“That’s all right, sir. If you don’t mind, we’ll stand.” The senior officer stepped forward and extended a hand. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Waltham.”

“Nice to meet you.” Raskin methodically shook hands. “Listen, I’m always glad to see representatives from the base, but it’s Saturday morning and I need to be out of here by noon. So if you’d like to go ahead and ask your questions…?”

“It concerns an employee of yours.” The captain who spoke had a soft voice but a penetrating gaze, Raskin decided. “I spent quite a bit of time talking to him last night.”

The manager was again on guard. “What’s the problem? We don’t short our drinks here. This isn’t one of the cheap clubs or strip joints out on one-eighty, and we do our best to keep the hookers out.”

“Please, sir.” The lieutenant colonel made placating motions. “Relax. There’s nothing wrong. We just need a little information about an employee, that’s all.”

Raskin’s gaze narrowed speculatively. “Somebody gone AWOL? Surely they wouldn’t be dumb enough to get a job here in town, much less this close to the base.”

“Nothing like that, I assure you.”

Raskin sighed heavily. “All right. Who is it and what have they done?”

“We don’t think he’s ‘done’ anything. We just want to talk to him.” The captain raised one downward-facing palm over his head. “Real big guy, was working behind the bar last night. Does comedy with a dummy while he’s mixing drinks.”

If there’s nothing wrong, then why are they all so tense? Raskin wondered. You could practically taste it. All the smiles and affability seemed forced. He’d been in the hotel business too long not to know when he was being massaged. Still, he saw no reason to refuse them a reply.

“You mean Ross Hager. What about him?”

“Like I said, we just want to talk to him.” The colonel couldn’t mask his eagerness.

Raskin leaned back in his chair, his belt straining against his waistline. “Hell, I’d like to talk to him myself. I thought he was happy here.”

One of the other officers responded immediately with. “What do you mean ‘was’?”

The manager spread his hands wide. “I come in this morning after taking the family to the movies and here’s this note sitting on my desk.” He sat forward. “Here, I’ll show you.” He fumbled through the pile of papers before extracting a scrap and waving it at them. “Just like that, he up and leaves. Says it’s time he was moving on and he’s sorry for taking off without giving notice. Says he knows that I’ll understand, which I don’t.” He shook his head sadly. “One of the best bartenders I’ve had in years. Did his job, didn’t skim the till, and took care of the troublemakers. Too bad.”

“He quit? Just like that?” Their expressions were so ardent, Raskin thought, it was almost comical.

“That’s what I said. What about it?” He turned wary again. “You guys said there was nothing wrong, that it didn’t involve the army.”

“That’s right,” explained another captain. “Mr. Hager is not military. At least, not insofar as we have been able to discover.”

“Kind of a hasty departure, wasn’t it?” The lieutenant colonel was watching Raskin closely.

The manager shrugged, already tired of the conversation. “Hey, these transient workers, they come and they go, you know? Some of them last a couple of days, some you wish would never leave. But unless they have families with them, you never know.” He chuckled at a memory. “That alien ventriloquist act of his brought in a lot of business.”

“Yes, it was very well done,” agreed the captain restively. “Could you tell us where Mr. Hager was going?”

Raskin shook his head. “Don’t have a clue. He never told me and I never asked. Wasn’t none of my business.”

The four officers exchanged a look before the captain turned back to the desk. “Well then, Mr. Raskin, perhaps you could tell us where Mr. Hager was staying while he was here in El Paso?”

“What the hell, why not?” Turning to a computer terminal, the manager took mouse in hand and began clicking. “You guys will remember this the next time you have a big banquet or conference to schedule, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” The colonel was fairly dancing with impatience.

“Should be right here in the employee records.” Windows changed on the monitor. “Need at least a phone number in case you have to call someone in.” He hesitated. “What was it you wanted to talk to him about?”

“It has to do with—” the lieutenant colonel began, but Captain Suttles hastened to interrupt.

“We want to discuss his act.” He smiled disingenuously. “I thought it was funny as hell, and we need to find out if he’s available to do a major military gathering.” He indicated his fellow officers. “We’re the organizers, and since everyone has a vote on the choice of food and entertainment, I thought I’d see if we could get him to do a sample of the act for everybody on the committee.”

“That’s right,” the only major in the party chipped in. “If he’s as good as Steve says he is, I’m sure we’ll hire him on the spot.”

“Well then, I hope you find him.” Raskin turned back to the monitor. “Maybe he’s just gone up to Las Cruces to work for a while. He’d be good with the college crowd. Or maybe he’s gone home.”

“That would be in your records as well, wouldn’t it?” inquired the second captain.

“We’ll see.”

It didn’t take him long to locate Hager’s file. He noted with interest the intensity with which two of the officers transcribed the information, whereupon they thanked him profusely and all but fled the office. He looked after them curiously.

They must really want that alien ventriloquist act bad, he decided. Well, that he could understand. Hager had brought in plenty of additional customers. Raskin chuckled as he turned back to his work, remembering the goofy expressions that carne over the faces of some of the drunks as they struggled futilely to digest the bartender/dummy’s inventive responses to their questions.

There were three of them waiting for him in the sealed conference room. Suttles had expected more, just as he had expected the guard outside the door. No rifle was visible, but the man wore a sidearm at the ready. He knocked, and the familiar voice of General Sykes invited him to enter. The general sounded preoccupied.

Dispensing absently with the usual salute, Sykes gestured for him to take a seat. Not wasting any time, the general proceeded to introductions.

Infantry insignia decorated the shoulders of the others, intentionally noncommittal and uninformative. The woman was blond, very attractive, same early thirties as Suttles himself. As she returned his appraising stare her attitude was one of utter seriousness.

The slightly younger man seated on her right was very tall, perhaps six-four, with a lean but not angular face, small nose and mouth, piercing eyes set close together, one solid eyebrow over both oculars, and the laughing memory of freckles haunting his complexion. His red hair was cut regulation short. He appeared more at ease than his female companion, though he acted at a loss as to what to do with his hands.

“Captain Suttles, meet Captain Kerry”—the woman nodded—“and Captain Robinett.” Her associate waved and grinned pleasantry.

All three of us captains, Suttles reflected. Just a coincidence, or a deliberate attempt to ensure that nobody could make any decisions based on rank alone? He expected he’d have an opportunity to find out.

“Captains Kerry and Robinett are with army intelligence,” Sykes explained helpfully as he took a seat at the head of the small table.

Which made sense. Suttles knew as he sat down. Kerry wasted no time in launching the subject they’d come together to discuss.

“You’re the one who saw the alien?”

“Hey, slow down.” He smiled. She didn’t smile back. “I didn’t say it was an alien.”

“A dead alien.” Robinett studied his agitated fingers. “About three feet tall, looking something like this.” From the neat rectangle of papers piled on the table in front of him he held up an artist’s rendering of the sort Suttles was familiar with from frequent encounters on the evening news. Someone had produced a remarkably accurate rendition of the alien’s head and torso based on the information in Suttles’s official report.

“Pretty good,” he commented. “The nasal ridge is sharper than that, though, and the central eye is the same size as the others.”

Robinett looked at the sketch and surprised Suttles by saying, “I’ll fix it. I did the best I could based on what you told us.” Now Suttles understood the reason for the young captain’s nervous fingers: they were searching for a pen.

“There’s more.” He tried not to sound overly critical. “Minor details. I didn’t say it was an alien,” he reiterated. “He said it was a dead alien.”

“That’s right.” Now Kerry smiled slightly, as though it was expected of her. “The bartender.”

The somber confrontation in the tiny, windowless room put Suttles in mind of the classic sf/horror films of the fifties. All that was needed was for Kerry to lower her voice and declare in ominous tones that “It’s obviously a by-product of the atom bomb.” Completing the scene demanded that she change into the standard duty uniform for brilliant young female scientists of that genre: high heels, with skirt and sweater sufficiently tight to slow the circulation of the blood. He suspected that no such nonsense, either oratorical or sartorial, would be forthcoming from the redoubtable and no-nonsense Captain Kerry. Not was she likely to provide any suggestion of romantic relief.