"I don't give a damn where it was going!"
"Wait, General!" Dr. Smith's tone was almost a command. "Eddie wants to know why a logging truck was traveling toward the redwood country with a load of logs. He also points out that the X-15 is about the size of a redwood log, and could be concealed perfectly in the middle of a load!"
The General seemed to be swallowing something angular and unpleasant.
"We'll check that truck," he said, at last. "But remember, Smith, you've had it—you'll never hook me again!"
He put down the phone, and said to Cowles:
"You get on the merry-go-round this time!"
The California Highway Patrol in Mojave had the report on the accident. Clearly, it had been the fault of the passenger car. The truck driver was identified in the report as Art Backus, an independent hauler, working out of Eureka, located on the far northern tip of the California coast, about eight hundred miles from the scene of the accident.
A routine check by the FBI disclosed that Backus had done time in San Quentin on a morals charge involving a minor girl. He had driven trucks for a dozen lumber companies in northwest California until the past summer, when he had bought a new truck and trailer, for cash, and gone into business for himself.
Two FBI agents stepped up to him in a roadside cafe on Highway 1, between Eureka and Trinidad Bay. A gaunt, stooped man, he nearly collapsed when the agents showed him their identifications. He was broken, and ready to talk, even before mention was made of the fact that the penalty for peace-time espionage is death.