shoe Ranch--Private
Road--No Trespassing_.

Elshawe had always thought of a ranch as a huge spread of flat prairie
land full of cattle and gun-toting cowpokes on horseback; a mountainside
full of sheep just didn't fit into that picture.

After a half mile or so, the station wagon came to a high metal-mesh
fence that blocked the road. On the big gate, another sign proclaimed
that the area beyond was private property and that trespassers would be
prosecuted.

Bill Rodriguez stopped the car, got out, and walked over to the gate. He
pressed a button in one of the metal gateposts and said, "Ed? This's
Bill. I got Mr. Skinner and that New York reporter with me."

After a slight pause, there was a metallic click, and the gate swung
open. Rodriguez came back to the car, got in, and drove on through the
gate. Elshawe twisted his head to watch the big gate swing shut behind
them.

After another ten minutes, Rodriguez swung off the road onto another
side road, and ten minutes after that the station wagon went over a
small rise and headed down into a small valley. In the middle of it,
shining like bright aluminum in the sun, was a vessel.

_Now I know Porter is nuts_, Elshawe thought wryly.

Because the vessel, whatever it was, was parallel to the ground, looking
like the fuselage of a stratojet, minus wings and tail, sitting on its
landing gear. Nowhere was there any sign of a launching pad, with its
gantries and cranes and jet baffles. Nor was there any sign of a rocket
motor on the vessel itself.

As the station wagon approached the cluster of buildings a hundred yards
this side of the machine, Elshawe realized with shock that the thing
_was_ a stripped-down stratojet--an old Grumman _Supernova_, _circa_
1970.

"Well, Elijah got there by sitting in an iron chair and throwing a
magnet out in front of himself," Elshawe said, "so what the hell."

"What?" Rodriguez asked blankly.

"Nothing; just thinking out loud. Sorry."

Behind Elshawe, Mr. Skinner chuckled softly, but said nothing.

When the station wagon pulled up next to one of the cluster of white
prefab buildings, Malcom Porter himself stepped out of the wide door and
walked toward them.

Elshawe recognized the man from his pictures--tall, wide-shouldered,
dark-haired, and almost handsome, he didn't look much like a wild-eyed
crackpot. He greeted Rodriguez and Skinner rather peremptorily, but he
smiled broadly and held out his hand to Elshawe.

"Mr. Elshaw