He stood to one side of the tree and peered all about him, but the darkness was so thick that he could make out very little. He calculated he was some distance to one side of the road down which he’d driven before he parked the car, and was astonished and slightly terrified to find that he had no idea of direction.
He moved around a bit, hoping to find a place where the tree growth was less dense and he would have a chance of seeing better, but he had moved only a few feet before he became entangled in another tree. He tried another direction and the same thing happened. He crouched against the ground, peering upward, in hope that he could catch the dark outline of the thing that had come down from the sky, but was unable to locate it.
From where he was, he told himself, he should be able to glimpse the lights in the town of Lone Pine, but, try as he might, he could not see so much as a single light. He tried to make out some familiar patterns in the stars, but there were no stars—either the sky was overcast or the forest cover was too thick to see through.
Christ, he thought, crouched against the ground, here he was, lost in a woods not more than a mile from a town—a small town, of course, but still a town.
He could, of course, spend the night here until morning light, but the air was already chilly and before morning, it would get much colder. He could start a fire, he told himself, and then realized that he had no matches. He didn’t smoke, so never carried matches. And the approaching cold, he told himself, was not the sole consideration. Somehow, as quickly as possible, he had to find a phone. Kathy would be furious. He’d have to explain to her what had held him up.
He remembered one adage for a lost man—travel downhill. Traveling downhill, one would come to water and by following water, soon or later people would be found. If he traveled downhill, he’d come to the river. By following along its bank, he’d come to the road. Or he could try to cross the river, which might put him in striking distance of Lone Pine. Although that had small attraction, for he did not know the river and trying to cross it could be dangerous. He could run afoul of deep or rapid water.
Or, perhaps, he could find the contraption in which he had been caged. If he could find it, then by turning to his left, he would find the road that led to the bridge. But even so, he could not cross the river, for the bridge was out. Or the contraption might still be sprawled across the river; he had thought he felt it move, but he could not be certain that it had.
He couldn’t be too far away from it, he thought. He had been thrown from it and he could not have been too distant from it when he’d crashed into the tree. The structure in which he had been caged, he felt certain, could be no more than thirty feet away.
He started out or tried to start out. He got nowhere. He collided with trees, he became entangled in undergrowth, he tripped over fallen logs. There was no possibility of covering more than a few feet at a time; it was impossible to travel in a straight line. He became confused; he had no idea where he was.
Worn out with his effort, he crouched against a tree trunk, with the drooping branches almost on top of him, almost brushing the ground. God, he thought, it seemed impossible a man could get so thoroughly lost, even in the dark.
After a short rest, he got up and went on, floundering blindly. At times, he asked himself why he just didn’t give up, hunker down for the night, waiting for the dawn. But he could never persuade himself. Each new effort that he made might be the lucky one. He might find the alien structure or the road or something else that would tell him where he was.
What he found was a path. He hadn’t been expecting to find a path, but it was better than nothing and he decided to stick with it. The path, or trail, would surely lead him somewhere if he could only follow it.
He had not seen the path. He had found it by stumbling on it, tripping on something and falling flat upon his face upon it. It was fairly free of obstructions and he made it out by patting the ground with his hands, tracing out the narrow, hand-packed pathway. Trees and underbrush crowded close on either side of it.
He got up and tried to follow it, but found that erect and walking, he kept blundering off it and getting tangled up with the trees on either side.
There was only one way to follow it—on his hands and knees, feeling with his hands to keep himself upon it. So, thoroughly lost, not knowing where he was or where he might be going, he inched his way down the trail on his hands and knees.
6. LONE PINE
Frank Norton spoke into the phone, “I don’t know where they are, Johnny. They just haven’t showed. You said six o’clock and I’ve been waiting for them here. It might be the traffic jam.”
Garrison’s voice rasped, “What the hell, Frank? Since when have you developed traffic jams up there?”
“Worse than the opening day of fishing season,” said Norton. “Everyone’s trying to reach here. Traffic is backed up on all the roads leading into town. The state patrol is trying to close us off, but they’re having a hard time doing it. As soon as radio and television began flashing bulletins . . .”
“It’s too late now to get pictures of the thing that fell,” said Garrison. “You say it moved?”
“Quite some time ago,” said Norton. “It moved across the bridge and up the road into the forest area. It’s dark now. There’s no chance to take any pictures. But I did take some before it moved . . .”
“You took pictures!” yelled Garrison. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Johnny, they aren’t much. Not the kind of pictures you’d take with the press cameras you have down there. Just a small ordinary tourist camera. I got two rolls of film, but I can’t be sure there is anything worth looking at.”
“Look, Frank, is there any way you can get those two rolls to us? Would you be willing to sell them?”
“Sell them? They’re yours if you want them, Johnny. I’d like some copies of them, that’s all.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Garrison. “Those films are worth money. A lot of money. If you’ll let us have them, I’ll get you, from this end, all that the traffic will bear. Is there any way you can get them to us? Anyone who would drive them down? I don’t want you to bring them yourself. I would like you to stay right there until Kathy and Chet show up.”
“There’s a kid here who works part time at a gas station. He has a motorcycle. He’d get them to you the fastest, if he doesn’t kill himself getting there.”
“Can you trust him?”
“Absolutely,” Norton said. “I give him work now and then, a few odd jobs every now and then. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Tell him there’s a hundred in it for him if he gets them here before midnight. We’ll hold up part of the press run to get the pictures in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
“I think he’s at the station right now. I’ll get in touch with him. He can find someone else, or I can find someone else, to man the pumps for him. Hell, I’ll handle them myself if I have to.”
“Are there any other newsmen in town? Have any of the TV crews shown up as yet?”
“I don’t think so. TV crews I’d see. I suppose Duluth will be sending someone, but if they got here, they’d probably look me up. So far, there’s been no one. The highway patrol has the roads sealed off fairly well. Not too many people have actually gotten into town. Some of them left their cars at the roadblocks and are walking in. The roads are clogged with cars. That way, a motorcycle is better than a car to get out of town. This kid I told you of will take to ditches, go across country if he has to.”
“You’ll do it, then.”
“Almost immediately. If I can’t get the kid, I’ll get someone else. One thing, Johnny. How’s the country taking it?”
“It’s too soon to know,” said Garrison. “I have a man out talking to people in the street. Going into bars, standing at theater entrances, catching people wherever he can, asking what they think of it. A man-in-the-street reaction story. Why do you ask?”
“I had a call from Washington. Army Chief of
Staff, he told me. Said his name, but I don’t remember it. A general, I do remember that.”
“There’s been no reaction so far from Washington,” said Garrison. “They need time to get their feet under them. You still think it may be something from the stars?”
“It moved,” said Norton. “It moved across the river and went a ways into the forest. It could mean it was alive, or at least a very sophisticated machine, or a machine operated by intelligence. People up here have no doubt. So far as they are concerned, it’s a visitor from space. You should see it, Johnny. If you saw it, you might believe it, too.”
The door to the office came open and a woman came in; following her was a man loaded down with camera equipment.
“Just a minute,” said Norton. “I think your people are here. They just came in the door.”
He said to the woman, “Are you Kathy Foster?”
Kathy nodded. “And the man all loaded down is Chet White.”
“Frank,” said Garrison.
“Yes?”
“Let me talk with Kathy, please.”
“Right,” said Norton. “I’ll get going with the films.”
He handed the phone to Kathy. “Johnny’s on the line,” he said.
“Did I hear you say films?” asked Chet.
“Yeah. I shot two rolls before the thing moved across the bridge. While it could still be seen.”
“It’s not there any more!” wailed Chet.
“It moved. Across the bridge, up the road into the woods. It’s too dark to see it. No way to get at it.”
“You sending those rolls to Johnny?”
“I have a man with a motorcycle.
He’ll take them for me.”
“That’s good,” said Chet. “A car couldn’t get through. These damn two lane roads of yours. I never saw such a snarl. We walked a couple of miles, I’d judge, to get here. The car’s back there somewhere.”
“See you later,” said Norton, ducking out the door.
On the phone, Kathy was saying to Garrison. “It was awful, Johnny. Everyone is trying to get here. The cops have stopped them. The cars are piling up.”
“Well, you’re there now,” said Garrison. “Hang in there. Get us what you can. Talk to people. Get reactions from them. How is the town taking it? What do they think it is? You know what we want.”
“Johnny, did Jerry phone?”
“Jerry?”
“Dammit, Johnny, I told you before I left. Jerry Conklin. My date for tonight. I explained it to you.”
“I remember now. I spread the word around. Just a minute.”
Faintly over the line, she heard him bellow, “Anyone get a call from a guy by the name of Jerry Conklin? Kathy’s date.”
Mumbling voices answered him while Kathy waited.
Garrison came back on the line. “No Kathy. No one got the call.”
“Dammit,” said Kathy.
“Let me see,” said Garrison, swiftly dismissing Jerry Conklin. “It’s a quarter of eight now. We’ll have to go with what we have on the first press run. Frank’s been keeping us filled in.
We know about the thing moving across the river. Phone me in a couple of hours. Sorry about your being tied up on the road. Glad you got there.”
“Johnny, what else is happening? Fill me in.”
“The governor has about half the state patrol funneling in on Lone Pine. Closing off all the roads. He’s put the National Guard on alert and standby. No one as yet has any idea of what is going on. Idea seems to be that this really is a ship from space, but no one can say for sure.”
“If Jerry does call, you’ll explain to him.”
“Sure will,” said Garrison.
“I’ll phone you,” said Kathy. “Wait a minute. I have a hunch the phone lines into this place will be jammed. Why don’t you have someone use the WATS line to get in here by nine thirty or so. Keep trying if they can’t get through. You have this number?”
“That’s right. Will you have someone who can answer there and hold the line for you?”
“I’ll get someone,” said Kathy. “How much can I pay them? How’s the budget on this operation?”
“As little as you can,” said Garrison. “As much as you have to.”
“All right, then,” said Kathy. “I’ll be in touch.”
As she hung up the phone, Norton came in the door. “Jimmy is on his way,” he said, “with the films. He got one of his pals to take over the station for him.”
“That didn’t take long,” said Chet.
“I was lucky,” said Norton. “Found Jimmy right away and there was this pal of his loafing around the station.”
“We’ll need one thing more,” said Kathy. “Johnny will be calling back nine thirty or so. We’ll need someone to hold the line for us until I get back here. The lines may be jammed, hard to get through.”
“I think I have the man for you,” said Norton. “I saw him just up the street. Old codger, name of Stiffy Grant. He’ll do anything to get the price of a drink.”
“Reliable?”
“If there’s a drink in it.”
“How much should I pay him?”
“Couple of bucks.”
“Tell him I’ll give him five. Impress on him he’s not to give up the phone to anyone at all. For no reason, whatsoever.”
“You can rely on him. He’s got a single track mind. Sober now. He’ll understand.”
“I don’t know what we’d have done without you,” said Kathy.
“That’s all right,” said Norton. “Johnny and I have been friends for a long time. Went to school together.”
“There was a car crushed under the thing that fell,” said Chet. “Is it still there?”
“Far as I know,” said Norton. “Patrolman is guarding it. Orders not to move it until someone shows up.”
“Who’s going to show up?”
“I don’t know,” said Norton. “Let’s get going, then,” said Kathy. “I want a look at that car.
Take some pictures of it.”
“Go straight down the street,” said Norton. “Follow the road down to the river. Not far. There’s a police car with red lights. That’s where you’ll find it. I’ll get hold of Stiffy and put him to work. See you later on.”
At the end of the first block, they spotted the flashing red lights of the patrol car. When they reached the car, a patrolman stepped out of the shadows to meet them.
“Newspaper people,” Kathy told him. “The Minneapolis Tribune.”
“Could I see identification, please?”
Kathy took her wallet out of her bag, handed him her press card. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, directed a beam of light on it.
“Katherine Foster,” he said. “I have seen your byline.”
“The man with me is Chet White. He’s our photographer.”
“Okay,” said the officer. “Not much to see here. The thing, whatever it is, is across the river.”
“How about the car?” asked Chet. “It’s still here.”
“How about taking some pictures?”
The patrolman hesitated. Then he said, “I guess that would be all right. Don’t touch it, though. The FBI has asked us to leave it as it is.”
“What has the FBI to do with it?” asked Kathy.
“Ma’m, I wouldn’t know,” said the officer. “But that’s the word I got. Some of them are headed up here.” They went around the patrol car and walked a short distance down the road. The crushed car lay at the end of the bridge—or rather, at the end of where the bridge had been. The bridge was gone. The car was flattened out, as if it had been put through a rolling mill.
“Is there anyone in it?” asked Kathy.
“We don’t think so, Ma’m.”
Chet was taking pictures, walking around the flattened machine, the camera’s light mechanism winking.
“Any identification?” asked Kathy. “A license plate, perhaps?” The officer shrugged. “I suppose there is, but not visible. It’s a Chev
rolet. Several years old. Can’t be sure of the model.”
“No idea of who was in it? What might have happened to them?”
“Probably someone stopped to fish the pool under the bridge. Supposed to be some big trout in there. People often do that, I am told.”
“But if that’s the case,” said Kathy, “wouldn’t you think whoever it was would have showed up by now to tell about his big adventure?”
“That does seem strange,” said the patrolman. “He might be in the river, though. The bridge collapsed when it hit. A timber might have hit him.”
“Someone must have made an effort to find him.”
“I suppose,” the patrolman said. “I don’t know about that.”
“Did you see the thing that fell?” asked Kathy.
“Briefly. Before dark closed in. It had already crossed the river before I got here. It was there across the river. A few hundred feet beyond the river. Just sitting there. And big.”
“It still was on the road?”
“On it, but extending over it on each side. Many times wider than the road. It had knocked down a few small trees.”
“It’s still sitting there, right now?”
“I’m almost certain it is. If it moved, it would knock down more trees. There’d be some noise. It’s been quiet over there ever since I arrived.”
“What’s up ahead? Up the road, I mean?”
“Ma’m, that is a primitive forest area over there across the river. A stand of primeval pines. Big trees. Some of them hundreds of years old. The thing, whatever it is, is trapped. It won’t be able to get through the trees. It has no place to go.”
“Any signs of life in it?”
“Not that I saw. Just a huge black box. Like a huge, awkward army tank. Except it seemed to have no treads. I can’t imagine how it moves.”
“And that was your impression of it? A big army tank?”
“Well, no. More like a big black box. A big oblong box that someone had painted the deepest possible black.”
“Is there any way we could get across the river?” Kathy asked.
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