The sky over Death Valley was a leaden gray and the air still carried the chill of morning. The presidential helicopter landed at the temporary base set up by the Army three miles from the false cinder cone. Two four-wheel-drive trucks met the party and drove them slowly over the paved roads and unpaved Jeep trails, and then off the trails, lurching and growling around creosote bushes and mesquite and over salt grass, sand, chunks of lava, and desert-varnished rocks. The false cinder cone loomed a hundred yards beyond their stopping point, the edge of a bone-white desert wash that had been filled with water just ten days before. The perimeter of the mound was cordoned off by Army troops supervised by Lieutenant Colonel Albert Rogers from Army Intelligence. Rogers, short, wiry, swarthy-skinned, and gentle-eyed, met the presidential party of eight, including Gordon and Feinman, at the cordon perimeter.

"We've had no activity," he reported. "We have our surveillance truck on the other side now, and a survey team on the top. There's been no radiation of any sort beyond the kind of signature we expect from sun-heated rock. We've inserted sensors on poles up into the hole the three geologists found, but we haven't sent anybody past the bend. Give us the order, and we will."

"I appreciate your eagerness, Colonel," Otto Lehrman said. "I appreciate your caution and discipline more."

The President approached the cinder cone's tall black north face, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. The Marine officer who carried the "football"— presidential wartime codes and emergency communications system in a briefcase—stayed by the truck.

Rotterjack dropped back a few paces to snap a series of pictures with a Hasselblad. Crockerman ignored him. The President seemed to ignore everybody and everything but the rock. Arthur worried about the expression on his face; tense yet slightly dreamy. A man informed of a death in the immediate family, Arthur thought.

"This is where the alien was found," Colonel Rogers explained, pointing to a sandy depression in the shadow of a lava overhang. Crockerman walked around a big lava boulder and knelt beside the depression. He reached out to touch the sand, still marked by the Guest's movements, but Arthur restrained him. "We're still nervous about biologicals," he explained.

"The four civilians," Crockerman said, not completing his thought. "I met Stella Morgan's granddaddy thirty years ago in Washington," he mused. "A real country gentleman. Tough as nails, smart as a whip. I'd like to meet Bernice Morgan. Maybe I could reassure her . . . Can we arrange something for tomorrow?"

"We go to Furnace Creek Resort, after this, and tomorrow you're meeting with General Young and Admiral Xavier." Rotterjack looked over the President's schedule. "That's going to fill most of the morning. We're to have you back at Vandenberg and aboard the Bird at two P.M."

"Make a slot for Bernice Morgan," Crockerman ordered. "No more arguments."

"Yes, sir," Rotterjack said, pulling out his mechanical pencil.