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Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

'... like a bad waxen candle that rose into the sky and went out,' wrote the long-haired man seated at his wooden desk. He wrote slowly, giving each word careful and considerable thought as his sentences came to life. With a sigh, he placed his quill down and rubbed his sunburned face. A faint ache throbbed spitefully in the veins of his head. The early morning sunshine cutting through the window of his cabin, sending sparkles of water dancing over the ceiling, did not help. Above him, muffled footsteps sounded as the crew of the Santa Maria prepared for another day.

He sniffed. A trickle of blood emerged from his nose. Puzzled, he dragged out his handkerchief and wiped it away. His chair scraped over the wooden floorboards as he pushed it back. He wanted to stand and stretch away the lingering sleepiness that seemed to cling to him. A glance at his pillow stopped him in mid-stretch and his relaxed features crinkled in puzzlement. There were some red droplets on the pillow. He wiped his nose again and headed up to the deck.

Outside, he inhaled the salty air. The fresh ocean breeze removed the last remnants of sleep. The sun was climbing higher into the sky above the rippling ocean while the men went about their duties. Far above him the flag of Spain snapped smartly in the morning breeze pushing the Santa Maria in the intended direction. They should be within sight of land any day soon. The men were getting restless. He had promised them no more than a month's voyage, but they were already slipping into the fifth week. Several hundred yards away, but keeping abreast of the Santa Maria, were two other ships. The Pinta, commanded by Martin Alonzo Pinzon, who would one month later desert the expedition, only to rejoin again in January, and the Nina, commanded by Vicente Yanez Pinzon, the younger brother of Martin.

A loud shout jerked Christopher Columbus' attention away from the sea. "Cristobal! Cristobal!" He glanced around, scanning the horizon, anticipating the call for land, but it was only one of the crewmen. "Some of our men are ill," the crewman announced in Castellano. "Come and see."

Disappointed, Columbus followed the crewman down to the lower levels of the ship. They had to duck under thick wooden beams as they made their way. Two pale and sickly crewmen were lying in their hammocks tied between two posts. Their haggard faces rested on halos of bloodstained pillows. Their noses and beards were also stained. Columbus examined their gums for loosened teeth. He asked the crewmen if there was any pain in their joints.

"No, none," one of them answered in a hoarse voice. "I'm having dreams. Dreams of monsters."

For sure, it was not scurvy. There was a reasonable amount of food. Delirium? Seasickness? There was no trace of fever. He ordered both of them to remain in their hammocks for the day. Others would have to be assigned to their shifts. Columbus turned to the crewman who had informed him of the sick crew members.

"Is anyone else sick?"

"No, but we lost a man during the night."

"Who?"

"Alfonso. He must have fallen overboard."

Columbus shook his head. Losing a crewmember was difficult, especially Alfonso who had been a hard worker. He headed for the deck, meaning to jot down the recent incidents in his logbook. He wondered for a moment if the men had been fighting. Tensions were running high with no end to the voyage in sight.

Upon the deck, he noticed he was not wearing his amulet. He didn't remember removing it last night before heading off to bed. In fact, he did not remember going to bed at all. Thoughtfully, he rubbed his neck where the amulet had been during the entire voyage. His father had given it to him years ago. It had been engraved in his own name: Cristofo Columbo. Thoughtfully the mariner headed to his cabin.

Later, at two o'clock in the morning, a cry went up from Rodrigo de Triana that would forever change the face of history.

"Land-Ho!"

BOOK I

Chapter 1

Jagged white stripes ripped throughout the New Mexico night. Slashes of daylight flickered over the wide rolling plains of the Roswell area. It was a picture of desolation, except for the Cortez ranch; a slightly run down spread consisting of sheep, a few horses, some dogs and stray cats. The howling wind swept down from the boiling dark clouds that struggled like angry ghosts to conceal a stubborn moon. It swept over the plains, shaking wild grass in its wake before pushing a cloud of dust against the Roswell ranch, then blowing its wrath across the desert.

The Cortez ranch was restless that night. Horses shifted in their stalls, stamping their hooves in agitation. There was electricity in the air. They shook their heads to rid them of the static that seemed to cling to their bodies. The farm dogs howled at the night sky as if mourning for the loss of the moon. They scattered over the yard and huddled in their favorite resting places, normally reserved for the heat of the day.

Petro Cortez couldn't sleep. Flashes of lightning lit the room for milliseconds. Outside, the dogs kept up their mournful howls. They had never gotten this agitated before a storm. Usually they were silent. He listened to his wife Rosa, with her rhythmic steady breathing. Petro made a mental note to ask her first thing in the morning how she could sleep through such a storm.

A faint bang came from the barn. The farmer turned to face the window. One of the horses had kicked the stall again, he thought. This storm would surely mean another trip to town. Who knows what damage Mother Nature would inflict on the ranch - it was neither a sturdy nor a profitable ranch. Times were tough. There was the depression, then the war. He had inherited the ranch from his grandfather. More lightning. More thunder. The storm was getting closer.

Petro Cortez was a simple, rugged, well-built man. His grandfather had built the farm. At first, his grandfather had been very successful. He managed to maintain livestock, along with a little agriculture; growing lettuce and onions. When Grandfather died, he left the farm to his son, Petro's father, who drank heavily. Petro was only a small boy when his father abruptly left home one night. Petro never saw or heard from him again. Occasional rumors filtered across the desert that he had run off with a woman from town. Petro and his mother were left to run the farm.

For years they toiled on the farm. They stopped growing crops because they could not afford outside help. They focused on raising and selling sheep, along with a few head of cattle. Petro grew older and stronger. As his mother aged, she became frail and Petro had to run the farm on his own. His marriage to his childhood sweetheart Rosa, left him with more freedom to tend the farm while she cared for his ailing mother. His mother finally succumbed quietly in her sleep after a lengthy illness. Even with Rosa free to help with the chores, they found it a struggle keeping the farm afloat. The drought had taken its toll and Petro had to move the sheep farther and farther to find suitable grazing pastures. Perhaps it would get better in a few years, if the rains came, but Petro knew in his heart that he was the last of the Cortez to run the ranch. Rosa was not able to bear him children. It was a losing battle.

A torrent of barking interrupted his thoughts. Petro propped himself on his elbows and glanced at the window. Mother Nature sent a few more frantic signals. Something was really wrong. He could not sleep, and besides, it had been a while since he had some excitement. Petro eased himself off the bed to avoid waking Rosa. That was another thing he never understood. She could sleep through a thunderstorm, but if he got up or left the room, no matter how quietly, she always woke up. This time was no exception. She stirred.

Then the light came.

It was soft and blue at first, then it slowly filled the room with a deep heavy brilliance. A tolerable light. Not the kind that made you shield your eyes, but rather like oil, filling the room slowly - growing, penetrating, and staining. The barking of the dogs reached a fervent pitch above the occasional rumble of thunder. The horses grew frantic. Petro could hear them slamming their hooves against their stalls. Forgetting Rosa. He lunged for the window and pulled back the curtains. The blue glow continued to fill the room.

Rosa struggled out of her sleep and turned to the window. She blinked her tired eyes and tried to the shake the sleep from her weather-beaten face.

"Petro?" Her voice suddenly took on an edge. "Petro, what is it?"

The rancher dropped the curtains and began pulling on his pants. "I'm going outside to check - stay here!" He was gone before Rosa could ask any more questions.

Like a spiteful child the wind ripped the screen door from Petro's grip the moment he pushed it open. It slammed against the gray wooden walls and bounced back. Flecks of brittle gray paint swirled in the air. He shoved the door back and stumbled across the porch, fighting the wind. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and looked around. The blue light was spilling over the ranch like sunlight rippling on the ocean floor. The high pitched buzzing began, intensifying with each second. Petro clapped his hands over his ears and sank to his knees. It was unbearable. He had never felt such intensity in his head. The sound seemed to penetrate his skull rather than go through his ears. The electricity came next. It bristled over him and made his hair stand on end. Screaming to shake it off, Petro rolled over and over on the ground. Somewhere, he could hear Rosa screaming. He fought to open his eyes and when he did, he saw it.

The clouds seemed to part like the Red Sea under Moses' command. In the middle of the parted clouds an oval object dropped out, looking like the sun, but whitish blue. His heart hammering in his chest, he instinctively rolled over and curled himself into a fetal position, burying his head in his arms. Rosa was screaming more loudly now. The words were incomprehensible, but Petro was sure she was screaming a prayer.

The buzzing and electricity reached their peak as the object plunged to earth. The dogs began fighting each other. The horses reared and crashed down hard on the stone floor, giving out shrill cries. Their hooves slammed against the stalls, spraying splinters as they reacted to the intense tingling sensations sweeping through them. Hissing cats arched their backs, vanishing into dark corners. The frantic sheep increased their bleating and shoved against one another in their pens.

The object plunged straight at Petro, then snapped away in a 90-degree turn, ripping off the barn roof, leaving an explosion of flying wood in its wake. Sonic booms reverberated across the countryside as the object disappeared over the low hills, sucking the blue glow into itself. It sent out a huge thunderclap and a powerful shock wave. The house shook. Rosa stumbled back against the wall. Shards of glass exploded from the windows. In the kitchen the dishes leapt into the air and shattered. Glasses jumped from their positions and broke in midair, raining jagged pieces that bounced and splintered over the floor. Silverware rattled impatiently in the drawer.

Silence descended over the farm. The dogs emerged from their hiding places, panting and sniffing at the air. Sweaty horses shifted in their stalls. Cats crawled from their dark corners, eyes wide and alert for danger. The sheep stopped their frantic bleating.

Petro staggered to his feet, coughing from the blown dust. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the faint buzzing. The air smelled musty and heavy as the first drops of rain thudded into the ground, raising tiny mushroom clouds of dirt. A crying, scared Rosa had her arms around Petro. He pulled her into a tight embrace.

Thunder crashed around them and lightning flickered. The heavens opened, pouring out a deluge of rain.

The heavy rain spilled over the brim of Petro's battered straw hat. A bulky raincoat was the only protection against the downpour. His horse trudged steadily through puddles and eddies of mud. The only light was a feeble yellow glow from a lantern that he held. He switched the lantern from hand to hand as he grew tired of holding it. Finally, he tucked the lantern between his legs, where it provided some degree of comfort and warmth.

Rosa had not wanted him to leave, but he was adamant. "We are good Samaritans," he had insisted. "What if it's an airplane crash? God wouldn't forgive me if I didn't go to check it out!" Rosa relented, but insisted that he take a flask of coffee. He tucked it under his raincoat.

The flask provided a warm and comforting spot on his abdomen. Petro stopped and pulled out the flask. For a moment, he pitied the dripping wet horse and felt guilty. He felt inclined to turn the beast around, bed him for the evening and continue the search in the morning. But his duty came first, help the others. Despite the chilling rain, he managed to gulp down enough coffee to warm his insides. He tucked the flask back into his raincoat and raised the lantern. The effort was fruitless as the yellow glow refused to extend more than three yards.

Petro squinted harder. Something was pulsing faintly in the darkness ahead of him. He knew the land like the back of his hand. Before his father deserted the family, he would take Petro with him whenever he needed to move the sheep to fresh pastures. There was a dry riverbed ahead of him that dropped about three feet. In the winter when the rains came, the river flowed heavily, but ran to a mere trickle in summer. Petro knew that the horse would not fall into the riverbed. Often they had to herd sheep across the bed, but that was farther south. Gently, Petro urged the horse forward. They had not gone more than twenty yards when the horse stopped and neighed. Something was wrong.

"Here, boy, steady now." Petro patted and rubbed the horse's neck. Slowly, he coaxed the animal forward until they were standing at the edge of the riverbed.

A burning smell emerged from ahead. Unknown to Petro, it was the smell of sulfur. There was another smell that bothered him - the smell of burned flesh. He knew that smell from his cattle branding. The horse sensed something was amiss and took several tentative steps back. Swinging his leg over the horse, Petro dropped to the ground and approached the edge of the riverbed.

Faint hissing pops of cold water striking hot metal emerged from the rolling steam. Fog shrouded patches of red lights that pulsed randomly. Not only were the lights below Petro's feet, but they stretched past the riverbed and up the opposite bank. More were seen in pockets of rolling steam in the distance.

Out of the darkness came an agonizing wail. A wail of pain and suffering. The horse stamped and snorted. Terrified, Petro climbed on the shifting animal and swung his lantern around. The horse made a 360-degree turn as Petro craned his neck to try to penetrate the rolling steam.

Something moved over the ground. A slow dragging sound was followed by a faint slop of mud. It was a raspy low sound of someone or something trying to get control of its breath. Petro lowered his lantern toward the boiling soup.

"Hello? Anybody there?" he called out.

The only answer was a piercing cry. Then a thin arm popped out of the mist and dropped back. Petro's heart fluttered and his chest tightened. Whatever it was, it was not human. Another feeble cry came out. The steam parted momentarily to reveal an oval face with dark black eyes that reflected the glow of Petro's lantern.

The farmer let out a scream. He tugged on the reins and the horse gladly obeyed. Angels, his brain screamed at him. The Angels have come! Man and horse thundered into the darkness with Petro's lantern bobbing wildly next to him, casting a glow over flying chunks of mud in the wake of their flight.

The old woman was dead. She was laid out on her bed with rosary beads entwined among her wrinkled pale, stiffening fingers. Two flickering candles provided little comfort for the living. Strange shadows jumped on the wall. Outside, rain pounded the flat roof of the house, consisting of four sparsely furnished rooms. Father Carlos Peña administered the final rites. He murmured a soft prayer in Spanish and crossed himself. Someone was sobbing in the next room.

Father Carlos was alone. He wanted to spend a little time with "Mema", as he so fondly called her. She was eighty-seven years old, and the day he never imagined would come had finally arrived. At her age, it should have been a little easier, but death always casts a black and foreboding spell.

Orphaned fifty-two years ago, Carlos, kicking and screaming, was taken by Mema from the orphanage. At first Mema scared him with her prim and strict ways, but as he grew up with his half brother Don, he saw a kind spirit in her. She raised him and Don, and taught them the love of God and to love others. She didn't want him to end up like the other orphans - thieving and living on the street. If losing her husband so young had an impact on her, Mema did not show it.

Despite leaving the orphanage behind, Carlos brought a rough edge with him. He was caught stealing two times. Mema didn't believe in striking children, but Carlos was an exception. Her tiny, but rough hand left a mark for several days. The sight of Mema's angry eyes was enough to push Carlos down a brighter path. What guided him further was always Mema's sorrowful apology.

"I hit you, Carlos," she would say, "because I love you. That doesn't mean you hit the ones you love. A bitch will bite her puppies to get them to behave." She wiped a tear from her cheek as Carlos listened with downcast eyes. "You're hurting Carlos, but I hurt more."

It was then that Carlos learned there was love to be found outside the orphanage. Love from Mema and Don. He never again stole anything. Despite the positive change, he still carried his tough, aggressive nature. At the encouragement of Father Desmond, the parish priest, Carlos took up football to channel his energy into something positive. He played basketball and baseball, but football remained his true passion.

Before Mema changed Carlos' life, he had been sullen and withdrawn. He even refused Don's offer of friendship. Then all that changed. The boys quickly became the best of friends. They went to school, played hooky, roamed the desert and did what all active young boys did. With two boys keeping her busy, Mema was able to let go of her husband's death. It was difficult for her, because she found that she was pregnant just after her husband went off to fight in the war. Later, Mema had told Carlos that her late husband's name was also Carlos. Don was named after her father.

Standing over the bed at a stocky five feet 10 inches, Carlos did not see the empty shell lying before him in the flickering candlelight. Rather, he saw his mother as if she were alive, but sleeping. He recalled her joy when he announced that he was entering the priesthood instead of playing professional football. Scouts from various organizations were calling him the best nose guard in a long time and a hot pro prospect. He stunned the media by announcing his intention to join the priesthood following his graduation from the University of New Mexico. He graduated Magna Cum Laude in Psychology. Don, his biggest football fan and supporter who had visions of bragging about his brother being in the pros, was half disappointed and half happy. Don had once confided to Carlos that Mema was happier about Carlos becoming a priest than seeing Don get married to Maria - the girl he so often teased at the schoolhouse.

It was a sad but happy day for Mema and Don when the time came for Carlos to head off to Capranica College, the famous and aristocratic seminary of Rome.

Carlos recalled his first encounter with death. Ironically, like tonight, it had been a relentless stormy night. He had slipped into the funeral home where the deceased, a college classmate of his, was laid out in an open coffin. The doctors said the death was due to complications from an epileptic seizure. The first thing that struck him when he entered the funeral home was the faint, sweet, sickly smell of the embalming chemicals. Weddings were fun and joyous, whereas funerals commanded respect. People he knew did not greet him in their usual ways - they acknowledged him with a nod, or squeezed an arm in sympathy and whispered: Yo estar afligdo, Padre. "I am sorry, Father."

"The first one is hard," Mema had warned Carlos. "It gets easier," she added. "But, over the years, don't let death numb you. Keep your compassion." Over time, he had gotten used to death and began to wonder with guilty thoughts, have I become numb about death? But the sight of Mema laid out before him brought him back many years - his first administration of the final rites. When he became a priest, Mema had taken him aside and spoken to him. She told him that a being a priest was to heed God's call. He knew that as well as she did, but she had a deeper message. "You will see and hear things that God has prepared for us, which we do not understand." And she recited a line from the Nicene Creed: "We believe in all things seen and unseen." He had been amazed to hear that coming from his religious mother.

"Good bye, Mema" Father Carlos said softly. He bent down and gently kissed her cheek before leaving the room. Don Peña, his half brother, was waiting for him in the living room. His wife Maria was crying on the couch. Father Carlos went to comfort her. "It's all right, Maria."

Don shook his head. It was pointless. Let Maria mourn. She had adored Mema and took care of her through all the stages of her cancer.

"You'll be going now?" Don asked.

"It's best I go." Carlos sighed, tucking Maria's shawl over her shoulder for added comfort. "I'll arrange for a coffin to be sent over first thing in the morning." This brought more sobs from Maria. Don and Carlos lowered their voices to whispers and moved to the door. Carlos took his raincoat off the wooden peg. A clattering of hooves sent Don to the window.

"Father Carlos? Father Carlos!"

Don pulled open the door and a dripping wet Petro stumbled into the room. Obviously old friends, Father Carlos and Petro gripped hands. Petro and Rosa Cortez were occasional volunteers at the parish. Despite the amount of work on the farm, they never missed Sunday morning mass.

"Father, you must come with me," Petro spat out the words in a torrent of water.

"Petro, Mema's dead," Don interrupted in a hushed tone.

Petro slowed down his heavy breathing. "I'm sorry." He glanced at Maria, who turned her tear stained face towards the kitchen. The look in Petro's eyes gave Carlos concern. The priest gripped Petro's arms.

"Petro, is it Rosa?" Carlos demanded.

"No Father!" Petro began to get excited again. His breathing became labored then eased. "Angels," he gasped. "Angels have fallen from the sky."

"Nonsense, Petro," Carlos exclaimed. "Angels don't just fall from the sky."

"They did," Petro insisted. "They crashed. I saw one."

Carlos only had to look into Petro's eyes to know that the little farmer had seen something. He gave a concerned look and turned to his brother. "I'd better go now. It could be an airplane crash. You stay with Maria." He turned back to Petro. "Is anyone alive?"

"I saw and heard something," Petro answered, fervently.

Carlos said a hasty good-bye and shook hands with his brother, promising to see him first thing in the morning with the details. Any exciting distraction from this sad day would be more than welcome. Carlos hastily pulled on his raincoat and slipped out the door with Petro. Don watched them go, his arm around his tear-filled wife.

Don and Maria Peña never saw Father Carlos again.

The two men trotted on horseback in the slashing rain. They said very little as Petro led the priest back to the riverbed. Above them the clouds stopped their dominance and parted to reveal the moon. Carlos and Petro pulled abreast to gaze out across the moonlit, rain washed scene.

Glowing red patches throbbed in the darkness more clearly than Petro had last seen them. Scraps of shiny metal lay scattered about, intermingled with darker debris. Carlos was not sure, but to his logical and educated mind it seemed that there was a straight path of wreckage leading off into the darkness across the river. It was hard to tell if it was wreckage from a plane, but something inside Carlos told him otherwise.

"Where?" Carlos jumped down from the horse and peered at Petro for an answer. Fearfully, Petro pointed to a dark spot.

"There." A tiny wail of pain sounded out. Petro stiffened. "Did you hear that?" He scrambled down from his horse.

Carlos held up a restraining hand. He had heard it clearly. A definite cry of pain, but there was something inhuman about it. He remembered long ago as a boy, he and Don used to roam the hills and free crying and whimpering animals from hunter's traps. Often, they had nursed them back to health. "Your lantern. Quickly."

Without a word, Petro handed the lantern to the priest. The inhuman moan of pain sounded out again. Cautiously, Carlos approached a dark spot that was a clump of soft weeds. He swung the lantern over the weeds and stopped; his heart leapt into his mouth. It was a pathetic sight - a shivering thin, pale, elongated being with large, black, oval eyes that reflected pain much as a dying doe would express before a hunter. There were cuts all over the body and its left arm was broken. The thin mouth moved slightly, emitting a tiny wail. The faint wrinkles gave Carlos the impression that the being was old. The creature had crawled to the softest spot it could find, to die.

Carlos gasped. The very words of his Mema floated into his head. You will see and hear things that God has prepared for us that we do not understand. Breathing slowly and heavily, he bent down and gently touched the creature's head.

"Petro," Carlos called out softly. "Come here."

"I don't want to," Petro answered. "We're not supposed to see Angels."

"It's not an Angel. Now come here. Bring a blanket from my pack."

Reluctantly, Petro pulled out a blanket from the horse pack and approached the 'angel'. Carlos took the blanket and gently wrapped it around the creature, mindful of its broken arm. He was surprised by the lightness of the being as he picked it up. Petro watched with awe on his face.

"Behold," Carlos exclaimed softly. "The old man from the stars."

For several moments both men stood there in the moonlight gazing at the puzzled, looking creature wrapped in a blanket, who stared back with large eyes. The creature seemed to be quizzically appraising them. Something on the creature's chest sparkled dully in the moonlight. It was an amulet. There was an inscription on it, but Carlos could not make it out despite the bright moonlight.

"I must bring him home. I will care for him." Carlos beckoned to Petro and handed over the creature for the farmer to hold. Petro held the creature in his arms. He flinched as the being touched Petro's face with his good hand.

The priest began moving around the crash site searching for more of the beings. He quickly found three of them huddled in a corner of a rocky crevice, dead. Without a doubt, they had managed to survive the impact, but crawled to one another for comfort, to die. They probably cried to each other - cried to the fourth one to join them, but in the confusion, he had become lost. Carlos pitied them. They deserved a proper burial, but there was no time.

The priest lifted himself on to the horse and took the creature from the shaking Petro. The horse stamped uneasily. The aroma from the creature was unlike anything the horse had smelled.

"Good-bye, Petro." Carlos said as he pulled on the reins with his free hand. Petro watched as Carlos faded into the darkness with his patient from the stars. He could hear the faint hoofbeats slopping away to oblivion.

Petro watched Carlos fade into the darkness. He turned around to climb his horse when he stepped on something. Bending down, he picked up a scrap of metal that glistened in the moonlight. For such a large piece, it was curiously light. The farmer squeezed his hand over the metal. To his surprise, it folded easily and sprang back into place when he uncurled his fist. Bending down, he picked more of the strange pieces and pocketed them. Several minutes later, he was riding back to the ranch.

Father Carlos rode in the moonlight, cradling the creature in his arms. The church was only 15 miles away and at this pace, it would be a good hour before they arrived. It would be dawn in a few hours and Carlos was not eager to be seen in daylight with this creature. He could see the creature's large, black eyes staring at him, gleaming in the moonlight. The eyes seemed to be sizing him up as they opened and closed unhurriedly. Carlos adjusted the blanket, making sure the being stayed warm. Its breathing was a lot less labored. As Carlos watched the creature closed its eyes and fell asleep.

They arrived at St. Dominique's Church in an hour. Carlos swung one leg nimbly over the horse and dropped slowly to the ground just as Mick Farmington, the 10-year-old stable boy came running up. Carlos quickly covered the being and chided the boy gently in Spanish for staying up so late.

"The storm kept me awake," said Mick in his native tongue. "It was louder than Father Desmond's homily," he added with an impish grin. Carlos grinned back. Father Desmond had hired the boy from town to keep him out of mischief. Desmond knew how to keep young Mick out of trouble by having him muck out the stalls on a daily basis, and water and feed the three horses that they kept.

"Put the horse away and get off to bed," said Carlos. "You have school tomorrow."

Mick tugged at the reins and the horse clopped slowly after the boy. Carlos watched him go with a faint knot of anxiety growing inside him. Father Desmond! Carlos had forgotten all about him. Father Desmond was a man of low tolerance. At 70 years of age, he could still pack a wallop into his homily. He frowned on radical thinking and the liberals in the church. Carlos had recalled pestering Desmond about other worlds during a confession when he was a boy. This had prompted Desmond to make it a topic for one of his sermons that echoed in Carlos' head as he headed through the doorway: "God is the center of the universe," Desmond had thundered. "We are God's only intelligent creations!" A mental picture of the tall priest dressed in black, towering over him in anger, crossed his mind. He quickly pushed the thought away.

Desmond kept an old Ford next to the barn. He had gone to Albuquerque to help the local Bishop conduct mass for confirmation. A quick check confirmed that Desmond had not returned. Relieved, Carlos entered the church and walked straight up the aisle, passing rows of empty pews. He made a hurried right turn at the altar where Jesus stared down in silent agony. The creature fixed his eyes on the statue.

"Que, que?"

Carlos stopped as if he had been shot. The voice seemed to penetrate his head. He glanced down at the creature. It was addressing him in Spanish. But how? His thoughts were racing as he stared into the black pupils that reflected the suffering of Christ.

"Did you -?" Carlos stammered back in hushed Spanish.

"Yo hablar. Porque estar que persona sufrido?"

Carlos stared up at the cross and took a deep breath. The creature followed his gaze. How can a mere mortal on earth explain the concept of Christ to a being from a far off world? Let alone explain the suffering that Christ had endured on the cross? Carlos shook his head and spoke slowly and carefully as if he was speaking to a foreigner:

"You must be hungry."

"Ambriento."

Carlos moved quickly to a doorway. He didn't bother to kneel and cross himself before the altar. He would atone for that in confession. He strode through the door into the living quarters of the rectory. He placed the creature on the couch and made sure the being was still wrapped warmly. Snatching up some logs and dry kindling, he tossed the mixture into the stone fireplace. A quick strike of a match brought a rush of flames. A wave of light, comfort and coziness rapidly filled the dismal room.

"Fuego."

Carlos turned to face the creature who was squirming to absorb the warmth. "Yes. Fire," he said as he moved to help the creature find a more comfortable position.

"Warm. Hungry. Eat." the creature continued in Spanish.

There was some leftover soup in the kitchen that the nuns had made yesterday. Bless them, Carlos thought. The soup warmed quickly and he brought a bowl to the creature.

The creature stared at the bowl of hot soup. He cocked his head in puzzlement and relayed his question in Spanish. What is it?

Carlos hesitated. The creature seemed intelligent enough despite its seemingly limited Spanish vocabulary. Nevertheless, he chose his words carefully and clearly. "Soup."

"Soo-oop," the creature replied in slow, halting English. "Soup."

"Soup," the creature managed a tiny smile. Carlos gently pulled back the blanket and stared at the creature's arm. The break was still evident. There was so little he could do. The creatures' eyes were filled with pain.

"Broke. Fix. You fix." The creature lapsed back into Spanish again.

"I can't."

"I die. Fix."

Carlos stared at the arm again. It wasn't a clean break. He could hide the creature and run to Doctor Costin's at daybreak. But could Doctor Costin be trusted? He would have to spirit the creature away to a safe place, but where? Then it dawned on him. Of course! He would bundle up the creature, head for Doctor Costin's house, treat the creature and they would be off. Carlos was excited. His hands trembled as he dipped the spoon into the soup and fed the creature. The creature's eyes blinked in surprise as it sucked on the spoon.

"Good."

Carlos smiled. But not for long. A thought crossed his mind. To carry out his plan the best person to talk to would be Father Desmond. Yet he was the last person on earth Carlos wanted to see.

A thunderous voice caused him to drop the soup bowl. It shattered, leaving rivers of hot, steaming soup to trickle over the floor.

"What an ugly child!"

Carlos froze, his heart hammering. Then slowly, he bowed his head in despair. It was Father Desmond.

Chapter 2

A pale moon shone through the dirt coated windows of Tom Cardinal's private barracks, splashing across rumpled sheets and barely illuminating a woman sleeping on the end of the bed. Cardinal, as he preferred to be called, was sitting up and smoking a filterless Camel. The tip of the cigarette glowed just outside the moonbeam. The room was simply decorated. For a man on the road a lot, it suited Cardinal perfectly. He didn't care much about the room. It had a plain dark dresser, with only a tall cabinet for company. A night table with a wash basin stood next to the rumpled bed, giving evidence to the recent ecstasy. An empty bottle of Southern Comfort stood precariously on the edge of the night table. The room stank of sweat, liquor and cigarettes.

The woman was a waitress from a bar in Roswell. Her name was Delores and she wanted to go to Hollywood to be a movie star. She looked like a movie star. That was what caught Cardinal's attention in the first place. The pale moon lit her striking figure and long tanned legs. Her brown hair lay gracefully over the sheets, framing a beautiful oval face. She could be a movie star, Cardinal thought, as he stubbed out his cigarette, if she didn't waste time moving around and working in bars. She also seemed insecure about her looks. He let a cloud of smoke tumble leisurely from his mouth before pushing out the rest impatiently.

Working for the newly established base dubbed 'Dreamland' in Nevada, had some perks. Peter Kirkland, his superior, had sent him to Roswell to investigate some lights that were seen over the area. It was a relief after spending so many hours going over reports of eyewitness sightings across the country. Rather than follow up on his investigation and write reams of endless boring reports, he had been partying almost every day since his arrival last week. Besides, he hated Peter Kirkland. He was an obnoxious old man who had more than once clashed with Cardinal over the handling of certain delicate situations. Kirkland favored informing the President of the latest matters, while Cardinal vehemently opposed this idea. Of course, Kirkland's seniority always took precedence when it came to decisions. A rage built up inside Cardinal. The final insult from the director came when Kirkland reminded him of exactly how Cardinal got his job. You played a hero; that's why you got the job. You're nothing but a cripple who won't amount to anything. It took all of Cardinal's resolve not to punch Kirkland. Instead, he reassured himself that his time would be coming soon. He was young and Kirkland was an old goat.

One of Cardinal's perks involved unlimited use of the jeep that the base had given him. There was a report of an explosion in the desert. Sergeant O'Malley was immediately given the responsibility of investigating the mishap, while Cardinal slipped off the base. Plane crashes were not his field of expertise. After a brief drinking binge, he brought home the usual. It didn't matter to him. His tastes varied from day to day. Sometimes it would be a string of brunettes for several weeks before resorting to blondes. Tonight, it had been Delores and she was a vivacious, full-breasted brunette.

There was a polite hurried knock at the door.

A match flared to life. A cigarette glowed in the dark. "Who is it?"

"Staff Sergeant O'Malley, sir."

"What is it?"

"I have the report of the crash in the desert, sir."

"Well?"

"It's very possible that it isn't an airplane, sir."

"You're going to have to wait."

"Yes, sir."

Delores stirred, arched her back and moaned as Cardinal reached over to run his hand over her smooth warm skin. She turned her oval face to Cardinal and smiled sleepily.

"Some more?"

"Mmm, not now. Something came up. I'm afraid you'll have to go."

"Oh, all right." Delores sank back into bed then raised her head again. "Tomorrow?"

"You bet, babe." Cardinal leaned over and grabbed the armrests of the wheelchair that was always faithfully parked next to his bed. For some reason women found his muscular figure in the wheelchair appealing. They whispered sweet nothings in his ear after he flirted with them. They were eager to do it with a guy in a wheelchair, to see what it was like. He heaved himself out of the bed with his powerful, well-built arms, and lowered himself into the chair. It squeaked slightly under his 190-pound frame. Bending over, he lifted his legs and dropped them down.

Delores watched him. A mischievous smile formed on her lips "At least you still have the use of something."

Cardinal grinned as Delores dragged herself out of bed and put on her clothes. Cardinal watched with regret as the dress slid in a teasing fashion over her supple body. She gathered up her shoes and tiptoed to the window after giving Cardinal a kiss.

"Tomorrow," she whispered.

"Tomorrow." Cardinal closed the window softly after her. A quick snap of the wrist sent the wheelchair rolling to the door.

O'Malley snapped to attention at the door. He was a young Lieutenant, still green and a brown noser to boot. He was assigned to assist Cardinal for the duration of Cardinal's stay. The good thing about O'Malley was that he followed orders to a 'T', but the damned youngster took his military duties far too seriously. He stood at the door, stiff as a ramrod. Like I'm a damn Pharaoh, Cardinal thought. Bow down before me, son.

"Permission to speak, sir?" O'Malley began in a correct military tone.

"At ease," said Cardinal wearily. The man should have worn a T-shirt that said 'I am an ass kisser'. For a moment, Cardinal toyed with the idea of having him shine all his shoes, but he thought better of it.

O'Malley relaxed reluctantly, as if the importance had been taken out of his mission; like hot air from a balloon. "We've investigated the explosion that occurred at 0100 hours," he continued, with some of the old muster.

"And?" Cardinal prodded.

"The last Bomber to arrive was at 1900 hours, sir. We contacted the nearby bases and there were no flights coming or going from their facilities."

Cardinal's ears pricked at this bit of news. Could it be a meteor? "Is that all?" He put some edge into his voice and O'Malley stiffened. Cardinal ignored it. "Have you sent a team to the explosion site?"

"We're sending one at dawn, sir. It's too dark and desolate out there at this hour. But we have a witness."

"What kind of witness?"

"A farmer, sir. The Sheriff brought him in." Cardinal straightened himself. Something was up. Definitely not a meteor. Since he started working for Dreamland, there had been only one extraterrestrial craft and it had crashed into the Grand Canyon last year. Most of his time was spent following up sightings. It was a dull and monotonous process sitting behind a desk and separating plausible sightings from the idiotic ones. The salvage operation in the Grand Canyon had been the highlight so far. It had been a thrill for Cardinal to hold a piece of material not made on Earth. Not of this Earth, he reminded himself repeatedly. He was in awe that at one time a pair of alien hands had touched it.

The impact at the Grand Canyon had left little of the spacecraft. The metal from it could not be classified on the alloy chart. It had been decided that the ship was unmanned. The investigators concluded that it was some kind of probe.

"All right. Arrange for a convoy to the site of the explosion immediately. It could be one of our weather balloons." He remembered the details from the other salvage operation. "I want the area cordoned off."

O'Malley nodded eagerly.

"I will see the witness now. Dismissed."

O'Malley saluted. "Yes, sir." And he was gone.

Petro Cortez decided to tell what he had seen. Father Carlos didn't tell him not to tell anyone, he argued with himself. It was just too exciting to contain. What if the little man he saw needed more help? What about the strange pieces of metal? What were they? Would Father Carlos see the sheriff in the morning? Petro decided to save Father Carlos the trouble and tell the sheriff himself. He stabled his horse and took the battered pickup into Roswell.

Sheriff Danny Phillips listened to Petro's incredible tale while shoveling Dora's cinnamon apple pie into a mouth, supported by double chins. He hated being interrupted at a time like this. At first Danny had been skeptical of Petro's tale, but the strange pieces of metal made him pause. The sheriff poked and prodded the pieces. He marveled at their characteristic upon being bent or crumpled. No matter how he bent or folded it the piece always sprang back to its original shape. A cigarette lighter did not even blacken its shiny surface. Danny decided this was of great importance to the Army. Crumbs splattered all over the receiver as Danny outlined the situation to the person in charge. To his surprise they wanted to see Petro immediately. "Detain him." The person in charge said. "We will send a man over to pick him up." Feeling puffed and important, Danny hung up with a 'yes, sir' after giving his name and address. Wallowing in self- importance, he asked Petro to remain seated. Someone would be coming for him.

Now here he was, waiting to talk to someone. Two soldiers ignored Danny much to his chagrin, and ushered the puzzled rancher out of the small police station and into a waiting truck. They confiscated the pieces of metal and brushed off Danny's request to fill out papers for "proper channels", as he put it.

The door banged open and Petro jumped slightly. Cardinal glided into the room. He was casually dressed in slacks and shirt. A coffee cup was expertly balanced on his lap on top of a yellow manila folder. With a practiced snap of the left wheel, Cardinal stopped just before the table across from Petro. He jammed down the wheel brake, plopped the folder on the table and placed the coffee cup some distance from the folder. On the table next to the telephone someone had placed the unearthly metal pieces in a small box.

Cardinal ignored Petro for several minutes as he examined the pieces. He squeezed the metal and watched it spring back to its original shape. His face gave no indication of wonderment or awe as he meticulously inspected the pieces. Finally, he looked up at the farmer. "I'm Tom Cardinal."

Petro extended a friendly eager hand. "Petro Cortez."

After the handshakes, Cardinal slapped open the folder on the desk and began flipping through the papers. He did not glance up from his task. "Are you a rancher, Mr. Cortez?"

"Yes, sir. I did some - "

"Yes, sir, no, sir, will suffice."

"Pardon? Suff- suff-what?"

"Yes or no." Cardinal guessed that the man was a simpleton. Not much education. Probably quit school after the sixth grade.

"What do you raise, Mr. Cortez?"

"Well, we used to - "

"Mr. Cortez, I'm not interested in what you used to raise. I'm more interested in now. Now, what do you raise?"

"Sheep, sir."

"Do you grow anything, Mr. Cortez?"

"Yes." Petro thought about divulging what he used to grow, but decided against it.

Cardinal grinned inwardly. Petro was getting to know who Cardinal was. A stickler that's what he was. He liked his facts hard and straight without bullshit. "What do you grow?"

"Just lettuce and onions in the garden for me and my wife," Petro answered promptly.

Cardinal decided that Petro now knew exactly how he wanted his questions answered. His next question was precise and direct. "What did you see, Mr. Cortez?"

Petro paused for a moment to collect his thoughts on what was the most vivid night of his life since marrying Rosa. "A bright light," he blurted out. The rest of the story flooded out. "It came out of the sky. I thought it would hit my farm, but it went the other way. There was a lot of noise and the earth shook."

Cardinal nodded, drinking it all in. This was something all right. Since the unoccupied extraterrestrial crash in the Grand Canyon, the government had been anxious to find alien occupants, and they wanted them alive.

"I went to check," Petro went on.

"That was a foolhardy thing to do."

"It could have been an airplane crash," Petro answered bravely. "I would never have forgiven myself if I didn't check it out."

Cardinal was impatient. "What did you see?"

"Small little glowing pieces." Petro pointed to the box on the table.

"And then you went to the police?"

"No, I went to see Father Carlos."

Cardinal cursed softly. Here was the possible discovery of the century and this idiot goes to seek the help of some damned priest. He kept his voice under control. "And then?"

Petro sensed Cardinal's inner rage. He became a bit more nervous. "We came back - "

"You and the priest?" Cardinal exclaimed incredulously. "You and that priest came back?"

"Yes." Petro's mouth went dry. "I heard something. Someone. Someone was hurt."

"Who was hurt?" Cardinal's eyes dug hard into Petro.

"The little man. The priest found the little man."

"Man? What man? Be specific, damn you!" Cardinal's fist crashed down on the table. The coffee cup bounced twice before tipping on its side. Brown liquid covered the table. "You and that damned priest are in violation of a top-secret government project," he shouted. Cardinal's thoughts were racing. An alien being was on that ship! And this idiot just walks up and - Cardinal cut off his own thoughts. "And then what?"

"He - he took the little man with him."

Cardinal was now fighting his urge to punch the rancher. "Where did he take him?"

"St. Dominique's."

"What is this priest's name?"

"Father Carlos."

Cardinal snatched up the phone and dialed several numbers. He waited for a few seconds then: "This is Cardinal. Get me O'Malley right away." He slammed down the phone and turned to face a shivering Petro. He quickly lit another cigarette with trembling, impatient hands. So close to the discovery of the century! He dearly would love to have this stupid rancher swinging from a rope. "What did this little man look like?" he asked with forced calmness.

Petro hesitated before rattling off the description. "About four feet. Big eyes. Big head. Small mouth. Its arm was broken."

"Broken? Which arm?"

"Left."

"Did it talk?"

"No. It wailed. It was in a lot of pain."

"You saw a monkey," Cardinal said suddenly.

Petro looked surprised. "It didn't look like a monkey."

"It was a monkey!" Cardinal screamed. "Don't contradict me!" Petro shrank back as Cardinal went on: "We sent a rocket into space with a monkey a few days ago - "

"But there were more - "

"Shut-up!" Cardinal was beside himself with rage. More of them! So there was a crew. He had to think fast. "Of course there were others," he went on, swallowing his rage. "They were dead, weren't they?"

Petro nodded miserably.

Cardinal calmed down. "This is a very serious charge, Mr. Cortez. I'm afraid that we will have to detain - ah - keep you here for further questioning."

"But my wife?"

"I will arrange to have her informed of your whereabouts." Cardinal watched Petro squirm nervously. Of course, he had no intention of informing the rancher's wife. He loved it when the cards were in his hands. If they couldn't kill witnesses, they at least could suppress them. It would take a day or two to convince the rancher that what he saw was nothing but a crashed space capsule with a crew of monkeys. "Those monkeys are the property of the U.S. Government and this priest, this priest - "

"Father Carlos," Petro offered, eager to please.

Cardinal nodded. "Whatever. He has committed a federal crime." He leaned forward suddenly. "Did you tell anyone else?"

The rancher nodded. "Only the Sheriff."

"Danny Phillips?"

"Yes."

"And no one else?"

"No."

Cardinal stared at the shaken rancher as he pondered several possibilities. Should he call Paul Hayes for this one? He decided no. The rancher was a simpleton who lived in the country. He could be brainwashed. Danny Phillips could not. Cardinal had a photographic memory. Prior to coming to Roswell, he had scanned the files on the local authorities. There were not too many in this jurisdiction. Phillips was fond of food and hard liquor. He would have to be taken care of, as too many drinks were capable of loosening his tongue. Petro could be frightened into silence, but not Danny Phillips. One drink and Philips gushed faster than Niagara Falls. Cardinal was with the Sheriff the other night. All Phillips did was tell stupid jokes and Cardinal drank a lot. With Delores on his on his lap, he could laugh at anything. Having a gorgeous brunette made the world a perfect place and Danny Philips's bad jokes were forgiven. The rancher could stay alive at least for now. He and Father Carlos were the only witnesses. Of course, if Petro did eventually talk too much, he would have to be eliminated. Danny was a different story. Bringing Danny in to suppress him would arouse suspicion, because he was a favorite with the locals. The rancher was more isolated, out in the country - not the same threat that Danny posed. Cardinal made up his mind.

"You will be our guest for forty-eight hours," he said. "We may have a few more questions to ask you."

Petro could only nod as Cardinal picked up the phone and twirled the dial a few times.

"Hayes?"

Chapter 3

If a book entitled 'Zen and the art of Killing' were ever written, Paul Hayes would have written it. It was that simple. Paul loved to kill. But he was selective in his methods. He preferred to use a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. It was simple and quick. He had once tried strangulation, but the victim had put up such a fight that Hayes ended up shooting him. It was quite a mess and Paul wasn't a messy person. Blunt instruments were a definite no-no as well. Depending on the kill, the risk and if the intended were famous, his fees ranged from five hundred to ten thousand dollars. Sometimes, he would make four or five kills a week.

Hayes hung up the phone. This was going to be an easy job. Ordinarily, he was called by Cardinal and flown to various cities for assignment, but this one was right in his own back yard. A short time ago, he was asked by Cardinal to track down a suspected witness to the Grand Canyon crash. He had followed him all the way to New York and shot him in his apartment.

Despite his killing in World War II, Paul was unsatisfied. He wanted more. There was an animal living inside him. He remembered the adrenaline rush from his first kill. It had been at Normandy. He and Cardinal had been inseparable, the best of friends. Cardinal had been part of his unit. They watched the first wave of troops storm the beach only to be mowed down from German bunkers. Then it was Hayes' and Cardinal's company that surged forward. The landing. The splash of the ramp slamming into the water, sending up a salty spray that he could still taste in his mouth now. The roar of diesel engines overlapping the sound of bullets coming from the German defenses, banging off the steel reinforced boat. A young man, Johnson or something, from Ohio, literally lost his head. It had exploded and bits of brain sank into the foaming, reddish waters. Johnson bubbled out of sight and Hayes stepped on him as he surged into the attack. It thrilled him. They scrambled up to the beach where the bodies of American soldiers lay dying or wounded. Some were crawling in confusion. Bullets from the cliffs picked their way across the beach in tiny one inch sandy geysers until they found human flesh.

It was during the landing that Cardinal and Hayes became separated. How it happened, Hayes couldn't remember. There was too much confusion amongst the thumping of the guns from the cliffs. He climbed his way to the top on a rope left by earlier troopers who had long since given their lives in the onslaught. But that was the last thing on his mind as he made his first kill. He surprised a young German who was aiming his machine-gun at the beach. The impact of Paul's bullets flung the German onto a pile of sandbags at the back of the nest. A defiant machine gun burst from another nest about 15 yards away that sent Hayes diving. He crouched behind the sandbags admiring his first kill as he readied a grenade. The dead German stared up at the gray skies oblivious to the screaming P-51 Mustang overhead unleashing a deadly strafing blast that lifted Germans out of their nests like rag dolls. Hayes felt no pity, only a thrill. He flung the grenade in the direction of German gunfire. The short blast halted the gun's deadly song.

It was far from over. The company regrouped with Cardinal among the survivors. Both men acknowledged each other with grins and firm handshakes despite the distant chatter of guns. Four others were missing. There was no time to waste on the fate of their comrades. There was work to be done. And enemies to be killed, Hayes thought. The company penetrated the French countryside, flushing out snipers and losing several of their own in the process. They skirmished with scattered German regiments, always pushing forward. Hayes took pleasure in opening fire on the ones who attempted to flee rather than surrender. He was a superb marksman and he took pride in his kills.

At night they huddled around low burning fires in shell-pocked houses and churches. As the invasion moved further inland, Hayes rejected the advances of the local French women who stood by the roadsides, flirted and blew kisses at the American and English soldiers. They were more than willing to say 'thank you' for liberating them from the Nazis. Paul had a lovely girl waiting at home for him, Penny, his high school sweetheart. Since he was above accepting kisses and flowers from the French women, they wrapped their legs around Cardinal, who was one of the handsomest men in the regiment. Often, Cardinal would slip off for many hours at an end. Sometimes with two, sometimes with three women.

Hayes pulled himself out of bed. Of course, it was all over now. The good old U.S. of A. had won and now he was the owner - no, co-owner of a chain of gas stations called Petro-Con that were willed to Penny by her father, Dennis Connor, who had died recently.

Paul and Cardinal remained close, but Paul still had the animal inside him. He married Penny and Cardinal had come to the wedding. It was during the wedding that Cardinal approached him about working for him.

"You still got it?" Cardinal asked.

"More than anything," Paul responded. He was rich, but being rich did not change anything for him. He hated overseeing the chain, pushing papers and swallowing up competition from inside a huge office, sitting behind a desk on an overstuffed leather chair. The chance to kill again was too good to pass up. He eagerly agreed to work for Cardinal.

Cardinal had moved up the ladder ever since the heroic incident with the sniper in the bell tower. What was the name of the town? Hayes rubbed his temples ruefully. He couldn't remember. Cardinal had saved the entire platoon with his heroics. The platoon was bogged down by a nest of snipers in a partially ruined church bell tower. He had crawled into the church and with a grenade in his hand ran up the stairs. He dropped the grenade on the floor in front of the surprised Germans and flung himself out the window as the room exploded. Cardinal landed hard and broke his back. He was evacuated to the States immediately. Word of his accomplishment reached the top brass in Washington. With glowing reviews from the field, President Truman, impressed with his gallantry, had given him a top-secret job.

Hayes was surprised to learn of Cardinal's line of work. It seemed rather far fetched. The existence of extraterrestrial life had not even occurred to him, and he was not sure how to approach the subject, but he didn't care as long as there was a chance to satisfy the animal inside him.

Hayes pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt. Reaching over, he kissed his wife Penny, and slipped quietly out of the room. The year old Jessica was sleeping peacefully when he peeked into her crib. The blanket was a little loose. A quick tug brought it up to her chin. She did not stir when Paul planted a soft kiss on her cheek. He stopped by the kitchen to raid the refrigerator. A health conscious man, he drank a glass of buttermilk and ate some celery sticks.

There was a message by the telephone in Penny's handwriting from the President of Southern Express - a rival chain of gas stations that was springing up. The message asked Paul to return the call. Paul tucked the message into his pocket and left the room. It was two flights down from his expensive two-bedroom apartment. No need to take the elevator. The exercise was good. Outside, he could smell the damp road from recent rain.

It was a good night to kill. Paul was excited as usual, but he never showed it. At first, he had been worried that Penny would grow suspicious of his nocturnal outings, but the birth of Jessica had given her so much bliss, she thought of nothing else. All he had to do was complain that running the chain pulled him all over the state. He assumed the role of a doting father, loving husband and a shrewd businessman. He got into his car and drove to the police station.

Paul parked the car, strode across the parking lot and walked into the tiny station. No one was on duty when he passed the booth, walking purposefully into Danny's room. The fat police chief was wolfing down another of Dora's specials, a roast beef sand and drinking a can of soda. His hog face gave way to puzzlement as Hayes entered. Hayes did not like to toy with his victims like a cat does with its prey. He wanted it done quickly. The Sheriff was caught off guard at Hayes' entry.

"What can I - " Danny Phillips tried to stand up, but a neat bullet hole appeared in his forehead. The sheriff's head snapped back and his body collapsed into his chair that squeaked as it bumped against the wall. The soda can dropped, gushing brow-black sticky liquid. Danny's body slowly slid out of the chair and sagged to the floor. The sandwich remained in his clasped hand.

The kill had been clean except for the blood that was now slowly ebbing out of Danny's forehead and dribbling across his uniform into a pool on the floor. Hayes acted quickly. He yanked out the drawers, turning them upside down, scattering the contents. He gouged the papers on the floor with his heels, being careful not to step in the puddle of the blood. With a single sweep of his arm across the desk, Danny's items, including the picture of Dora, were swept to the floor. Paul emptied Danny's pockets oblivious to the police chief's vacant stare. The remains of Dora's roast beef sand oozed out of Danny's mouth. Hayes pulled out the police revolver from its holster with a handkerchief and placed it strategically on the floor near Danny's left hand. A robbery, what could be better?

Hayes pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the street. He stopped at the traffic light and opened Danny's wallet. He took out the bills, threw the wallet on the street and drove off.

The night was young.

Father Carlos stood motionless as his stern mentor Father Desmond glared down at the creature. Father Desmond was an imposing man in his late seventies. His Italian features had a pious, chiseled appearance. His brown eyes were sharp and piercing. They did not miss anything, hinting of compassion deep inside.

The creature craned its neck and looked in puzzlement at Father Desmond, who took a step back. A look of horror came over Desmond when his eyes focused on the reality of the being in the flickering semi-darkness.

"In God's name, Carlos! Explain this!"

Carlos winced. He urged Desmond to have a seat. Desmond refused. "You're scaring him," Carlos warned. It was going to be difficult to explain the creature to the old man, but he had to try. He took a deep breath. "Father, this creature is not of this world."

Father Desmond was taken aback. All the years spent at the pulpit, carving the air with sermons and hammering out the message that God was at the center of the universe had instantly evaporated. He became defensive. "Then it is the Devil," he said firmly. "Quickly, Carlos, kill it!" Desmond whipped out the cross from his cassock and held it in front of the creature. The reflection of the cross from the crackling fire, sparkled in the creature's eyes. "In the name of Christ our Lord, begone!"

Curiosity shone in the creature's eyes. He shifted and struggled with the blanket and pulled out his good arm. He clasped his fingers around the crucifix and pulled it out of the stunned priest's hand.

"What is this?"

Desmond recoiled as if punched. Carlos decided that he had seen enough. He approached the creature and gently removed the cross from its fingers. He spoke carefully to the creature. "It is a cross."

"What is it for?" the creature asked in Spanish.

It was a good question. Carlos racked his brain for the proper answer. It made him think briefly about why God had sent his son to Earth rather than to the alien's world.

"It's hard to explain," Carlos answered patiently.

Carlos now realized that the creature was reading his mind. Carlos was younger; his mind was open to such matters, but Desmond? Desmond turned ashen. Clearly the old priest did not like what he was feeling. The alien's thoughts stood out in his mind like a beacon, suppressing what he was thinking.

"Speak! I command you!" Desmond shouted. The creature drew back sharply.

The creature's retort in Spanish flooded both men's minds. "Go away!"

Desmond took two steps back, shaking his head.

"Father," Carlos protested. "That's enough!" He had never spoken out sharply to his mentor before.

Desmond turned to face Carlos. "I raised you to be a man of God," he began tersely. "And you bring me - bring me home this - this," he could hardly say the final words that Carlos knew were coming: "this - this child of Satan." He pointed a shaking finger at the being.

Carlos sighed. He looked at the old man with pity. Desmond was frightened. His years of teaching and practicing his faith had been shattered. All those rigid years now prevented him from embracing and accepting what was happening here. "Father," he said. "When I said that this being -"

"- child of Satan you mean!"

"Father!"

"Go on, go on!" The reply was a grudging one.

"When I said that he was from another world," Carlos finished with a glare. "I meant to say that he is from another planet. His aircraft, or should I say spaceship, crashed in the desert. There were three more of them, poor devils. They had crawled together to die."

"Planet?" Desmond said thinly. "What planet? Mars?"

"You should read the paper more carefully, Father," Carlos answered patiently. "Ten years ago Clyde Tombaugh discovered the planet Pluto, the ninth in our solar system. The universe is so big, so many things out there waiting to be discovered."

"So you're saying he's from Pluto?"

"That's not what I said." Carlos surprised himself by speaking with a trace of impatience in his tone. The very same tone that Desmond had used on him when he was studying Latin.

The creature was listening. "Who die?"

Carlos turned and knelt down next to the creature. He hesitated momentarily to find the proper words to explain, but before he could get them out a soft whimper escaped from the creature's mouth. Carlos' memory of the dead aliens huddled together had already been relayed as an image and the creature was taking it hard. Desmond glanced sharply at the creature and it transformed him. His look of surprise was replaced by one of compassion, much to Carlos' amazement.

"Why is it crying?" the old priest asked.

"His comrades were in the spaceship," Carlos replied somberly.

"Any creature that weeps is a child of God," Desmond decided with a trace of reluctance in his voice that was giving way to genuine compassion. He knelt down next to the creature and stroked its head. "What is your name?"

The answer formed in their minds, but it was unpronounceable. Desmond turned to Carlos for an answer, but the younger priest was already at the table making a quick sketch of the solar system. He drew the sun as a fiery ball and left an arrow pointing at Earth. He drew rings around Saturn and placed a large dot in Jupiter. He showed the sketch to the little being.

"Where are you from?"

The creature glanced at the drawing, its eyes opening and closing. Moist teardrops lingered momentarily before sliding down. He touched the Earth, then ran his finger over the planets until it ran off the paper. The finger trailed through the air and finally pointed to the ceiling, where it lingered for a moment before dropping down on the blanket.

"Far?" Desmond asked softly with a trace of awe.

The answer in Spanish staggered both priests: "Fifty six million light-years away."

"Father," Carlos said suddenly. "He can't stay here. We've got to take him somewhere safe."

Desmond frowned. "Where?"

"I was thinking about Rome. He would be safe in the Vatican. Safe from mankind. The world is not ready to embrace this kind of thing. The Pope is a boyhood friend of yours. I had planned to talk to you about this."

Desmond pondered for a moment. It was true enough. He and the Pope were the best of friends since they were small boys growing up in Rome. They had vowed to one another that they were going to serve God, one way or another. "I cannot go with you. I'm too old. There's the parish to take care of." Desmond remembered a small airfield several miles away. Supplies were brought in on a weekly basis. Than there was the question of money.

Desmond made his decision. "Go to Dr. Costin's. Take my car. Go now. I will make some telephone calls."

Carlos gently scooped up the creature and left the room.

"Hurry back!" Desmond called after him just as the door banged shut.

Desmond picked up the telephone. He asked for a long distance connection to Rome and waited briefly. A welcome click sounded as the connection was made. He spoke rapidly and quickly in Italian, one of the languages aside from Spanish and French, in which he was fluent. A wide smile spread across his face as he ended the conversation with a few pleasantries and hung up. His smile faded as he walked thoughtfully into his bedroom and pulled back the mattress. From inside the mattress, he extracted several hundred-dollar bills. It was his life's savings. The well-being of such an amazing creature of God far outweighed Desmond's earthly needs. He walked into the church, stuffed the bills into the coffer box and knelt before the altar. The only source of light came from pale moonlight that dared to lighten the holy place.

"Father," he whispered. "How can this be?"

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