'We use radar. We look through the sand with radar, map the terrain, locate places that we think it likely that water might have been more plentiful than elsewhere. If these sites aren't buried too deep, we dig.'
'Any luck so far?'
'Oh, yes,' Soldi said, and from a trouser pocket he removed a large flint blade. 'This knife,' he said, cradling it in his hand, 'may be fifty thousand years old.'
'The saucer might be that old,' Rip said. 'Or older.'
'Extraordinary, isn't it?' Soldi exclaimed, his voice vibrant and full of energy. 'The technology in that saucer and the technology represented by this knife blade. They were found just thirty miles apart and are apparently so dissimilar. And yet… '
The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east when Rip Cantrell awoke. He was too excited to sleep. He could think of nothing except the saucer.
He rolled off the cot, pounded his boots to make sure that they were empty, then put them on. He pulled on his shorts and a T-shirt he had worn only a couple of days, then slipped out of the tent.
The air was invigorating, cool, and crisp. Actually, it was cold. He went back into the tent and rooted through his clothes for a sweatshirt. And a sweater.
After a long, delicious drink of cool water and a couple of leftover rolls from last night's dinner, Rip set off on foot for the saucer. Dutch and Bill and the professor could bring the Jeep later.
As he walked he watched the first light of dawn chase away the shadows. This summer job was his first real experience with the desert, and he loved it.
He was at least a mile away when he saw the saucer reflecting the dawn's pink light. God, it looked… so… sublime! Mysterious and sublime.
Today would be the day they got some answers. Yes. He could feel it.
He climbed around on the rock, looking at the saucer from every angle. He put his hands on it, felt the cool, smooth, sensuous surface. When he lifted his hands, their outline remained in the surface dust.
From the top of the stone ledge that had imprisoned the saucer, he watched the sun rise over the rim of the earth.
Why here? Why had they landed here, in this place? Was it a desert then?
When the sun was completely above the horizon, Rip got the shovel and began removing sandstone debris from under the saucer. He brushed loose sand and rubble away from the exposed landing gear skid with his fingers.
He almost missed it in the darkness of the early morning light. There, in the stone!
A handprint!
Just like the ones he had left in the dust on the skin of the ship… a handprint in the rock.
He blew all the sand from the print. Placed his own right hand in it.
The print in the stone was just a tiny bit smaller.
He sat down and stared at the print, trying to understand.
Finally he covered the print with loose sand, then packed the sand in hard.
He had the compressor going and was jackhammering rock under the saucer when the others arrived in the Jeep. He heard them drive up when he paused to move the hammer and rearrange the handkerchief he had tied over his mouth and nose.
Rip Cantrell grinned to himself. Yes. Today was going to be the day!
About nine that morning the men took a break from moving rock and rigged the tent, which was really a large tarpaulin without sides. An hour after they resumed work they uncovered a corner of the hatch in the bottom of the saucer. It was just aft of dead center, the thickest part of the ship.
The hatch cover joined the rest of the fuselage in a joint that was so fine it was easy to miss. As usual, Rip noticed it first.
They worked feverishly to break the rock loose from under the rest of the ship.
Panting from exertion and excitement, Professor Soldi crawled in and lay on his back, looking up at the hatch, which was about two feet above his head. Rip and Dutch lay on each side. In the center of the hatch was a drumstick-shaped cutout. At first blush, the cutout channel looked like an engraving. It was no more than a hundredth of an inch wide, if that.
Soldi wiped his hands on his shirt, then used his fingers to wipe the dust from his glasses. 'Look at the workmanship,' he whispered.
'Should we open it?' Dutch asked.
'You're assuming that we can,' Soldi remarked.
'Of course we can,' Rip said, his voice reflecting his optimism. I'll bet this whole ship is just the way they left it. There isn't a speck of rust on it.'
Soldi reached up and caressed the hatch with his fingertips. 'We are on the threshold of a new age.'
'Let's do it,' Rip said. He was out of patience.
'Relax, Rip,' Taggart rumbled.
'Perhaps we should wait for experts,' Soldi muttered, probably just to rag the young man beside him, who was almost quivering.
Dutch Haagen was kneeling beside a landing gear skid. 'I really don't want to meet anyone who claims to be an expert on flying saucers,' he said. 'Let's just get on with it before Qaddafi's boys arrive and run us off. Besides, the suspense is killing me.'
Soldi reached over his head. He pushed gently on the small cutout. Nothing. Pressed on one end, then the other. 'This is like pushing on a bank safe,' he said with his teeth clenched.
He pushed, tugged, pried with his fingers. Nothing.
'There's gotta be a trick to it,' Dutch remarked.
'I'm sure there is,' Dr. Soldi agreed.
'Let me try.' Rip bumped his hip against the professor, who glanced at the youngster's eager face, then moved over.
Rip put his hand against the cutout and held it there for a moment. Then he pressed on the large end. It gave. The small end moved down away from the fuselage.
'How about that!'
'It's sensitive to the heat of your hand.'
'How did you know that?'
'It just makes sense. Doesn't it?'
Carefully Rip grasped the handle. He applied pressure downward, then sideways. Finally he tried to rotate it. Now the handle turned, then the rear edge of the hatch moved inward.
The hatch opened slowly, making a tiny hissing sound.
When the sound stopped, the four men laid frozen looking at the gaping hole in the ship's hull.
'Oh, man!' Dutch exclaimed.
Chapter Three
