The Sex Life of the Gods
photo, Nick decided that her hair was brown. It swept about a soft,
heart shaped face like a cloud. The image was smiling at him and he felt
that if she was not his wife, he hoped that she was his girl.
It was late in the morning when he found the service station. It was a
small, lonely, isolated place that sported two pumps and cramped looking
lube rack. Through the open door of the washroom, Nick could see the
shoes and coverall legs of the attendant as they stuck out from under a
Ford. Nick found a dime in his pocket and treated himself to a cold
drink, while he tried to figure out where he was.
Across the highway a marker told him that he was on Route 87. He pulled
a Pennsylvania map - not entirely sure he was in Pennsylvania - from the
rack inside the door and, unfolding it, found Everett. The route 87 ran
through the town, but it was difficult to puzzle out whether he was
north or south of the place. He refolded the map and stuffed it into his
pocket for further reference, and glanced around. On the far side of the
office was a door marked "MEN", that was just what he wanted. His
clothes, his hair and his face needed a few emergency repairs before he
could confront the population of Everett.
He went in.
In a mirror, with most of the backing peeling away, he discovered that
Nick Danson was rather good looking, if you overlooked the damage. His
blocky, rugged face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, with a slight
stubble shadowing his lean cheeks. The mop of tangled black hair had a
lot of red splotches in it from the blood he'd lost. He filled the bowl
with tepid water and began soaping his face and hands vigorously, even
though it hurt. After washing most of the blood from his hair, he found
a comb in a pocket and whipped some order into the matted, dark mass.
The attendant was standing at the counter when Nick came out of the
restroom. He was an elderly man with receding grey hair, a hawk nose and
grizzled features set firmly into a face that looked like a dried apple.
He grinned and the gold cap on an eye tooth flashed dully.
"Thought I heard someone in here," he said around the chew that pouched
his cheek. "Car break down on ye?"
"I'm walking," Nick told him.
"Yer a long way from any kind 'o town, son ... say," he said suddenly
noticing the scratch marks. "Y' been fightin' a bobcat?"
Nick shook his head and fished for a lie. "Got drunk last night and into
a brawl. My friends pitched me out of the car in a moment of
playfulness." He hoped he had put enough bitterness into the explanation
to make it ring true.
The old man chuckled softly. "Durned shame, son. Y'from around here?"
"New York," Nick lied. "I'm stayin' in Everett."
"Everett," the old man cackled. "Hell, that's fifteen miles south
o'here, or better." He paused, swiveled his bird-like head and spat a
jet of brown juice through the open door. "Tell y'what, son, seein's how
you'll have t'walk it down there. Ain't no one goin' that way, I know
of. S'pose y'could thumb it, but it'd be hard. Lonely road, y'see. If
y'don't mind waitin' till after supper, I'll run y'down to town. Drop
y'off where y'want to go."
"Hadn't thought of waiting so long," Nick told him. "What would I do?
Just sit here?"
"Hell no! In th' back room there's a cot. Been sleepin' there myself
sometimes, since m'wife passed along back in '53. December of '53 it
was. I'll wake ye, come supper."
"Thanks."
With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrapped
pie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man a
quarter.
"S'funny," the old man said, ringing up the sale, "ye don't smell like a
drunk. Ought t'be some likker smell to y'son."
"I was drinking vodka," Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled that
from a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite of
the pie as the old man gave him his change.
"Bad stuff, vodka. That's th' slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain't
it?"
"I think so."
"Well, it ain't for Andy Hocum. Them hassocks can have it."
Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pulling
into the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine and
honked the horn briefly. Andy waved and headed for the door.
"Get some shut eye, son. I'll wake y' later."
"Thanks, Andy."
He finished the last of the pie and watched Andy stick a hose into the
wagon's gas tank, then go around front to wipe off the windshield.
Nick cleared the pie wrapper off the small counter and tossed it into a
box as he headed for the backroom. After closing the door, he fell onto
the bed and a moment later into the well of sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice braked the Fairlane at 2312 Weisman
Drive and got out quickly. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether Beth
Danson would be awake, but it was a long drive into headquarters and he
didn't want to go back to a dismal office, or even a lonely bachelor
apartment. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. He shrugged and decided to try
it.
She answered his knock almost at once, smiling him into the front room.
For a moment, he allowed his eyes to finger her body, letting them spear
through the wrap around robe and the flimsy nightgown to where warm
flesh ebbed and flowed against the sigh of silk. Her brown hair was
bed-tangled and most of the makeup was gone from her face, but Beth
Danson was a woman who had the unconscious ability to look beautiful
under any circumstances. Nolan felt a thunder in his veins as he tossed
his hat on the sofa.
"Coffee, Nolan?" she asked.
He nodded and they went into the kitchen. "We found the Peters' kid, so
that ends another case." He dropped to a chair and watched her fixing
the coffee. "You're up early, Beth."
A shadow crossed her face momentarily. "I had a dream, Nolan. A bad
dream."
"About Nick?"
She nodded and set a cup of coffee before him. The tears were close
again, but Brice hadn't seen them fall over Nick for a long while. It
was ridiculous the way she mooned over the guy, but there was no
understanding women.
"You ought to stop dwelling on him, honey," Nolan told her. "It doesn't
do any good."
"He's alive," she said, softly.
"You know better than that. If he was alive, we'd have found him. Men
just do not drop out of sight in the Twentieth Century."
Beth lifted a hand to brush her hair into place and sat down to sip at
her coffee. Nolan studied her. She actually believed that her husband
was alive and that he would return to her. He hoped not. It was a
selfish thing to think about, but he was in love with her; he'd have had
her long ago if it wouldn't have been for Nick and his dark good looks.
He mouthed a swallow of coffee and settled the cup in its saucer. She
was looking at him.
"Is there any news, Nolan?"
"About Nick? No." He touched her arm. "They've given up ... and so
should you. Honey, you're young, beautiful. Hell, another woman would
have gone out and had a ball.
"Listen, there's a lousy show on down in Everett. Want to go?"
She smiled. "Thanks, but you're probably tired from hunting for the
Peters' kid..."
"I feel fine."
She shook her head. "Nolan, I know how you feel about me. I'm very
flattered. But ... but I have to accustom to his loss in my own way. I'm
sorry."
Nolan forced a smile. "That's the way the mop flops," he mused. "I'll be
around, when you are." He finished his coffee in silence. "Well, I have
to get moving, make out a report and all. Thanks for the coffee, Beth."
She nodded, but remained staring into her cup. Nolan went into the front
room, picked up his hat and went out into the morning to climb into his
car. When he had started it and headed back toward Everett, he found
himself struggling with the feeling that he was being cheated.
After all, he reasoned with himself, why should a guy have to play
second fiddle to a man who was probably dead. If Nick Danson were alive,
it'd be different; but dead, and that was an almost sure thing, he felt
cheated. Beth could learn to love him. She could forget. Hell, a lot of
women lost their men for some reason or another, but they accustomed,
they altered their lives. If a man dropped the reins, some other guy
should pick them up. It was only natural.
He shut off the thoughts of Beth as he reached the busy section of town
and concentrated on his driving. He could wait, he decided in closing
off the thoughts. Sooner or later she would be ready to accept the
truth, and he would be right there waiting. He maneuvered the Ford
around several other cars parked in the lot of the City Hall and found
the berth that bore his name. He killed the engine, got out and went
inside to his office.
When he opened the door and saw the two men and the Chief sitting in his
office, he knew it was something big. After awhile, it was so you could
spot a Fed a mile away. Especially when they were sitting in your
office. Chief Daniels looked grouchy at him, but his tone was cordial.
"You finish with Peters?"
"Yes."
Daniels nodded, his florid, moon face looking lumpy and important.
"Lieutenant Brice. This is John Cartwell and Sam Morgan. Secret Service.
I've promised to give them assistance in an important matter. They'll
brief you." He nodded an important good-by and left the three of them
alone.
"What's the problem, gentlemen," Nolan said and settled behind his desk.
Cartwell, a stocky looking thirty year old, with wavy blond hair, did
the talking, while his dark complected friend puffed placidly on a
cigar.
"Lieutenant Brice," Cartwell said, "your boss seemed to think that you'd
be the best man to help us set up our plan of operation. We've already
contacted the Civil Air Patrol and the National Guard outfit here. We
have an air search under way and for the meanwhile that's all we can do.
We were hoping that you could help us get in touch with all the ground
observing corps' branches; we'll use this office as a headquarters for
operations."
Nolan blinked, "What's up? An Air Force test plane down?"
Cartwell shook his head. "We got a UFO report..."
"A flying saucer?" Nolan was stunned.
Cartwell chuckled and his partner grinned. "An Unidentified Flying
Object does not necessarily constitute a space craft, Brice. But
something was spotted off the Grand Banks, early this morning, going
like hell and apparently out of control. We got our last sighting over
Auburn, New York. We checked the observation posts around Everett and
found that nothing was seen. We also checked Binghamton and Elmira, with
a negative report. Since the object was on a southerly heading, when
spotted near Auburn, we can only assume that it went down in the area
between Everett and Auburn, and Binghamton and Elmira."
Nolan gave a long low whistle. "Not one of ours, huh?"
"No."
"Canadian?"
"Not at that speed."
"That leaves the big one, then. Russian?"
Cartwell shrugged. "Could be. If it is, we want the wreckage. No matter
what it is, or whose it is, we are very interested in any aircraft that
travels at speeds of fifteen to nineteen thousand miles per hour."
Nolan whistled again. "That's rolling," he grinned.
"Yeah," mused Sam Morgan, "and we'd kind of like to know what makes it
roll like that."
"Okay. Let's go into a huddle," Nolan said. "But I can tell you this. If
the thing went down in north central Pennsylvania, it's in some pretty
rugged country."
"Great," Cartwell snarled.
CHAPTER THREE
The dream was of a woman.
He was lying on a strangely made bed, the warm breezes of evening
rolling in off the crashing sea and the woman stood in the ornate
doorway that entered the bedroom. About him lay all manner of bright
silks and strange colored cloths. The woman smiled and his eyes caressed
her.