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of a foundation. Always it was an emergency, always he was to head the transition team. They were pulling him closer and closer to Langley, using his gray hairs to build him a deeper and deeper cover, putting him in charge of operations so large and crucial that he couldn’t possibly move without Langley’s logistical and technical support. Having Langley’s support was like being encased in cement. In the old days the Company had been different. In 1953 he’d been given a suitcase full of currency, an airline ticket, and a list of telephone numbers to memorize. A year later his little army of mercenaries was in the Guatemala jungles. That had been another time, a different world.
    The telephone didn’t ring, just lit up. He picked up the receiver.
    “Mr. Porterfield, it’s Mr. Bartlett of Crabtree and Bacon to speak to you about the audit,” said Mrs. Goode.
    “Tell him I’ll call him back,” said Porterfield. It was another annoyance, but only a temporary one. Until the communication between the Foundation and Langley could be moved to a safe wire of its own, he’d have to follow the procedure. In fifteen minutes he’d call back from a telephone booth in the neighborhood.
    “He says it’s very important and he’s got to leave his office to catch a flight this afternoon,” said Mrs. Goode.
    “Right,” said Porterfield, and pressed the button on his telephone. “Porterfield.”
    “It’s okay now,” said the voice. “The wire is installed.”
    “Good. Is that all?”
    “No. We’re calling about one of the projects Morrison has passed to you.” The “we” was perfect, thought Porterfield.
    “Which one?”
    “It’s a Professor Ian Donahue at ULA. The Director himself read the grant report and ordered the whole operation placed under the highest classification. Since three this morning we’ve had someone writing a replacement report. The Director called for Morrison to be here by ten-thirty,” the voice said smugly.
    “What about me?”
    “You’ve got until eleven.”

5                   
Kepler read aloud, “‘UFO R EPORTED IN D ESERT . T wo residents of the community of Cottonwood Pass, California, have reported finding what they believe to be the site where a flying saucer made a crash landing. David Greeley, sixty-two, and his wife Emma, sixty, came upon a shallow crater with bits of burned metal wreckage in Fried Liver Wash, a remote area east of the San Bernardino Mountains, last Tuesday while on a rock-hunting expedition. In an interview Mr. Greeley predicted that an analysis of the wreckage would reveal that it was made of a metal not known on Earth. He further stated that a second spacecraft must have landed nearby to rescue survivors and salvage the critical components of the wrecked saucer, including its precious power source. “If only we’d been there on Saturday,” said Mr. Greeley, “we might have solved America’s energy problems forever. But it wasn’t meant to be.” Officers of the California Highway Patrol dispatched from Palm Springs to the site reported that it was the wreckage of an old pickup truck which had apparently been set afire by vandals.’”
    “Vandals?” said Immelmann. “I guess so.” He stared out the car window.
    “Where are we going, Chinese?” said Kepler. “You’re getting to be a pain in the ass, always driving us around to—” he read from the newspaper, “‘a remote area east of the San Bernardino Mountains’ or some damn place like it was a scavenger hunt.”
    “Nothing remote today,” said Chinese Gordon. “Just over to East L.A. to see a guy.”
    “Who?” said Immelmann quietly. “What kind of guy?”
    “Well,” said Chinese Gordon, staring ahead as he turned off the freeway, “not a very nice guy, I guess, but a guy who can help us. His name is Jorge Grijalvas.”
    “Whore-hay?” shouted Kepler. “Did you say whore-hay?”
    “Approximately,” said Chinese Gordon.
    Immelmann said slowly,