Chapter 20
Dr. Harold W. Smith had always thought that when he reached a certain age there would be nothing left that would surprise him. On this day, he learned that he could not have been more wrong.
The director of CURE fought the urge to let his mouth drop open in shock as he scanned reams of material on the World Wide Web devoted entirely to alien conspiracy theories.
Smith knew there always had and would be lunatics out there. But he was amazed to find an entire subculture devoted to the ludicrous notion that the United States government was deliberately covering up the fact of regular alien visits to the planet Earth.
Forget that Earth was a relatively obscure planet in a relatively isolated part of the Milky Way. Never mind that the odds of anyone ever stumbling upon Earth in the vast expanse of the cosmos were beyond astronomical. Overlook the obvious notion that it would be easier to hold a nuclear explosion in a hatbox than to contain a secret on the level being posited by the UFO devotees. None of these considerations warranted concern for those whose eyes were turned hopelessly starward.
To the rational, analytical, staunchly terrestrial mind of Harold W. Smith, the whole discussion was utterly incredible. He wondered if it would seem less unbelievable if he had not been so tired. He doubted it.
Smith had been working for hours without sleep. Police in Los Angeles had rounded up Arthur Ford's roommate. The man had known nothing beyond the fact that his friend was somewhere in New Mexico.
So far, the usual checks had been fruitless. There were no credit-card transactions, no airline tickets, not even a simple traffic violation. It was as if Arthur Ford had vanished off the face of the planet.
The irony of that thought occurred to Smith the moment it passed through his weary brain.
No, Ford was still on Earth. Somewhere. But where?
It was possible that he and Roote had run out of gas and were dying in the desert right now. Perhaps they had even crossed the border into Mexico. It was a big, big world. And in order to track his quarry, Harold Smith needed something, anything to go on. So far, he had nothing.
"Blast." Smith muttered the rare curse under his breath as he dropped back in his seat.
"Nothing yet?"
Remo's voice startled him. Chiun had awakened from his untroubled night's sleep hours ago. He and Remo had gone for a walk around Fort Joy. Smith had been so involved in his work that he hadn't heard them return.
The CURE director sighed. "I would have an easier time locating a single grain of sand in the desert," he complained. Removing his glasses, he rubbed his weary eyes.
"I have great faith in your oracles, Emperor," the Master of Sinanju offered. Hands clasped behind his back, he was looking at them through the wall of the huge tank. The Plexiglas distorted his wizened form.
"Thank you, Master Chiun," Smith said. "But I do not think you appreciate the difficulty of this search. There is a network of individuals out there who I am now certain would be more than willing to aid Elizu Roote. They would be as convinced as the young man we met at the airport that they were dealing with an alien being."
"You haven't even found Ford yet?" Remo asked. He was leaning against the side of the tank. Smith shook his head.
"He has vanished."
"Any friends in the area?" Remo asked. "Maybe there's some other nut nearby who might help him out."
Smith turned to a pad beside his laptop. In a dull monotone, he began reading from the hasty notes he had collected from the Internet.
"Alien Guards, Alien Sentries, Alien Watchers, Binary Ring Party, Brotherhood of the Stars, Brothers of Aliens, Brothers of Man, Camp Alpha, Camp Beta, Camp Earth, Camp Gamma, Camp Omega-not to be confused with Omega Camp, Omega Brotherhood or a dozen other sites around the area."
Disgusted, he tossed the notepad back to the table.
"We could check them all out," Remo offered.
"It would take years," Smith said, shaking his head. "There are hundreds of groups camped out from the Rio Grande to Roswell. Some have permanent settlements, some come back at a specific time each year. Others are nomadic, moving from one place to another rapidly. Their paranoia does not allow them to stay in one place very long. If Ford has gone to any of these, it would be nearly impossible to find him."
"If this creature is as you both claim, it will surface again," Chiun said with certainty.
"And the only way we'll know is when someone shows up on the nightly news smoking like a bucket of extra crispy," Remo said.
Chiun shrugged. "It will be a trail to follow."
"No way we're waiting," Remo insisted. "I'm not letting that hutbar toast anyone else."
"Remo, we have no choice," Smith said, forcing a reasonable tone in his tired voice.
A small electronic beep suddenly emanated from his computer. Smith turned back around, checking the thin band on which only a few lines of text could appear at one time.
The four Folcroft mainframes had continued to troll the Net since Smith's return to the Shock Troops lab. A satellite connection transmitted any relevant data to the CURE director's briefcase laptop.
As he read the information his computers had gathered, Smith felt the weariness melt away.
"I have something," he said, his lemony voice tense.
Stepping rapidly across the room, Remo and Chiun gathered around the computer.
"What is it?" Remo asked.
"Arthur Ford has used his Discover card."
"Where?" Remo pressed anxiously. "And don't say Neptune."
Smith was typing rapidly at the small keyboard, accessing the pertinent information.
"The Wal-Mart in Truth or Consequences." Remo scrunched up his face. "Wasn't that an old game show?" he asked.
"The city was renamed after the success of the program," Smith explained as he worked.
"There's a brain trust I'd steer clear of," Remo said dryly. "What was their fall-back option, 'Let's Make a Deal Falls'? Probably Assholeville'd be more appropriate, huh, Little Father?"
"Silence, chatterbox," Chiun insisted. He was watching intently as Smith typed at his computer.
"I have located several other individuals whose credit-card uses roughly match the purchase time of Arthur Ford. I have traced them all back to a single location. They are all residents of a place called Camp Earth."
Remo seemed surprised. "That's pretty slick, Smitty," he said, impressed. "How'd you do that?"
"Ford bought an unusually large quantity of a single item, as did the others. There was a clear correlation between all of the purchases." He didn't seem pleased by his discovery. "They have effectively cleaned out the entire area of this one item."
"What is it?" Remo asked.
Smith looked up at him. When he spoke, his voice was tight. "Automobile batteries."
ARTHUR FORD DIDN'T RAVE a clue what he was doing.