They filed up onto the terrace, hesitated, then shook hands, and sat down gingerly in the chairs. Pruffy held his briefcase in his lap.
"Put your sandwiches on the table, if you like, Mr. Pruffy," I said. He blinked, gripped the briefcase tighter. I offered my hand-tooled cigars around; Pruffy looked startled, Smale shook his head, and Sanchez took three.
"I'm here," the general said, "to ask you a few questions, Mr. Legion. Mr. Pruffy represents the Department of State in the matter, and Colonel Sanchez—"
"Don't tell me," I said. "He represents the Peruvian government, which is why I don't ask you what an armed American force is doing wandering around on Peruvian soil."
"Here," Pruffy put in. "I hardly think—"
"I believe you," I said. "What's it all about, Smale?"
"I'll come directly to the point," he said. "For some time, the investigative and security agencies of the US government have been building a file on what for lack of a better name has been called 'The Martians.'" Smale coughed apologetically.
"A little over three years ago," he went on, "an unidentified flying object—"
"You interested in flying saucers, General?" I said.
"By no means," he snapped. "The object appeared on a number of radar screens, descending from extreme altitude. It came to earth at ..." he hesitated.