Nolan nodded.

"That's a nuclear reactor," Sam went on. "Uncle Sam doesn't have anything in the air with that kind of power. I think we're testing a few engines, but nothing flying yet."

"Then it is Russian?"

"That's my guess. No other country would build it. Oh, Great Britain could, but if it was one of theirs, they would have plastered the red and blue targets on it. Offhand, it looks to me like a glorified version of the old U-2 thing, only on their side."

Brice didn't answer. He stared at the wreckage as though it were some sort of demon, while a million thoughts burst in his brain. Nick Danson was in this? He flew it? Where did he get it? How did he get it? Was it Russian? Was Nick a Russian spy?

He tried to cover the amazement on his face by lighting a cigarette.

"How come it didn't develop into 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 ma.s.s of wreckage to where Cartwell and d.i.c.kson 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.

"Russian, h.e.l.l," Cartwell snorted. "It looks like a cross between Chinese and Arabic."

Sam took the piece and looked at it, the cigar clamped belligerently in his jaws. After a tense moment, he grunted noncommittally and pa.s.sed 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," d.i.c.kson said into the silence.

"c.r.a.p," 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 down one of his Weekend Warriors."

"Sam. How about going over and remind him to keep any characters off the site. I have a horror of having the news boys scoop us on this."

Sam nodded and took off to talk with the Army. d.i.c.kson looked at Cartwell.

"Anything for me?" he asked.

"No. Just continue with your investigators. You can make the arrangements about having this thing hauled down to Everett, but check with me before you do. Okay?"

d.i.c.kson nodded.

"C'mon, Brice," Cartwell said. "Let's get Morgan and find out what the college professors can tell us about this screwy thing."

They wrapped the piece of metal in Cartwell's jacket and the three of them headed through the forest toward the road in the valley.

Professor Nichols was a wisp of a man who peered at them through small, bright eyes nearly hidden in fleshy folds. Although his body was about the shortest Brice had ever seen on a man, the brain beneath his crop of white hair had made him a giant. A linguist all his life, Professor Nichols spoke a dozen languages fluently, in addition to reading and writing them. Brice knew him by reputation and grinned at him as he came into the empty Dean's office.

"Gentlemen?" He favored them with a smile. "I'm Nichols. Doctor Bendtolz said you wanted to speak with me."

Brice introduced himself and the Federal men and, after a round of handshaking, Cartwell handed the chunk of metal to the professor.

"We'd like to know about the writing, Professor," Sam put in.

Nichols examined the etching on the metal for some time before he looked up. His small eyes searched their faces in turn, then he smiled thinly as though witnessing a very bad gag.

"Are you gentlemen playing some sort of joke?" he asked.

"The Government doesn't pay us to play jokes," Cartwell informed him cryptically. "Do you know the language?"

Professor Nichols shook his head. "I know every spoken language in the world, and I know many of the dead languages at least by sight. I don't know this one."

"You're serious?"

The old man nodded. "This must be some sort of jest on me. There is no language on Earth, dead or alive, that matches this."

"We aren't joking, Professor," Nolan said seriously.

"Then, my friend, someone must be playing a joke on you. No linguist can identify this language. I'll stake my reputation on that. Where did you get this?"

Cartwell smiled. "I'm sorry, professor, but we cannot disclose that information. We'll also have to ask you to forget about it. Government business, you know."

"Yes, of course. Is there anything else? I have a cla.s.s in three minutes..."

"No, that's all. Thank you, Professor Nichols."

"You're welcome. Good day, gentlemen."

As the door closed behind him, a thick silence fell over the three men.

Cartwell looked out the window and pulled at his lower lip with a blunt thumb and forefinger; Nolan sat on the edge of a desk, looking at the strange writing as an ethnologist might stare at the bones of the missing link.

"What now?" Sam asked, softly. "Call in a Martian to get his opinion?"

"It's not funny, Sam."

"Don't I know it," Sam shot back. "We've got some kind of tiger by the tail in this case ... a tiger bigger than the Kremlin, and I'm wondering how this will all sound in a report to the capital."

Cartwell snorted and ran a hand through his blond hair. "I'll let you write the report, Sam."