“If it’s British,” I said, “do you think we should even hint at it?”
“I don’t see any harm,” Steele answered. “The Russians undoubtedly know the truth. They have agents everywhere. It might do a lot of good for American-British relations. Anyway, it would offset any fear that the saucers are Soviet weapons.”
“Then you’re not worried about that angle any more?”
Steele laughed. “No, but it had me going for a while. It was a big relief to find out the disks are British.”
“What’s the disks’ ceiling?” I asked, abruptly.
“Oh—sixty thousand feet, at least,” said Steele. After a moment he added quickly, “That’s just a guess—they probably operate much higher. I didn’t think to ask.”
Before I hung up, he asked me what I thought, of the British explanation.
“It’s certainly more plausible than the Soviet idea,” I said. I thanked him for calling me, and put down the phone. I was tempted to point out the flaws in his story. But I didn’t.
If he was sincere, it would be poor thanks for what he had told me. If he was trying to plant a fake explanation, it wouldn’t hurt to let him think I’d swallowed it. When I saw Redell, I told him about Steele.
“It does look like an attempt to steer you away from the interplanetary answer,” Redell agreed, “though he may be passing on a tip he believes.”