The Flying Stingaree: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story

Scotty's napkin "accidentally" fell to the floor. He had to turn to pick it up. When he straightened, he shook his head. "The face is familiar, but I can't place it."

Rick studied the man through half-lowered lids, not wanting to be rude by staring openly. The familiar face was lean, and lined. It was not a pleasant face, although its owner would be described as a "distinguished-looking man of middle age." The lips were not especially thin, but they were tightly held. The chin was firm, with a shadow of beard even though the man looked freshly shaven. His hair was crisp, wavy, and pure white.

"Could be of French or Italian ancestry," Rick said. "Or, maybe, Spanish or Portuguese. Anyway, I'd vote for Southern European."

"On the button," Scotty agreed.

Rick's eyes dropped as the man looked their way. The eyes were dark brown, he saw, with heavy lids. The eyebrows, in startling contrast to the white hair, were dark.

The boy looked up again, his glance guarded. The man was smartly, but conservatively dressed, in dark-blue slacks, white sport shirt open at the collar, and a linen sport jacket of subdued plaid, much like those affected by some Ivy Leaguers.

The other two men were not familiar. One was almost bald, with a wisp of sandy hair combed in a pitiful and useless attempt to conceal the baldness. He wore glasses with clear plastic frames. They sat on a nose that could have served as a golf-ball model. His lips were almost nonexistent, and his chin receded so far that Rick wondered why he didn't conceal it with a beard. He seemed like a complete non-entity. In contrast to the white-haired man's style of dress, the nondescript man wore a rumpled black suit of synthetic fabric, a regular white shirt, and a tie that a color-blind old aunt might have given him for Christmas two decades past.

The third man was the largest of the three, with an expressionless face and eyes that never stopped moving. He sat motionless in his chair, apparently completely relaxed. Rick knew that the relaxation was deceptive. Steve Ames at times looked relaxed like that, but it was the same kind of quietness one finds in a coiled spring that has not yet been released. The man had brown hair, light-brown eyes, and a heavy tan. He spoke only twice while Rick watched, and then only to give orders to the waiter. The other two men talked steadily, but in such low tones that the boys could not hear words.

The crab imperial arrived, and the riddle of the familiar face was forgotten in a new taste treat. After one luscious bite, Rick said, "I'm going to bring the folks here and order a duplicate of this meal. They'll go crazy."

Excellent food was a tradition in the Brant household. Mrs. Brant was a superb cook, and both she and Hartson Brant had taught the Spindrift young people to appreciate a well-prepared dish.

"I'll order the same thing just to keep them company," Scotty offered.

"Generous, always generous," Rick replied. "You'll eat the same thing even if you have to force it down."

"I'll do just that," Scotty agreed. "Remember where you've seen yonder diner?"

Rick shook his head. "Not yet. It's an odd trio. He's the dominant one in the group. The bald one looks like a servant, and the big one like a police dog on guard."

"Bodyguard?" Scotty asked quickly.

"Maybe. Or, perhaps, a chauffeur. It's hard to say."

"Do you suppose the white-haired man is just a familiar type and we've never seen him before?"

"No. It isn't that. I know I've seen him before, but I can't tell you where or when."

The boys finished the meal with a scoop of lemon sherbet and rose reluctantly. "We'll be back," Rick promised.

"That we will," Scotty echoed.

The old waiter bowed them to the door. As they were leaving, Rick paused. "Do you know that white-haired man at the table near us?"

"Why, sir, that's Mr. Merlin. Summer folks, you might say. He bought one of the old mansions. This is his second summer with us."

"Which one of the old mansions?" Scotty asked.

"Calvert's Favor. It's in the guidebooks, sir. We have copies for sale if you'd like one."

"We have one," Rick replied. "Thank you."

"Not at all, gentlemen. Hurry back."

The boys walked into a lovely summer night, with a newly risen moon, near fullness, floating just above the horizon. By unspoken agreement, they put the top down on Steve's convertible. Rick was just snapping it in place when he sensed someone standing next to him. He turned, to face the big man of the trio.

The man got to the point without preliminaries. "You were asking the waiter about Mr. Merlin."

"We thought he looked familiar, but we couldn't place him," Rick replied. "We meant no discourtesy."

"I'm sure you didn't," the man said smoothly. He didn't smile, even though his voice was pleasant enough. "Mr. Merlin is a very prominent man. He comes down here to get away from people. Naturally, he doesn't welcome inquiries. I'm sure you understand."

"We have no intention of intruding," Rick stated coolly. "As I said, he looked familiar. We merely asked out of curiosity."

"You're not local boys." It was a statement.

"No. We're visitors."

"The local people have learned not to ask questions about Mr. Merlin. I suggest you follow their example." The man turned and walked back into the restaurant.

The boys stared after him, openmouthed.

"If that poor soul only knew," Scotty said, "he picked the best possible way to arouse our curiosity."

"I haven't been warned so politely in a long time," Rick agreed. "Come on, son. Let's head for Martins Creek." He slid behind the wheel while Scotty got into the passenger side.

Rick started the car and listened to it purr for a moment. "I noticed that Steve has quite a few books about the Eastern Shore on his bookshelves," he said casually.

"So did I. Including one called Tidewater Maryland. Lots of pictures of the old estates in that one."

"Be interesting if there was a picture of Calvert's Favor, wouldn't it?"

"Interesting and maybe informative. Well, are we going to sit here all night?"

"Nope. We're going to Steve's. Looks as if we have a small research project."

"To be followed by a second project," Scotty added. "First we read up on Calvert's Favor, and then we find it and look it over."

Rick grinned. "Nobody warns Scotty with impunity."

"But nobody!" Scotty said cheerfully.

CHAPTER VI

The Saucer Sighters

"We shoot a line straight north," Rick explained, "for a distance of about twenty miles. Then we start asking questions. If we get affirmative answers, we head north again for another ten miles and repeat the process. We do this until we come to an area where saucers have not been sighted. Okay?"

Scotty nodded. "Okay. There is only one tiny flaw in this plan. If we head straight north, we drop Steve's car into the Little Choptank. If we cross that safely, we'll get wet in the main Choptank."

Rick sighed. "If there is anything I detest, loathe, and despise, it is people who get up in the morning feeling full of humor. We will go to Cambridge, missing the Little Choptank, and cross the Choptank on the bridge. Route 50 goes almost straight north. Is that more precise and acceptable, Donald?"