Goodwin Harold Leland
The Flying Stingaree: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story

CHAPTER VII
Sighting Data

Steve's living room was an excellent place to work. In fact, it was a shade too comfortable. Rick and Scotty spent a half hour arguing over who would do what in putting their data down on paper, and both knew perfectly well that they were just stalling.

Finally Rick said, "Let's admit it. We're both stuffed with crab, a little sleepy, and too comfortable in these armchairs."

Scotty waved a hand languidly. "All right. I concede the point."

Steve Ames chuckled. "Suppose you move to less comfortable chairs. Those dining-room chairs should keep you upright. Get to work and I will too."

The boys hauled themselves to their feet reluctantly. Rick walked to the door and looked out through the screen. He could see the creek glistening, and, out beyond the dock where the houseboat and runabout were tied up, he saw ripples spreading where a fish had jumped. The air was still, and he could hear cicadas in the trees and shrubs.

"This is the land of pleasant living," he observed. "I'm surprised anyone on the Eastern Shore ever gets a lick of work done."

"You certainly don't," Scotty retorted. "Come on over here and stop admiring the scenery."

Steve had produced large sheets of white paper, a ruler, and pencils. Rick sat down. "I'll act as recorder."

"Volunteering for the hardest job?" Scotty inquired. "The air must be affecting you."

"Nope." Rick shook his head. "I have just enough energy left to be realistic. I can't read your writing. Suppose I put down the headings. Location, date of sighting, time of sighting, direction of sighting, number of persons who saw object. What else?"

"Description," Scotty suggested. "Maybe that ought to be in two parts. One for shape and one for color."

Rick nodded. "Good idea. I'll rule lines as we go." He drew lines for the columns, printed his headings, and put in the first several horizontal lines. "Ready," he announced.

"We'll start with the first one. Location: five miles south of Wye Mills on Route 50."

Rick printed: "5M S Wye Mls Rte 50."

"Date of sighting, July 10. Time of sighting, between five and six in the evening."

Rick printed industriously. Scotty read from his notes until over twenty lines of information had been printed on the chart. Then Steve interrupted, bringing a tray of tall glasses of iced ginger ale.

The young agent put the tray down and scanned the columns while the boys helped themselves. In a moment Steve nodded. "There's a pattern taking shape, at least in the descriptions. But I can't make much out of the dates and locations, yet."

"We'll keep plugging," Rick said. "Maybe we'll need to rearrange the columns before they make sense."

"You have a point," Steve agreed. "Use the chart for the source, then we can fill out sheets on the individual items, or I have some four-by-five-inch file cards that would be ideal."

"But we'll be at it all night," Scotty objected.

"I don't think so. Once the basic data are on paper, it will go fast. Keep at it. Yell if you want refills on the ginger ale. I need to finish my own homework."

The boys returned to logging the data while Steve settled down with a bulky report. In another hour the notebook had been exhausted, and the big sheet of paper was nearly full of ruled lines and columns, recording data.

"We're done," Rick announced.

Steve put his report aside and joined them at the table. The boys waited expectantly while the agent scanned the sheet.

"You've done a good job of collecting information," Steve said. "Now it needs breaking down some more. The mixture in the 'color' column bothers me. I have a hunch those colors may be related to the position of the sun. Look."

Rick watched as Steve's forefinger touched a line that showed the color as "dark." The finger moved across the line to the time of day, eleven A.M. Steve pointed to another line where the color was listed as "orange." The time of day was seven fifteen P.M., with an additional note of "twilight."

"Got it," Scotty agreed. "You think the objects may actually be dark, but appear in various colors depending on the position of the sun and the position of the viewer."

"It makes sense," Rick agreed. "All of the colors listed – red, orange, silvery, bright – could be reflections of the sun on a smooth object."

Steve walked to a bookshelf and pulled down a copy of The World Almanac. "Sunrise and sunset times are listed in here. You can figure out quickly enough where the sun was in relation to the observer. It will take another sheet of paper and some more columns."

"You gave us an extra sheet," Rick replied. "How should I head the columns?"

Steve thought for a moment. "Three columns for the position of the sun. Rising, high, setting. Four columns for the position of the observer in relation to the flying object – north, south, east, or west. One column for color, and one for other comments such as 'shiny.' And, of course, you want a column for the time."

Rick recorded the data as Scotty read it off, checking The World Almanac for the sun's approximate positions. Steve was obviously interested. He started to read his report again, then abandoned it and came back to the table where the boys were working.

When the data had been transferred, the three studied it. Rick ran his eye down the columns quickly, getting an impression, then he went over the data slowly. "You're right, Steve," he said finally. "It all tallies, even at a quick look. In every case where the object looked colored, the observer saw the sun striking it. Where it looked dark, the object was between the observer and the sun. Or, at least, the observer wasn't in a position to see the sun reflect off the object."

Scotty added, "In every case where the object looked red or orange, the sun was setting or had already set. In every case marked 'bright,' 'silvery,' or 'shiny,' the sun was high and the observer could see the sun reflecting from the object."

"It seems pretty clear," Steve agreed. "Now, we have only one really close-range sighting, and that was Rick's. How sure are you that the object was black?"

Rick shrugged. "I know enough not to trust my eyes completely in wind and rain. But there certainly wasn't any light to reflect off the object, and I'm pretty sure it was either black or very dark brown."

"That would fit all the sightings," Steve pointed out. "I'm assuming that the objects have a smooth surface that reflects light, even though the material may be dark colored. Didn't you suggest a kite made of dark plastic? That would fit the bill, except that the objects don't act like kites."

"What do they act like?" Scotty demanded.

Neither Steve nor Rick had an answer.

"Let's try for another piece of information," Steve suggested. "Put the dates down on cards. If you have sightings by different people on the same dates, and at about the same times, put them on the same card. If there's a big time discrepancy – say one sighting in the morning and another in the afternoon – put them on different cards."

Rick looked up. "What are you trying to find?"

"Periodicity," Steve said promptly. "Is there any regularity in the sightings? Do they occur every three, four, or five days, or once a week on Mondays? Which reminds me. You might put down the day of the week, too. There's a calendar on the wall behind you."

"You read and I'll copy," Rick told Scotty. "Go ahead." He waited with pencil poised over a card. In a moment he looked at his pal. "What are you waiting for?"

Scotty was poring over the notebook again. His eyebrows knit. "You know, there's one chunk of data on just a few sightings that we didn't put down because we didn't have a column for it."

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"I know!" Rick exclaimed. "There were a few times when people said they saw yellow glows in the sky after they saw the objects. Isn't that it?"

Scotty nodded. "I've been counting. There were five instances. Two people said the glow wasn't really connected, because it came from Wallops Island."

"Why on earth didn't you include it in the chart?" Steve demanded.

"It doesn't fit," Scotty replied. "In every single case, the glow was to the southeast."

"Maybe it does fit," Steve said emphatically. "Boys, never leave out a bit of data because it doesn't seem to fit. This particular chunk could very well be the clue."

"Why?" Rick asked quickly.

Steve shook his head. "I'm not sure, so I don't want to say. But include every sighting of the yellow glow on the date cards. I'm going to borrow that set for a closer look."

Scotty began reading, while Rick recorded. When the cards were complete, they ran through them. There was no periodicity. The dates seemed completely random. Sometimes two sightings had been made at different times on the same date. There would be two days, three, four, five, or even six between sightings.

"Not a trace of pattern," Rick said.

"Who says stingarees have to fly on schedule?" Steve asked with a grin. "They're not supposed to be like planes. What's the next step?"

Scotty produced the map they had used. "One more job to do, and that's to plot the locations of the observers and draw lines in the directions of the sightings. That will show us if there's any regularity in the place where the flying objects appear."

"Very good," Steve approved.

Scotty took pencil and ruler and laid the map out flat. "You read location and direction, Rick, and I'll plot the data."

"Okay." Rick began with the first. "Five miles south of Wye Mills on Route 50. Direction, southwest."

Scotty measured the distance from Wye Mills, using the map scale in inches, then estimated the compass direction and drew a line. "Next."

Rick read on. By the time he had reached the tenth sighting, all three of them were waiting anxiously for each new bit of data to be plotted.

Finally the job was complete. Steve had hurried off a moment before and returned with a pair of compasses in his hand. As the boys watched, he put the sharp point of one compass leg into a spot on the map, adjusted the radius, and drew a perfect circle. He adjusted the radius again, and drew a second circle, slightly larger, then a third.

"Bull's-eye!" Rick said excitedly.

The direction lines bisected the outer concentric circles like the radii of an orb spider's web. In the center of the web was the smallest circle. Within the circle was the focal point of all flying object observations.

Rick said the name aloud.

"Swamp Creek!"

CHAPTER VIII
Calvert's Favor

There was a faint hint of coming daylight in the eastern sky when Rick, Steve, and Scotty walked down the pier to the tied-up boats. The boys had spent the night – or most of it – aboard the houseboat, until the alarm pulled them from their sleeping bags at four o'clock. Steve had breakfast cooking when they arrived at the farmhouse, and after coffee, bacon, and eggs, they started on their mission.

"Daybreak is the lowest peak of daily activity," Steve said as they climbed into the runabout. He took the pilot's seat, while Rick and Scotty prepared to cast off.

"You might say that the first glimmer of daylight is man's worst hour," Steve continued. "It's the time when battles start, when planes take off for dawn bombing runs. I've read that it's the time when most deaths occur in hospitals, although I don't know for certain that it's true. What's more important to us, it's the time of day when guards are most sleepy and least alert."

The young agent had been working as he talked, checking the outboard motor, checking the connections to the gasoline tank, and pumping pressure into it. Now he pressed the starter and the well-kept motor caught at once. Rick and Scotty cast off bow and stern lines and settled themselves in the seat next to Steve.

"Unless this mysterious Mr. Merlin suffers from sleepless nights, he's deep in slumber. The sound of a small boat won't disturb him, because he's used to the noise of motors from crabbers. We'll hope there is no guard on the place. If there is, we'll be fishing. Better have the rods ready. One of you can sit in back and troll from there."

The outboard runabout moved away from the pier and into the creek. Steve knew his way perfectly, and he opened the throttle to half speed, steering through the curve at the mouth of the creek, rounding the buoy, and heading directly toward Swamp Creek.

It had taken the houseboat over twenty minutes to make the run. Steve covered the distance in ten. As he throttled down and swung the runabout into Swamp Creek, Rick's eye picked up a glimmer of light, then the shape of something white cruising toward them.

For a moment he stared into the lessening gloom, then said, "It's Orvil Harris. Anyway, it looks like his boat."

Steve said nothing for a moment, then he headed directly toward the crabber. As the two boats closed, Harris paused in his crabbing and watched the three in the runabout approach.

Steve matched the crab boat's speed and nudged the runabout alongside. "Howdy," he called.

Orvil Harris reached out and caught the runabout's gunwale, then took the line Rick passed to him. He made it fast around a cleat. "Up early," he greeted them. "Come to watch me crab?"

"Not exactly," Rick returned. "Mr. Harris, this is Mr. Ames."

The crabber reached out a muscular hand and Steve stretched to meet it. "Mighty pretty place you have on Martins Creek," Harris said. "Admired it many's the time."

"Thanks," Steve returned. "Be glad to have you drop in any time."

"I may do that. Thanks."

"The boys tell me your cousin was the one taken by a flying saucer."

Harris grinned. "He was taken. I'm not sayin' how until I know."

"What do you know about Calvert's Favor?"

Harris rubbed his chin, and made a slight correction in the crab boat's course. "Present owner is a man named Merlin. No one knows anythin' about him, and no one asks. Has a big thug with him all the time, and takes exception to people gettin' nosy. Most folks got snubbed and drew back, so to speak. Jim Hardin – he's a fisherman hereabouts – took exception and got beaten up. Hardin's not easy to lick. After that, folks stopped speakin' to Merlin and company."

"How big's the company?" Steve asked.

"Merlin, bodyguard, a little squirt with no chin, and three others. Cooks and bottle washers, likely. Would it be polite to ask why you're interested?"

Steve had been studying Harris since the two boats joined up, Rick knew, so he wasn't surprised when Steve gave a direct reply.

"You'll keep this to yourself, please. The boys have been doing a little research, and it's clear these unidentified flying objects people have been seeing come from Swamp Creek. That points to the old mansion, especially since Mr. Merlin is so secretive about himself. We decided to get up before the people at the mansion were likely to be about, and look the place over. If it looks promising, we'll try keeping an eye on it."

Harris nodded. "I'll keep it to myself, you can be sure. If the mystery of those flyin' stingarees gets solved, we may find out what happened to Cousin Link. I'll help if I can."

"You know these waters pretty well," Steve returned. "Is there any way of getting to Calvert's Favor, or within watching distance, without going up this creek?"

The crabber reached over and turned a switch, cutting his engine. "There is, for that boat you're in. About thirty yards downstream from the entrance to this creek, there is a break in the line of swamp grass along the shore. It's a little lead, a channel maybe six feet wide and from two to three feet deep. It runs into the swamp. Right at the place where the water gets too narrow for the boat, a man who didn't care if he got muddy or wet could go through the brush to an old duck blind right across from the mansion. A pair of good glasses would give him a right good view of the whole thing."

"We couldn't see the mansion from the boat?" Rick asked.

"The brush is too thick. Tell you what, if you got ground tackle aboard, drop a hook and come over with me. I'll run you up the creek and you can take a good look. If anyone's out watchin', they'll only see a crab boat lookin' for a place to set lines."

"Scotty," Steve directed, "there's a grapnel on a line up on the bow, under that small hatch. Toss it in, please."

Scotty stood up on the seat, stepped to the bow, and found the small, four-pronged anchor. He dropped it into the water, let out line, and tied the line fast to the bow cleat. "Okay, Steve."

The three got aboard the crab boat as Harris started his engine. "Make yourselves comfortable," the crabber invited. "There's a pair of glasses on the engine box."

With the binoculars Rick and Steve had brought, that made three pairs each. The crabber swung the boat around expertly and headed upstream. The sky was light now, and far overhead a wisp of cirrus was glowing pink, a warning of coming sunrise.

Rick sat on the gunwale and looked ahead. The creek narrowed for a few hundred yards, then widened again. The left bank, going upstream, was lined with scrub and swamp grass. The right bank began to change, the swampy area giving way to good ground that rose slightly from the water's edge. Soon the right bank was nearly three feet above the water, and the scrub had given way to an occasional tree, and some grassland that hadn't been mowed this year.

Then Calvert's Favor came into view and Rick caught his breath. It was a stunning plantation house. The tall columns made Rick think of pictures of the Old South, but as the boat turned slightly and more of the house came into view, he saw that it had a strictly Maryland character. Attached to the largest portion of the house, the one with the columns, was a slightly smaller section, with a still smaller section completing the picture. It was a "telescope house" – the kind that the Eastern Shore natives referred to as "big house, little house, and one in the middle."

A broad sweep of lawn, broken only by flagstone walks and trees, extended from the creek's edge to the house. The trees were ancient dogwoods, with a single huge willow for extra shade. There was a small pier extending into the creek, and from the rotted pilings next to it, Rick saw that the original pier had been much larger.

A white barn stood at a short distance from the house. A barn of that size, Rick thought, meant a pretty substantial farm. He searched for signs of life and saw none. There was a boat, he noticed, an outboard skiff perhaps fifteen feet long, pulled up on the bank under an oak tree at the edge where the lawn met uncut field. A lawn table and chairs under the big willow looked inviting, and he speculated that Merlin and friends must spend considerable time there. Some of the chairs were of the padded variety, covered with plastic wet from the morning dew.

Scotty pointed to the roof of the mansion. "Must be a ham radio operator there. Look at that hay rake."

Both Rick and Steve had the same thoughts as they stared at the tall antenna, with its cluster of small rods joining a single main bar at right angles on top of the pole. The antenna might be needed for fringe-area television – or, on the other hand, it might be a communications antenna, as Scotty had said.

"Looks interesting," Steve said.

The creek flowed only a little distance past the mansion before it became so narrow that Orvil Harris had to turn for the trip downstream. As the crab boat came abreast of the mansion again, Rick looked to the other side of the creek and saw the duck blind. It wasn't exactly opposite the house, being designed so that gunners in the blind would shoot diagonally across the creek and downstream, rather than near the house itself.

The blind was on stilts, made of board, with a big "picture window" without glass through which duck hunters could fire freely. It was designed for entry by boat, and there was a line of poles sticking up from the water that marked the boat's docking place. In season, the entire blind including the poles would be covered with a screen of fresh foliage, so that hunters, blind, and boat would seem like a natural object to any duck that flew by.

Rick saw that the entrance, at the point where the boat would nose in, was downstream from the mansion, at the back corner of the blind. Anyone approaching from the swamp behind the blind could enter unseen from Calvert's Favor.

Not until they were back at the cove did any of them speak.

"That antenna was odd," Steve said. "Did you ever see anything like it, Rick?"

"Not exactly," Rick admitted. "It could be for TV, although it's an unusual design, or it could be some kind of ham rig, as Scotty said."

"Or it could be something else," Steve concluded.

"No sign of a flyin'-saucer launcher," Orvil Harris said. He was stoking his battered brier.

Rick grinned. "I wouldn't know one if I saw it."

"Well, that wraps it up," Steve said. "Let's get aboard the runabout and head home. I've got to make a plane." He shook hands with Orvil Harris. "Glad to have met you after waving at you for so long."

"Likewise. Now, you let me in on this if you can. I'm Link's only kin hereabouts, so I feel responsible, so to speak. Call me up. I'm in the phone book. I'll keep crabbin' in this creek until further notice, so you can find me here until midmornin' any day."

"We'll let you know if anything comes up," Rick agreed.

Scotty borrowed a boat hook and pulled the runabout closer, then he stepped to the forward deck while Steve and Rick got into the seat. Scotty pulled up the grapnel while Steve started the motor. In a moment they were waving to Harris as the runabout headed for home.

It was full daylight now, and the rim of the sun was just above the trees on the horizon.

"Two items from the morning's work," Scotty summed up. "We know how the mansion can be watched, and we have an odd kind of antenna. Anything else?"

"We have an ally," Rick reminded. "Orvil Harris."

"We bought him on pure faith," Steve pointed out. "It isn't often I stake the game on a man's face, but if Orvil Harris isn't a sound individual, I'll lose my faith in human nature."

Back at the farmhouse, Steve made fresh coffee and toast. While the boys relaxed sleepily, he went to a closet and brought out a case and a leather gadget bag.

The boys sat up and watched while he opened the case. Rick gasped. It was a telescope, a marvelously compact reflector type, precision made and very expensive. Rick had often studied the ads of this particular model, and he looked at it with some envy. He could hardly keep from picking it up.

Steve opened the gadget bag and brought out a Polaroid camera and set of rings. Then he returned to the closet and brought back a sturdy tripod with a geared head.

"Here's the equipment," he said. He took the telescope from its padded case, and screwed its base to the tripod, then he adjusted the tripod until it was standing securely.

"Watch this," he commanded. "You'll have to do it, because you can't carry the whole thing assembled."

Using the rings, which were adapters, he fitted the camera to the eyepiece of the telescope. "That's all there is to it. You focus the 'scope eyepiece by turning this knurled knob. Then you set the camera to infinity, adjust the iris for the proper light, and put the camera in place. Any questions?"

"What aperture?" Rick asked. "Normal exposure?"

"Make it one f-stop less than you'd use if you were taking the picture through a regular camera with a long lens. Anything else?"

Scotty grinned. "It's pointless to ask what you want us to do with this. We're to get pictures of that antenna – from the duck blind."

"Plus anything else that looks interesting, including the occupants," Rick added.

Steve spread his hands in an expressive gesture. "What more could an instructor want than students who know the answers before the questions are asked? I won't even tell you to be careful, because I know you will."

"We will," Rick assured him.

"All right. Listen, boys, we have no idea what we're up against, but we do have some facts." Steve ticked them off on his fingers. "One, flying objects originate at the mansion. There's no other place on the creek that seems likely. Two, the house is inhabited by a man who doesn't like questions. Three, said man has a bodyguard who gets rough. Four, one man already is missing, perhaps because he got curious. Enough said?"

The boys nodded soberly.

"Then go to it, whenever you feel like it – after you've dropped me at the airport, that is. Be here by four this afternoon. If I don't call, meet the five-o'clock flight. If I do, it will mean I've gotten tied up."

Steve hesitated. "Just one more thing. Be really careful. All I have is a hunch, but that hunch tells me we're up against something dangerous. If Link Harris is dead, as he probably is, there's a fair chance he was murdered."

The agent's keen eyes met theirs in turn. "Don't get into a spot you can't get out of," he concluded.