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The Doomsday Conspiracy :: Sheldon Sidney
Страница: 32 из 213The whole ground iswet.”
Robert crawled out from under the balloon. “It should be dry.” Crazy weather, the pilot said. Sunny here Sunday. The day the balloon crashed. Rainy all day today, and clearing tonight. You don’t need a watch here, what you really need is a barometer.
“What?”
“What was the weather like when you saw the UFO?”
Beckerman thought for a moment. “It was a nice afternoon.”
“Sunny?”
“Ja. Sunny.”
“But it rained all day yesterday?”
Beckerman was looking at him, puzzled. “So?”
“So if the balloon was here all night, the ground under it should be dry – or damp, at the most, through osmosis. But it’s soaking wet, like the rest of this area.”
Beckerman was staring. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
“It could mean,” Robert said carefully, “that someone placed this balloon here yesterday, after the rain started, and took away what you saw.” Or was there some saner explanation he had not thought of?
“Who would do such a crazy thing?”
Not so crazy, Robert thought. The Swiss government could have planted this to deceive any curious visitors. The first stratagem of a cover-up is disinformation. Robert walked through the wet grass, scanning the ground, cursing himself for being a gullible idiot.
Hans Beckerman was watching Robert suspiciously. “What magazine did you say you write for, mister?”
“Travel & Leisure.”
Hans Beckerman brightened. “Oh. Then I suppose you will want to take a picture of me, like the other fellow did.”
“What?”
“That photographer who took pictures of us.”
Robert froze. “Who are you talking about?”
“That photographer fellow. The one who took pictures of us at the wreck. He said he would send us each a print. Some of the passengers had cameras, too.”
Robert said slowly, “Just a moment. Are you saying that someone took a picture of the passengers here in front of the UFO?”
“That’s what I am trying to tell you.”
“And he promised to send you each a print?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he must have taken your names and addresses.”
“Well, sure. Otherwise, how would he know where to send them?”
Robert stood still, a feeling of euphoria sweeping over him. Serendipity, Robert, you lucky sonofabitch! An impossible mission had suddenly become a piece of cake. He was no longer looking for seven unknown passengers.
Robert crawled out from under the balloon. “It should be dry.” Crazy weather, the pilot said. Sunny here Sunday. The day the balloon crashed. Rainy all day today, and clearing tonight. You don’t need a watch here, what you really need is a barometer.
“What?”
“What was the weather like when you saw the UFO?”
Beckerman thought for a moment. “It was a nice afternoon.”
“Sunny?”
“Ja. Sunny.”
“But it rained all day yesterday?”
Beckerman was looking at him, puzzled. “So?”
“So if the balloon was here all night, the ground under it should be dry – or damp, at the most, through osmosis. But it’s soaking wet, like the rest of this area.”
Beckerman was staring. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
“It could mean,” Robert said carefully, “that someone placed this balloon here yesterday, after the rain started, and took away what you saw.” Or was there some saner explanation he had not thought of?
“Who would do such a crazy thing?”
Not so crazy, Robert thought. The Swiss government could have planted this to deceive any curious visitors. The first stratagem of a cover-up is disinformation. Robert walked through the wet grass, scanning the ground, cursing himself for being a gullible idiot.
Hans Beckerman was watching Robert suspiciously. “What magazine did you say you write for, mister?”
“Travel & Leisure.”
Hans Beckerman brightened. “Oh. Then I suppose you will want to take a picture of me, like the other fellow did.”
“What?”
“That photographer who took pictures of us.”
Robert froze. “Who are you talking about?”
“That photographer fellow. The one who took pictures of us at the wreck. He said he would send us each a print. Some of the passengers had cameras, too.”
Robert said slowly, “Just a moment. Are you saying that someone took a picture of the passengers here in front of the UFO?”
“That’s what I am trying to tell you.”
“And he promised to send you each a print?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he must have taken your names and addresses.”
“Well, sure. Otherwise, how would he know where to send them?”
Robert stood still, a feeling of euphoria sweeping over him. Serendipity, Robert, you lucky sonofabitch! An impossible mission had suddenly become a piece of cake. He was no longer looking for seven unknown passengers.