"You go to h.e.l.l. I like my job and I don't want to get booted out because of a science fiction twist on an otherwise normal investigation."

"What's the next move?" Nolan asked, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Cartwell shrugged. "Go back to the wreck, I guess and try to figure out something."

Sam suddenly slammed his fist on the table and several textbooks danced.

"John," he exploded. "You _know_ what this means, don't you? If the professor's right, and this gibberish on this chunk of metal _isn't_ an Earth language, then we got problems! You know what we got up there? We got a Flying Saucer! A s.p.a.ce ship!"

"Oh, my G.o.d, Sam cut it out! I don't believe in the d.a.m.ned things, I refuse to."

Sam snickered. "It looks to me as though you haven't any choice in the matter. It's like refusing to believe in a Ford V-8; it don't make any difference whether you believe it or not, it's there."

"Jesus," Cartwell said softly.

"And that isn't the payoff. We didn't find a body in the wreckage.

Unless that ship traveled by remote control, it had a pilot who is wandering around the country right now. I can see it now. A wounded little green man running around trying to hitch a ride back to Mars.

It'd be funny if it wasn't so d.a.m.ned serious."

Cartwell nodded at his partner. "We'd better get back up there to the site. Maybe the air search or the rescue squads picked something up.

Coming, Brice?"

Nolan forced a grin. "With little green men running around?" Then he became serious. "I'll be up a little later. I have something to do down here."

Morgan snorted as they headed for the door. "See if you can locate a Buck Rogers ray gun. We might need it."

They went back to their cars and Nolan Brice wedged himself behind the wheel but he didn't start the engine. He sat there, instead, watching the Government men drive off down the street, his mind whirling with a million jangling thoughts that tore through him viciously. Flying saucers, Martians, little green men! The whole d.a.m.ned thing was impossible, ridiculous...

But true. A man just couldn't sit down and say "I refuse to believe in lightning." It didn't make sense. You had to believe what your mind told you ... and his mind was telling him wild things.

It all fit. h.e.l.l, it fit with a perfection that was absolutely fantastic, but crazy enough to be the truth. Nick Danson, commercial artist, disappeared thirteen months ago and every police agency in the country can't locate him. It was as if the earth had opened and swallowed him; but it hadn't been the earth, it had been the sky. _They_ had done it ... the Martians, or whatever the h.e.l.l they were.

Why? Why steal a Terran?

To replace him? To send an alien being down to take the place of the Terran they had stolen. That took care of the confusion the watch had represented. For awhile it had looked as though Nick had piloted that s.p.a.ce ship, but now Nolan knew better. It wasn't Nick. It was an alien!

Beth!

Had an alien, posing as Nick, located Beth and was now engaged in using her to help in whatever they had come here to do? How many other Missing Persons cases were wrapped up in this thing? How many aliens were walking the streets of earth right now? To h.e.l.l with that, Nolan, he roared at himself. The important thing is Beth. You've got to find out about this thing and stop it, before something happens to her.

He started the car, slammed it into gear and gunned it out onto the street, the tires screaming a protest...

CHAPTER TEN

Janet was more than a beautiful woman and a good model. She was white heat and surging womanhood all dolled up in a body like that of a French movie star. She was as wanton as a Polynesian dancer and as demanding as a nympho. Lying there beside her relaxed nakedness, Nick Danson felt like another man - a tired one.

He laid his hand over the swelling rise of her breast and slid it down the flat velvet of her stomach. She made a small sound in her throat and kissed him on the cheek with lips like branding irons.

"I'm glad you have amnesia," she cooed against his ear.

"Why, for G.o.d's sake?"

She snuggled the curling warmth of her body against him and chuckled.

"Because of this. You used to kiss me, but that was all. I wanted more, but not you."

He blinked at the ceiling at her words. She'd tricked him! It was a nice trick, but still she'd cheated. All the time he'd figured that she was some sort of mistress, or something - obviously that's what _she_ had wanted, but in his other life he'd never given her a tumble. It was funny, in a way.

"You mean ... we never..."

"Nope." She chuckled again. "Aren't I a rat?"

"Vixen, is more like it."

"That's a good word. I like it. Janet Vixen. How would you like to kiss Janet Vixen, Nick Danson?"

"Suppose I get another knock on the head," he suggested, "and I lose the memory of all this, too? Then what?"

"I won't embarra.s.s you in front of company. C'mon, kiss me again, stranger!"

He rolled over and kissed her again and, tired or not, he could feel the desire surging through him again. Her small hands moved over the muscles of his shoulders, digging into his flesh, her teeth nibbling at his neck. Janet was one of those odd women who can't seem to take a darned thing serious. No matter what the risks were involved, to her making wild love was a h.e.l.l of a lot of fun and that was that. He had the hunch that if he tried to get serious with her - marriage serious - she'd bounce him fast. But h.e.l.l, it was impossible to think of things like that with her, besides he was having too much fun. If, he thought later, you can call it fun when you're so weak you can't move.

"I have to go, lover," she said finally. "Beth might come up, and I think she would be apt to get a little put out if she caught us in bed."

"That's putting it mildly," he grinned. "Besides, I have to start trying to find out about myself."

"Do me a favor and don't." She pecked him lightly on the lips. "I like the new Nick Danson a h.e.l.l of a lot better. C'mon. Snap my bra."

They climbed out of bed and he helped her into her shorts and halter.

She kissed him lightly again, said; "Good-by, lover," and bounced out into the hall, leaving him standing there, naked in the bedroom.

What a world, he thought for the hundredth time and began to gather his clothes. When he started to put his pants on, his wallet dropped from the hip pocket and flopped open on the floor. He picked it up, his eyes absently noticing the card that was exposed in the clear, plastic window. It was a Selective Service Registration Certificate and someone had written "small scar on right forearm" under the column for general markings. Absently he glanced at his right forearm, then his eyes widened in shock.

There was no scar!

A man cannot lose a scar, he told himself. He checked the card again. It was his, made out to Nicholas Howard Danson; but the scar was missing.

He searched his arm and it wasn't there. The full realization of the whole thing struck him suddenly like a punch in the mouth. He was _not_ Nicholas Howard Danson!

Who was he? What the h.e.l.l was going on? Had he killed the real Danson because they were obviously look alikes, and stolen the guy's I.D. Why?

Was he escaping from some kind of crime? Was he a criminal, and what did the strange dreams have to do with it?

Numbly he climbed into the rest of his clothes and made d.a.m.ned sure the .44 magnum was loaded when he strapped it on. His hands shook uncontrollably and he felt trapped. It would only be a matter of time before those people at the wreck figured out the whole story and came howling after him. He had to get out.

The screech of car brakes startled him and he leaped to the window. A police car was in the lane and a single, plainclothes cop was getting out. It could only be Nolan. He watched as Brice pulled his Police Positive from the speed rig and headed toward the house. Then Nick hauled out his magnum and slammed it into the window.

Brice dived behind a bush as the magnum threw a .44 slug that barely missed the cop. The .38 barked back and Nick ducked the splinters as the bullet chipped the window frame.