Saucer The Conquest

CHAPTER 1

OCTOBER 2004, MISSOURI

The sleek little plane zipped in low and fast, dropping below the treetops as it flew along the runway just a few feet above the ground; then the nose pointed skyward and the plane rolled swiftly around its horizontal axis once… twice… three times.
Rip Cantrell was the pilot. The alternating sunny blue sky and colorful earth were almost a blur as the plane whipped around. He centered the stick and the plane stopped whirling.
Up he went higher and higher into the sky, then gently lowered the nose and let the bird accelerate. The plane was an Extra 300L, a two-place aerobatic plane with two seats arranged in tandem. The pilot sat in the rear seat; today the front one was empty.
With the airspeed rapidly building, Rip brought the stick back smoothly. The increasing Gs mashed him down into the seat. Fighting the increased weight of his helmet and visor, he steadied at four Gs as the nose climbed toward the zenith. Throwing his head back, he could see the ground come into view as the plane became inverted at the top of the loop. He backed off on the G to keep the loop oval. The engine was pulling nicely, the ground beginning to fill the windscreen, so as the airspeed increased, he eased the G back on. The nose dropped until the Extra was plunging straight down.
Here Rip pushed the stick forward, eased back on the throttle and slammed the stick sideways. The plane rolled vigorously as it accelerated straight down in a wild corkscrew motion. The controls are incredibly sensitive, he thought, marveling at the plane’s responsiveness to the slightest displacement of stick or rudder.
A glance at the altimeter, center the stick and pull some more, lifting that nose toward the horizon. The Gs were intense now; he was pulling almost six. He fought to keep his head up and blinked mightily to keep the sweat running down his forehead from blinding him. In seconds the plane was level. Rip eased off on the G and pulled the throttle back to idle.
The piston engine’s moan dropped to a burble, and the plane began a gentle, descending turn to line up on the runway. With the power at idle, the plane floated into a perfect three-point landing, kissing the grass.
Rip steered his craft to a stop in front of the large wooden hangar beside the runway and cut the engine. He opened the canopy, snapping the safety line into place so it wouldn’t fall off, and unstrapped. Still in the pilot’s seat, he took off the helmet and swabbed the sweat from his face.
One of the men sitting on a bench beside the hangar heaved himself erect and strolled over to the Extra.
“Well, whaddaya think?”
“It’s okay,” Rip said. Lean, tanned by the sun, he was about six feet tall and in his early twenties.
“You sure fly it pretty well,” the guy on the ground said enthusiastically, cocking his head and squinting against the glare of the brilliant sun.
“Save the flattery. I’ll buy it.”
The next question was more practical. “You gonna be able to get insurance?”
“I’m going to pay cash,” Rip said as he stepped to the ground. “Then I don’t have to insure it, do I?”
“Well, no. Guess not. Though I never had anyone buy one of these flying toys that didn’t want to insure it. Lot of money, you know.”
“I’ll walk up to the house and get the checkbook. You figure out precisely what I owe you, taxes and all.”
“Sure.” The airplane salesman headed back to the bench beside the hangar.
Rip walked past the hangar and began climbing the hill toward his uncle’s house. It was one of those rare, perfect Indian summer days, with a blazing sun in a brilliant blue sky, vivid fall foliage, and a warm, gentle breeze decorated with a subtle hint of wood smoke. Rip didn’t notice. He climbed the hill lost in his own thoughts.
His uncle Egg Cantrell was holding a conference at his farm, so the house was full to overflowing. He had invited twenty scientists from around the world to sort through the data on the computer from the saucer Rip had found in the Sahara and donated to the National Air and Space Museum the previous September. Egg had removed a computer from the saucer and kept it. Its memory was a storehouse of fabulous information, which Egg used to patent the saucer’s technology, and even more fabulous data on the scientific, ethical and philosophical knowledge of the civilization that constructed it.
The visiting scientists shared Egg’s primary interest, which was computer technology. He had spent most of the past year trying to learn how the saucer’s computer worked. The Ancient Ones knew that progress lies in true human-computer collaboration. They had promoted computers from dumb tools to full partners capable of combining known information, new data and programs of powerful creativity and logic techniques to generate and test new ideas. In effect, the computer could do original, creative thinking, a thing still beyond the capability of any computer made on earth.
Egg and his guests were having a wonderful time. They spent every waking minute with a dozen PCs containing files Egg had copied from the saucer’s computer or talking with colleagues about what they had learned.
Egg was on the porch in an earnest discussion with two academics from California when he saw Rip coming up the hill with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. He had been like this since his girlfriend, Charlotte “Charley” Pine, took a job with the French lunar expedition. She had been gone for six weeks, and a long six weeks it had been.
Egg excused himself from his guests and intercepted Rip before he could get to the porch. Egg was in his fifties, a rotund individual with little hair left. His body was an almost perfect oval—hence his nickname—but he moved surprisingly quickly for a man of his shape and bulk. He had been almost a surrogate father to Rip after his real dad died eleven years ago.
“Good morning,” Egg said cheerfully. “Heard the plane. Is it any good?”
“It’s okay. The guy is waiting for me to write him a check.”
“He can wait a little longer. What say you and I take a walk?”
Rip shrugged and fell in with Egg, who headed across the slope toward the barn. “It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?” Egg remarked. Actually more like thirteen months had passed since Rip donated the saucer from the Sahara to the National Air and Space Museum. They had indeed been busy months for Egg as he mined the data on the saucer’s computer, filed patent applications with his, Rip’s and Charley’s names attached and licensed the propulsion technology.
The money from the licenses had been pouring into the bank that handled the accounts. While they were not yet rich enough to buy Connecticut, each of them could probably afford a small county in Mississippi or Arkansas.
Having a lot of money was both a curse and a blessing, as Rip and Charley discovered. They didn’t need regular jobs, which meant that they had a lot of free time. Charley taught Rip to fly, and after he got his private license they had flown all over the country, leisurely traveled the world and finally returned to Missouri in midsummer.

After a few more weeks of aimless loafing, Charley jumped at a job offered by Pierre Artois, who was heading the French effort to build a space station on the moon. One morning she shook Egg’s hand, hugged him, gave him a kiss and left. Her departure hadn’t come as a surprise. He had known she was bored, even if Rip hadn’t figured it out.
“I sorta miss Charley,” Egg said now to Rip, who didn’t respond.
Inside the barn Egg seated himself on a hay bale in the sun. Rip stood scuffing dirt with a toe, then finally seated himself on the edge of a feed-way.
“What are you going to do with your life, Rip?”
“I don’t know.”
“Buying toys won’t help.”
“The Extra is quite a plane.”
“Everybody needs one.”
“I reckon.”
“Toys won’t help what’s ailing you.”
Rip sighed.
“You could help me with this conference, if you wished,” Egg continued, his voice strong and cheerful. “They keep asking questions about the saucer—you know as much about it as I do, maybe more.”
“Don’t want to answer questions about the saucer,” Rip responded. “Talked about it enough. Time to move on to something else.”
“What?” Egg asked flatly.
“I don’t know,” Rip said with heat. “If I knew, I’d be doing it.”
“You aren’t the first man who ever had woman troubles. Sitting around moping about Charley isn’t going to help.”
That comment earned a glare from Rip.
“The launch is going to be on television this evening,” Egg continued blandly. A French spaceplane had been launched every two weeks for the last six months, shuttling people and equipment to the new French base on the moon. Charley Pine was scheduled to be the copilot on the next flight. Since an American was going to be a crew member, the American networks had decided to air the launch in real time. “Are you going to watch?”
“She’s going to the moon and you want me to watch it on television. How should I answer that?”
Egg sat on his bale for another moment, decided he didn’t have anything else to say and levered his bulk upright.
“Sorry, Unc,” Rip told the older man. “My life is in the pits these days.”
“Maybe you ought to work on that,” Egg said, then walked on out of the barn.
“Well, it is a mess,” Rip told the barn cat, who came over to get her ears scratched. “After you’ve owned and flown a flying saucer, been everywhere and done everything with the hottest woman alive, where do you go next?”
The galling thing was that he knew the answer to that question. To the moon, of course! And he was sitting here in central Missouri twiddling his thumbs watching television while Charley did it for real.
Terrific! Just flat terrific!