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  In Oklahoma City, they registered in a hotel near the Will Rogers World Airport. Remo signed the register as Remo Greeley, the cover name Smith had given him. He was supposed to be a freelance writer affiliated with a tabloid that ran a lot of UFO articles, here in Oklahoma City to do an article on FOES. Remo turned to ask Chiun if he wanted to sign in, but Chiun was off by the elevators, where he had collected a group of bellboys, who stared wide-eyed at Chiun's cube-solving speed.

  With a perverse grin, Remo signed the book for Chiun, writing on it, "Hen Nee Yung Man." Chiun would never know.

  By afternoon, Remo had read most of the UFO material. He learned that since 1947, when a pilot sighted a formation of plate-shaped objects flying over a mountain range in Washington State and coined the term "flying saucer," UFO sightings had been occurring regularly with only periodic fluctuations. Most of these sightings, about 95.7 percent, according to Folcroft computers, were the result of unskilled people mistaking airplane lights, observation balloons, meteorites and other natural phenomena. The remaining 4.3 percent were simply unidentified. They could be anything— even spacecraft from beyond the earth.

  This last was a possibility, according to one set of statistics, which claimed that there were so many stars in the sky that if only one in a billion of them shone on a planet that harbored intelligent life, then mathematically speaking there would be millions of inhabited worlds in the universe. Remo didn't buy it. Even if the numbers were true, nothing said that these intelligent beings could build interstellar spaceships, or that they would bother to visit Earth, even if they could in less than a hundred million zillion years. Or that these beings, no matter how intelligent, might not be exactly human and therefore might not be able to build a treehouse, never mind a spaceship. You had to have hands to build something, right? Remo wondered idly if some of them might not look like Rubik's Cubes. If they did, then the invasion had already begun and all bets were off. They had already gotten to Chiun.

  Reading through the eyewitness accounts of reported contact with aliens, Remo learned that UFOs came from the planet Venus and were piloted by tall, long-haired friendly Venusians; that they also came from Mars and were built by short, hairy, vicious creatures intent upon kidnaping South American women for sexual gratification; that they were the work of an underground supercivilization from within the earth itself, who flew out of an unknown hole in the North Pole; or that they were scientific probes from a distant star and manned by gray-skinned vivisectionists with no lips and eyes like tomcats.

  Every report contradicted every other one. Except that most of them quoted the aliens as being very concerned about our atomic weapons. And that was why they were here. To make sure it didn't get out of hand.

  That was the only common denominator. And the only factor that fit in with the attack on the missile site.

  There was a file on FOES, which insisted that the letters stood for Flying Object Evaluation Center, proving to Remo that Smith's computers weren't always infallible. FOES had been founded in 1953 in Dayton, Ohio, and over the years had sprouted chapters in several states. The only unusual activity associated with any chapter took place only a couple of years ago, when a chapter in Utah tried to force the Central Intelligence Agency to make its top-secret files on UFOs open to public inspection under the Freedom of Information Act. The case had gone all the way to the Supreme Court, which threw the suit out when the CIA convinced the Court that it had already released 99 percent of all its data and the remaining data contained the names of agents who might be compromised. A representative of FOES was later quoted as saying that national security should never stand in the way of the pursuit of truth, and said that this "only proved that the UFO cover-up carried on by the government since the forties stretched all the way to the Supreme Court."

  "What are you reading?" Chiun asked at one point.

  "Confusion," Remo said, and threw Smith's files into the wastebasket.

  "From Emperor Smith, of course," said Chiun, who then dropped the subject. "Is Cheeta Ching to be found in this area?" he asked, changing the channels on the television.

  "No. Not in Oklahoma."

  "Then I will watch my beautiful dramas," Chiun decided, and began setting up the tape system on which he had recorded such soap operas as "As the Planet Revolves" and "The Young and the Wanton," all originally broadcast before sex and violence— overt sex and violence, anyway— invaded daytime television.

  Knowing that this would keep Chiun occupied well into the early evening, Remo decided to leave him and infiltrate the local FOES chapter on his own. Chiun would only complicate Remo's carefully thought-out plan— which Remo had yet to devise. Regardless of what it turned out to be, though, he knew Chiun would complicate it. Besides, he was getting sick of that stupid cube.

  "I'm going out, Chiun. Don't wait up."

  But Chiun made no sign that he heard, already being immersed in the sad story of Dr. Lawrence Walters, psychiatrist at large, who had just learned from Betty Hendon that her husband, the insane billionaire Wilfred Wyatt Hornsby, whom she had married when only a teenager, was planning a sex change operation so he could marry Betty's father, who had been posing as Betty's mother and as the upstairs maid in the house of Jeremy Bladford, the man she truly loved.

  Remo closed the door of the bedroom as he picked up his dark blue nylon windbreaker, which he put over his black T-shirt and chinos. The phone in the bedroom gave him his plan. Screw this freelance writer crap, he thought, and dropped the windbreaker, which was only a prop.

  Remo dialed the number of the local FOES chapter. Normally, Remo could never remember phone numbers, but this one he had just read in the files, and it had the same exchange as the hotel. The rest of the dial sequence was FOES. That, Remo could remember. So he dialed the exchange of the hotel phone and F-O-E-S.

  "Flying Object Evaluation Center," a twangy female voice said.

  "Hi," Remo said. "My name is Remo Greeley. I want to report a UFO."

  "Really? In this area?" The woman's voice rose a full octave and skittered dangerously close to a falsetto.

  "Yeah. This area. Just outside of town," Remo said in a bored voice. "Saw it just ten minutes ago."

  "Where, where? What did it look like?" the woman squealed. Then, catching herself, she asked calmly, "If you could give us the exact time, place, and circumstances and describe the object as best as you can in your own words, please. This conversation is being recorded."

  "Right. Okay, here goes." Remo heard a tape recorder's beep and searched his mind for a description, trying to remember if the Martians were the tall hippies or the hairy, apelike creatures. "It was shaped like a penguin, about four feet tall—"

  "The UFO was shaped like a penguin?"

  "No, no. The guy who came out of the UFO and talked to me was shaped like a penguin. The spaceship was kinda like a bowl with a blue bubble on top. Or was it on the bottom?" Remo couldn't keep the various classifications of UFO shapes straight, either. He knew that most flying saucers were not shaped like saucers at all, but like spheres, eggs, cigars or just bright lights.

  "You had a Close Encounter of the Third Kind?" the woman screeched, hurting Remo's eardrum. "Hey, Ralph, get on the extension. I have someone who's made contact... Go ahead, Mr. Green."

  "Greeley. Remo Greeley. I was driving along and my car stopped in the middle of the road without any reason. Then this bright thing came down and lighted up the road."

  "I thought you said this happened just ten minutes ago," the woman asked suspiciously.

  "Yeah, ten minutes ago."

  "How could it light up the road in broad daylight? It's three o'clock in the afternoon."

  "Um, these were very, very bright lights. The penguin explained to me that they were brand new."

  "What else did he say?"

  "He was upset. Very upset. He said that he wanted the world to stop building atomic weapons and things. Said it endangered the penguins of the universe. I guess it was like Save the Whales or someth
ing. He even gave me a button, but I can't read it. Anyway, he said it's got to stop."

  "Yeah, they all say that," the woman breathed. "All the reports we get agree on that one point for some reason. Did this creature say where he was from?"

  "From?"

  "Yes, he had to be from somewhere, didn't he? I mean, in order to get here he obviously had to come from somewhere else."

  "Right. Oh, right. I get you now. As a matter of fact he said he was from the Milky Way."

  "Sir," the woman said steadily. "The Milky Way is not a place. It's a cluster of stars, each of which is millions of miles apart. Our sun is one of those stars, so when you're talking about the Milky Way, you're talking about quite a bit of territory."

  Damn, thought Remo. He should have known that. "Well, I can't help that. It's what the little guy told me. I mean, if he doesn't know where he's from, who does?"

  "You've got a point there. Maybe he just didn't want to leave an address. He's not still there, is he?"

  "No, but he said he might be back."

  "In that case, he may try to contact you again. It would be best if you were to come over to our headquarters and give a full description to our staff. Could you do that?"

  "Okay. I'll be right over," said Remo.

  "That's Suite Fifteen, the Stigman Building. We'll be here. Oh, goodie," she said just before Remo hung up on her.

  "Moron," Remo muttered.

  * * *

  The Stigman building was only a few blocks away, so Remo walked, enjoying the cool air and wishing Smitty hadn't given him this dippy assignment.

  "Oh, you must be Remo Greeley," a frizzy-haired redhead said to Remo when he walked into the headquarters of FOES. "This is really exciting. Now you're both here."

  "Both?" Remo said.

  "That's right. After you called, Ms. Bull showed up. She saw the UFO, too. Isn't that exciting? And she said it's still there."

  "She did? Still where?" Remo wondered if he'd screwed up the description and they were playing a joke to get back at him.

  "Still in the woods down in Chickasha. Oh, it's so exciting," the woman said. Remo decided that her hair wasn't red, but more of an orange color, and that while she looked a roly-poly 36, she was probably a plump 24 years old tops. She wore a lot of rings and bangles, none of which helped. She was the receptionist Remo had talked to before.

  "We're all about to drive out there now," she burbled, bouncing to her feet. "You're coming, of course."

  "Of course," Remo said. He didn't understand what was going on, but whatever it was, it would make his job of keeping tabs on these loonies easier.

  "Is everyone ready?" a blonde as tall and slim as a birch tree asked as she led a contingent of people out into the reception room where Remo was. "Oh, who are you?" she asked him, when her cool gray eyes alighted on him.

  "This is Mr. Greeley," the receptionist said. "He saw the same object you did. But he describes it a little differently."

  "Yeah, mine had a penguin," Remo said.

  "I see..." the blonde said slowly, looking Remo up and down, which caused Remo to wonder if his fly was open. "My name is Amanda Bull. Are you a member of FOES, Mr. Greeley?"

  "Call me Remo. No, but I'm thinking of joining."

  "I see," she said again. "Well, you better come with us then, even though you're obviously one of those macho types, which I can't stand."

  "I eat quiche," Remo said, wondering what it was that made her say that.

  They drove in a van south along a big highway flanked by flat farmland. The van that was customized so that the outside depicted scenes of various close encounters, and the inside was perfect for viewing the skies because of a bubble roof hatch.

  "Gee," the orange-haired FOES receptionist remarked as Amanda drove. "This would make a swell official van for our group."

  Amanda said nothing. She had been trying to draw Remo out on his close encounter, but Remo gave so many evasive answers, she gave up after a while.

  Remo, out of boredom, looked out the window for something to occupy his mind. There were no telephone poles to count. He tried counting cows, but the third farm they passed had about fifty of them packed close together, and Remo decided to forget it. The only interesting part of the trip was when they passed over first a big river and then a little river.

  It was twilight when Amanda pulled over and said, "Here. This is the spot. Everybody out."

  Then Amanda Bull stepped out, dressed in a sky-blue jumpsuit that made her willowy body look inviting even to Remo, to whom sex was no longer a mystery and for whom women, as a consequence, weren't even important enough to him to be sex objects anymore. And she took firm control of the seven people who made up the Oklahoma City chapter of FOES.

  "We'll march, single file, after me. I have a flashlight, so keep your eyes on my light. The spacecraft is in these woods. Let's go. March."

  Remo fell in behind Amanda Bull, and the others straggled in back of him, chattering like monkeys.

  "Ever been in the army?" Remo asked Amanda.

  "No, why do you ask?" she said.

  "Oh, nothing. It's just that the last time I heard anyone give orders like you, it was my Marine drill instructor back in boot camp."

  Amanda grunted. "I knew you were the macho type. Vietnam?"

  "Someplace like that," Remo said.

  "Well, you'd better be receptive to change because none of that military stuff is going to last much longer."

  "I thought we were just out here on a flying saucer hunt," suggested Remo, who thought it was interesting that this woman, who hated the military, acted as though she belonged to an army herself.

  "You'll see. Now keep quiet. Everybody. We're getting close."

  Remo thought he was getting close, too. Amanda Bull, if that was her name, didn't act or dress or talk like any of the other UFO collectors— or whatever they were. Where the others didn't seem to be wrapped at all, the blonde was wrapped too tight. And she had a crummy personality. Frustration, Remo decided. Maybe he would have to remedy that, he thought with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  They came to a clearing. Just beyond the glow of Amanda's flashlight was a dark shape that glittered a little. Without a word, Amanda broke away from the group and got in front of the dark shape.

  "Behold," she shouted triumphantly. "The emissary of a new age!"

  Light flooded the clearing. It was mostly white light, like calcium set on fire, but there were smaller blue and red and green lights mixed in with the overpowering white ones, and they illuminated the tall form of Amanda Bull, her arms raised as if she were Caesar before his armies.

  "My God," the frizzy-haired FOES receptionist gasped, "it's just like the movie." Her name was Ethel Sump, and she had seen Close Encounters of the Third Kind sixteen times, seventeen if you counted the time she sat through it four times in one evening and fell asleep midway through the midnight showing, only to wake up on the floor of the deserted theater the next morning to the sound of her dry popcorn belch.

  The others froze where they were, the light etching expressions of amazement on their open faces.

  Remo dropped flat and shut his eyes until he could close down the sensitive pupils of his eyes and not be blinded by the light.

  He listened.

  "Citizens of Earth," Amanda called. "I am the chosen representative of the new Earth, an Earth in which war and pestilence and sexism will be no more. From the distant star Betelgeuse comes the mighty World Master, architect of the golden age that is about to dawn. He has entrusted me with the task of recruiting preparation groups through which his teachings will enable Earth's glorious destiny to be fulfilled." Amanda paused to catch her breath, then said, "We ask you to join us now."

  The speech had a remarkable effect on the members of FOES. It went right over their heads.

  "Huh? What's she talking about?" someone demanded, squinting through the light.

  "Something about improving the world," Ethel Sump said. "I don't see the penguin. W
here's the penguin, Mr. Greeley?"

  But Remo had already rolled into the trees and was on his feet running. He moved through the trees, circling to get around behind the lights. He was disturbed by the sudden appearance of those lights from something as big and powerful as this ship or whatever it was. Machinery, especially big machinery, always sent out vibrations. But Remo had picked up nothing like that.

  Remo could see that the object was not sitting on the ground, but floated perhaps a yard or so above it. He sensed no engines or motors, felt no flow of air to indicate fans or jets or any other type of motive force. Just the heat of high-intensity lights and a blankness where there should have been vibration.

  It was eerie and unsettling. Remo didn't even sense much mass, even though the object was bigger than a bus and made of some silvery metal, if its polished surface was any indication.

  There should at least have been mass, he thought, if not vibration. Instead, Remo felt emptiness or hollowness, as if the UFO were almost completely weightless, or if it could somehow suspend gravity.

  Remo got behind the object unseen. The lights were just as strong there, too. So Remo shut out the glare by pinching his lids down, and drifted closer to the thing, whatever it was.

  Still no vibration.

  With his hands extended Remo touched the hull of the floating object. It gave way slightly before his delicate touch, like a beach ball touched by a swimming child.

  Remo's sensitive fingers felt vibration now. Electrical activity. But still nothing like what he would expect of a floating monster like this. Maybe it ran on batteries. How many size D batteries would it take to power a ship across deep space? Remo didn't know. What happened when the batteries went dead? Did they stop at the intergalactic grocery store and buy more? He put his fingers on the fabric of the space ship, ready to tear it open, when suddenly a thin, reedy voice emanated from inside the cool skin of the UFO and said, "Preparation Group Leader. An unauthorized person has ventured too close to my craft. Retreat a distance of fifty meters, please."