Chapter 11
Dear Captain MacKenzie,
Something is rotten in Iowa.
My name is Walter K. Mashkin. I’ve been a semiprofessional UFO investigator for several years.
Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’ve enjoyed your series in True magazine very much, which is why I’m writing you, as well as to the other people in the UFO investigatory world whom I respect.
I try to keep in contact with a network of fellow individuals interested in uncovering the truth about this 40-year spate of UFO visitations of this planet. A correspondent and friend of mine is a Mr. Harry Reynolds of Dubuque, Iowa.
Captain, Harry Reynolds has disappeared.
It is my fear that Harry has been kidnapped by aliens. It is my greater fear that Harry has been the victim of those who run the UFO conspiracy in this country. Whichever the case, I am trying as hard as I can to drum up interest, if not outrage and indignation, amongst those who might help me investigate this matter.
Harry Reynolds made regular shortwave broadcasts. Harry was particularly interested in UFOs and the possibility that forms of extraterrestrial life may be attempting to contact this planet. He often challenged the occupants of the reported flying saucers to come down and speak personally with him. I spoke to Harry regularly via shortwave, occasionally listened to his amateur “program,” and corresponded with him. Twice, I met him at UFO conferences, and I was impressed with his warmth, sincerity, and friendly humanity. So, when I did not hear his broadcasts for two days straight, I was naturally concerned and called his house. When there was no answer, I called the police, who promised me they’d check on him. A later call revealed that the Dubuque police had found the house deserted except for some hungry cats. Harry’s car was still in the driveway; his wallet and identification were still in his bedroom.
I am making arrangements to personally visit Dubuque to look into this matter. However, I have to deal with some personal business first. In the meantime, I thought that my fellow warriors in the effort to discover the truth about the activities of UFOs—and the frightening cover-up on the part of the U.S. government, perhaps all the world governments.
Perhaps, since you are a Midwesterner yourself, and you take an interest in these things, you can actually visit Iowa and do some investigation. If not for Harry, then for the basis of what might be an excellent magazine article.
I look forward to your response, and I hope we have the opportunity to meet.
Yours sincerely,
Walter K. Mashkin
Everett Scarborough put the letter down and. looked across the table at MacKenzie. “You’re not taking this seriously. are you?” The remains of a good solid meal of roast beef, baked potatoes, and Caesar salad lay around them, waiting to be picked up by the waiter. In the dining room of the Tabard Inn, candles flickered warmly by their booth.
“Of course I take it seriously, Ev!” said MacKenzie. “In fact, I took the liberty of calling the Dubuque police. Everything that Mashkin says is true. This guy Reynolds—he’s gone. No trace. Marie Celeste time too—dishes on table, un-flushed commode, lights and radio on. If it’s an alien abduction case, I’ve not heard of one like it. They usually only last a few hours, don’t they? This one’s over a week long.”
“The Travis Walton business during the 70s in Arizona ... right, 1975 it was. That guy was gone for five days! And it was a fairly phony case at that, I might add. I’ve done several chapters in my books about that character. Apparently, he was associated with a business that had contracted with the government to thin out small trees in an area called Turkey Springs. The crew was behind on the job, and the business would be docked if the work didn’t get done on time. I came up with proof of all this by the way ... And Mike Rogers, the crew-chief admits that he’d seen that UFO-Encounter show several weeks before his disappearance. When Travis Walton disappeared, it was very close to Turkey Springs. And the search for him not only gave the Rogers crew an excuse for not getting the job done—it gave the members an excuse for not wanting to go back into the area ... and cause for an extension of the deadline. Thanks to that, the job got completed. Apparently, the crew worked, despite their fears of getting sucked up into a flying saucer.”
“Yeah, I remember your reports on that in your books,” said MacKenzie. “But dammit, man, what does that have to do with this case?”
“Just offering up a previous case, Mac, of a long disappearance.” Scarborough sat back wearily and sipped at the last of his wine. “I think you’ll probably find that Mr. Reynolds disappeared for a reason other than UFO abduction. Maybe he was just a lonely guy who wanted some attention. Lots of possibilities, Mac. The thing that disturbs me is how you, of all people, when a guy disappears, should shout, ‘Maybe he was zapped by a flying saucer and carted off to Pluto!’ Mac, I just think you’re starting to get too credulous! You remember that Francis Bacon don’t you? ‘A credulous man is a deceiver.’ “
MacKenzie frowned. “You calling me a liar, friend?”
“No, no, no. Lighten up, Mac. I think what Bacon realized is that if you swallow everything you hear enthusiastically, then you’re bound to cough up lots of untruths equally enthusiastically. It’s our duty as intelligent beings to bring our own experiences and faculties to bear, our powers of analysis. God, man, we talked about this during Blue Book. And come to think of it, you were the guy that dug up that quote!”
MacKenzie wilted a little. “Yeah. I remember now. Sorry to get upset at you, Ev. Maybe I am a little too eager to jump at things. Maybe I just want a little more action in my life, a little more excitement.” The big man scratched his bushy mustache. “But really, Ev. I’m asking you to have a slightly more open mind. Something weird is going on. The reason I gave you that letter is that something just occurred to me, something that you may be able to help out with.”
“Which is?”
MacKenzie flicked his eyes about the dim dining room, as though he half expected someone to be listening in. He lowered his voice confidentially as he leaned his elbows onto the table.
“You’ve got some time off now. Come on out with me to Iowa. Let’s do a replay on the 60s. Let’s do some great investigation together. At the very least, you’ll dig up more grist for your debunking mill. And who knows what else you might come up with! Let’s check into these stories ... the Higsdon Farm stuff ... the Reynolds case...”
“God, you sound just like my daughter!”
“Yeah, and I still think you oughta make a stop in Kansas, too,” said MacKenzie, a fleck of steel in his gaze. “C’mon, man. Let’s work again. Let’s get out there and dig up some dirt before we get too old. There are heads to butt, and secrets to uncover! Just a week, Ev! That’s all I ask. I want it to be like old times.”
Scarborough nodded. “The old times were good. Things seemed ... well, I guess the clichés are true ... much simpler then.”
The big man brightened. “So you’ll do it? You’ll try to get what you can from Colonel Dolan, and then come and investigate with me. You’re the best, Ev. Or anyway, at least you used to be. I need you.”
Scarborough sucked on his front teeth for a moment, considering. Maybe he should get out into the field for a time. Mac was right; he did have some days to spare. He could think of it as a working vacation. Get the blood roaring again. The game’s afoot, eh, Watson? and all that.
But his thought-flow struck an immediate barrier.
To accept his friend’s invitation would be tantamount to admitting that everything he’d stood for since the Project Blue Book days, everything he’d written in his books and lectured on countless times, could be wrong. It would be almost the same as Doctor Everett Scarborough saying, “Hey, maybe there is some kind of cover-up. And by golly, perhaps there are flying saucers buzzing about piloted by little green men.” No, it just didn’t work. It was entirely too much to risk.
“I’m sorry, Mac. I’ll look into the discrepancies you’ve mentioned ... discreetly. But at this point in my career I just can’t chuck the stand I’ve taken. At least not on the evidence of a few mixed-up facts or on my spaced-out daughter’s experiences. ... Or on the evidence from a part-time UFO investigator who in all likelihood is a full-time loon.” He handed the letter back to his friend.
MacKenzie banged his fist on the table. “Jumping Jesus, what the hell has happened to you, Everett Scarborough?” he said through gritted teeth.
Scarborough was chagrined to see that a few of the diners and a waiter turned to see what the commotion was. “Not so loud, Mac.”
“I’ll be as loud as I goddamn please, man! And I’ll tell everyone that the Everett Scarborough that I used to know is dead! The Scarborough who was tough-minded and open, a maverick who tracked down facts and truth with a hunter’s skill and instinct is gone. And what’s left? I’ll tell you what’s left ... A fat, corporate-minded, government-toady! A fucking ostrich with his head in the sand, getting his ass hole crammed with thousand-dollar bills! Fame, fortune ... God, that’s what you’re after, Ev, not the truth. You’ve sold out man! I never thought to see that day, but you’ve fucking sold out.”
His face red, the big man got up and threw his napkin down on the table. Scarborough was so stunned, hurt, and embarrassed that he could find no words to answer with.
“I don’t think we have anything more to talk about, Dr. Scarborough, sir,” said Mac. “Good night.”
The older man stalked from the room.
Shocked, Everett Scarborough could do nothing but sit and blink. Was the whole universe coming down on him? Just because he took a stand that other people didn’t care for? A maniac with a gun, his daughter, and now one of his very best friends—they’d all taken their own particular potshots.
What the hell was wrong, anyway?
A waiter approached hesitantly, “Is everything all right, sir?”
No, it wasn’t, but Scarborough assured the waiter that he was all right.
“In that case, sir,” said the man, pulling out the long check, laden with scribbles and prices. “Here is your check.”
Scarborough sighed. “Why don’t you put one more drink on it, huh? A Glenlivet Scotch. Double. Neat.”
The waiter nodded. “Very good, sir.”
Scarborough got out a credit card, and stared glumly at its holograph.