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Table of contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER-1-2
CHAPTER-3
CHAPTER-4-5-6-7
CHAPTER-8-9
CHAPTER-10-11
CHAPTER-12-13-14-15
CHAPTER-16-17
CHAPTER-18-19
CHAPTER-20-21-22
CHAPTER-23-24-25
CHAPTER-26-27-28
CHAPTER-29-30
CHAPTER-31.1
CHAPTER-31.2
CHAPTER-31.3
CHAPTER-32
CHAPTER-33
CHAPTER-34-35-36-37-38
CHAPTER-39-40-41-42
CHAPTER-43-44-45
CHAPTER-46-47
CHAPTER-48
CHAPTER-49-50
CHAPTER-51
CHAPTER-52-53
The Sex Life of the Gods. Michael Knerr. CHAPTER-1-2
CHAPTER-3
CHAPTER-4
CHAPTER-5-6
CHAPTER-7-8
CHAPTER-9-10
CHAPTER-11-12
CHAPTER-13-14
CHAPTER-15-16
CHAPTER-17-18

CHAPTER FIVE 

 

 

Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice stood in the brush near the wrecked 

aircraft, watching the men move about in the light of several spotlights 

that had been set up by the National Guardsmen who had roped off the 

area. The thick blackness of the surrounding forest, plus a glance at 

his watch, told him that dawn wasn't too far away. FAA investigator 

Dickson, a thin, stringy ex-pilot stepped around the scrambled bits of 

wreckage and offered a light to the dead cigarette in Nolan's mouth. 

 

"Thanks," Brice said and blew the smoke to the night. "What d'you make 

of it, Mister Dickson?" 

 

Dickson shrugged and pushed his snap-brim hat back with a blunt 

forefinger. "Dunno. It's pretty dark to see much, but it's no private 

plane." 

 

"Why do you say that?" 

 

"No wings, no tail assembly. Of course, it's hard to tell in the dark. 

When it gets light enough, we'll know the story; but I don't know of any 

private plane that looks like that one. Then too, the Army is holding 

the news boys at bay. I think those two government fellows are playing 

this one close to their chests." 

 

Brice nodded and dragged on the cigarette, but he said nothing about the 

speed of the thing. "Any bodies?" 

 

Dickson shook his head. "The thing is pretty well burned, and the 

bodies, if there are any to be found, could be all over the area. We did 

find a kind of flying suit, though, badly burned and torn." 

 

"Just the suit? No one in it?" 

 

Dickson looked perplexed. "Bothers you huh? Me too. I can't figure out 

why a pilot would carry something like that as an extra. Oh, well, it'll 

all come out when we really start investigating." 

 

"How long does a thing like that take?" 

 

Dickson shrugged. "A couple of days, a week. Even a few months. It's 

hard to say." 

 

Brice nodded, took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed it toward 

the wreck, watching the red ash burst near the wreck. Dickson had 

wandered off to the far side of the crash-made clearing. Hell, Brice 

thought, I'd better get that butt. Leaving a thing like that around here 

could get me in trouble. They'd think it was part of the crash. 

 

When he walked over to retrieve the butt, he saw the light from the 

flood glinting on a small gold object. He picked it up and found that he 

had someone's watch. The crystal had been smashed, likely in the crash, 

and the hands were stopped at 4:15. The expansion band watch dispelled 

his hunch that the pilot of the plane had been a Russian, or something; 

it was a Bulova, and he didn't think Russians had them. But what cinched 

the whole thing was on the under side of the face, in the light of the 

spots, he could read: "To Nick, Love, Beth." 

 

And suddenly, it was there! He knew the watch. He knew it as well as he 

knew his own. Hell, he had picked it up at the jeweler's shop in 


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