“I’m looking for VFW Post Ninety-nine seventy-four,” said Steiger.

“If yer speakin’ at the luncheon, yer late,” admonished the old man.

“I’m here on other business,” Steiger said, smiling.

The Oklahoman was unimpressed. He took an oily rag from his pocket and wiped his equally oily hands. “Go to the stop sign in the middle of town and turn left. Ya can’t miss it.”

No Return Ticket I 191

Steiger followed the instructions and pulled into the gravel parking lot of a building strikingly modern compared to others in the town. Several cars were leaving the area, trailing clouds of red dust behind their bumpers. The luncheon was over, Steiger surmised. He entered and stood for a moment at the edge of a large room with a hardwood floor. The dishes on several tables still bore the wreckage of fried chicken. A group of three men noticed his presence and waved. A tall, gangly individual about fifty years of age and at least six feet five inches tall separated from the rest and sauntered over to Steiger. He had a ruddy face and short-clipped shiny hair parted down the middle. He offered his hand.

“Good afternoon, Colonel. What brings you to Dayton City?”

“I’m looking for the post commander, a Mr. Billy Lovell.”

“I’m Billy Lovell. What can I do for you?”

“How do you do,” said Steiger politely. “My name is Steiger, Abe Steiger. I’ve come from Washington on a rather urgent matter.”

Lovell stared at Steiger, his eyes friendly but speculative. “You’re putting me on, Colonel. I suppose you’re going to tell me a top-secret Russian spy satellite came down in a field somewhere near town.”

Steiger gave a casual tilt of his head. “Nothing that dramatic. I’m looking for a couple of naval shells your post purchased from Phalanx Arms.”

“Oh, them two duds?”

“Duds?”

“Yeah, we were going to blow ‘em up during the Veterans Day picnic. Set ‘em on an old tractor and popped away all afternoon, but they didn’t go off. We tried to get Phalanx to replace ‘em.” Lovell shook his head sadly. “They refused. Claimed all sales was final.”

A chilling thought passed through Steiger’s mind. “Perhaps they’re not the self-detonating type of ordnance.”

“Nope.” Lovell shook his head. “Phalanx guaranteed they was live battleship shells.”

“Do you still have them?”

“Sure, right outside. You passed ‘em coming in.”

Lovell led Steiger outside. The two shells bordered the entrance to the post. They were painted white, and welded to their sides were chains that stretched along the walkway.

Steiger sucked in his breath. The tips of the shells were rounded. They were two of the missing gas shells. His knees suddenly turned to rubber,

192 VIXEN 03p>

and he had to sit down on the steps. Lovell stared questioningly at Steiger’s dazed expression.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“You shot at these things?” Steiger asked incredulously.