"Doctor Weeve, my chief alienologist," Marston said. "Sit down, Engel."
Engel grasped the arms of his chair as Dr. Weeve scrutinized the card in silence.
"Jeffrey Engel," he read aloud in a high petulant voice. "Missing Persons Bureau, eh? Hmm, reminiscent of the twentieth century. Is that what you call your detective agency?"
Reminiscent of.... Engel pressed shaky fingers to his throbbing head. If he told them he was from out of the past, how would they react? "Yes," he lied, "I found a fountain pen—"
"You lone wolves have extraordinary hunches to compensate for a lack of police techniques," Dr. Weeve said with a dry chuckle. "But one needs protection when tracking aliens."
"Tracking aliens?" Engel said, mystified.
Marston laughed, leaned over his desk, and twirled a fountain pen in pudgy fingers. "Take it easy, you're not suspect in this case. But the report says you found this pen and in attempting to return it to its owner, you were struck by some invisible force." Marston glanced at Dr. Weeve who nodded, then his voice grew hard. "Did this C. G. aim anything at you before you were hit?"
"No, he didn't," Engel said and touched his head nervously.
"Headache?" Dr. Weeve asked.
"No, it's nothing," Engel countered. "When I got up, the man was gone."