"Flyin' catfish," Harris said scornfully. "You swallow that yarn?"
"Didn't you?" Rick asked quickly.
"Not any. That why you picked this creek to anchor in when there's so many nicer ones upstream?"
Scotty explained. "We ducked in here to get out of that squall last night. We didn't exactly pick it. Afterward, we realized where we were."
"Why don't you believe the story about Link Harris?" Rick wanted to know.
"Oh, I believe some of it." The crabber took out a blackened, much-used pipe and stoked it. "Link disappeared, all right. We found his boat yonder." He pointed to a spot on the marshy shore.
"He didn't drown?" Rick pressed.
Harris shrugged. "Not very likely. We'd have found his body. Way the tides were that day, there was no ebb tide strong enough to carry a body out into deep water. The creek was clear. We'd have seen him."
"Then where did he go?" Scotty demanded.
"Can't say. When he disappeared, I went to Baltimore and bought every book on flyin' saucers I could lay hands on. All I know for sure is that what folks have been seein' around here ain't saucers. Shape's wrong, color's wrong, and they don't move the way the books say."