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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

piece of metal. "Russian, huh?" asked Sam. 

 

"Russian, hell," Cartwell snorted. "It looks like a cross between 

Chinese and Arabic." 

 

Sam took the piece and looked at it, the cigar clamped belligerently in 

his jaws. After a tense moment, he grunted noncommittally and passed the 

thing to Nolan Brice. 

 

He knew nothing of Russian, Chinese or Arabic, but he knew what Chinese 

characters looked like. The imprinted marks on the metal bore a certain 

resemblance to the Chinese language, but yet were not the same. It 

consisted of strange marks that were like nothing Brice had ever seen 

before. 

 

"There are similar markings on the control panel," Dickson said into the 

silence. 

 

"Crap," Sam Morgan snorted. "I say Russian. How about you, partner?" 

 

Cartwell furled his blond brows. "I think I'd rather let an expert look 

this piece over before I make any kind of guess as to where that wreck 

flew from." He turned to Nolan. "Where can we find an expert, Brice?" 

 

"Everett College would be the only place I know of." 

 

"Okay, we'll give them a try. Where's Lieutenant Peters?" 

 

Morgan jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the other side of the 

clearing. "Over there," he said, "dressing down one of his Weekend 

Warriors." 

 

"Sam. How about going over and remind him to keep any characters off the 

site. I have a horror of having the news boys scoop us on this." 

 

Sam nodded and took off to talk with the Army. Dickson looked at 

Cartwell. 

 

"Anything for me?" he asked. 

 

"No. Just continue with your investigators. You can make the 

arrangements about having this thing hauled down to Everett, but check 

with me before you do. Okay?" 

 

Dickson nodded. 

 

"C'mon, Brice," Cartwell said. "Let's get Morgan and find out what the 

college professors can tell us about this screwy thing." 

 

They wrapped the piece of metal in Cartwell's jacket and the three of 

them headed through the forest toward the road in the valley. 

 

* * * * * 

 

Professor Nichols was a wisp of a man who peered at them through small, 

bright eyes nearly hidden in fleshy folds. Although his body was about 

the shortest Brice had ever seen on a man, the brain beneath his crop of 

white hair had made him a giant. A linguist all his life, Professor 

Nichols spoke a dozen languages fluently, in addition to reading and 

writing them. Brice knew him by reputation and grinned at him as he came 

into the empty Dean's office. 

 

"Gentlemen?" He favored them with a smile. "I'm Nichols. Doctor Bendtolz 

said you wanted to speak with me." 

 

Brice introduced himself and the Federal men and, after a round of 

handshaking, Cartwell handed the chunk of metal to the professor. 

 

"We'd like to know about the writing, Professor," Sam put in. 


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