“I heard you’re working on the flying-saucer problem,” he said quickly. “I may have some information that would interest you.” “Mind telling me who told you I was on it?” I asked. “No one, directly. I just happened to hear it mentioned at the Press Club. Frankly, I’ve been curious about the flying saucers ever since ’45.” That startled me, but I didn’t tell him so. “Do you have any idea what they are?” Mr. Steele said. “No, I’ve just begun checking. But I’d be glad to hear what you’ve got.” “I may be way off,” said Steele. “But I’ve always wondered about the ‘foo fighters’ our pilots saw over Europe near the end of the war.” I thought for a second. “Wasn’t that some kind of antiaircraft missile fired from the ground?” “No. Intelligence never did get any real answer, so far as I know. They were some kind of circular gadgets, and they actually chased our planes a number of times. We thought they were something the Nazis had invented—and I still think so.” “Then who’s launching them now?” “Well, it’s obviously either Russia or us. If it is the Soviet—well, that’s what’s worried me. I don’t think it should be treated like a joke, the way some people in the Pentagon take it.” I stared at the phone, trying to figure him out. “I’d like to talk it over with you,” I said. “Maybe you’ve got something.” “I’ve given you about all I know,” Steele answered. “There was an Intelligence report you might try to see—the Eighth Air Force files should have it.” “Wait a minute,” I said. “Give me your number, in case I find anything.” He gave it to me without apparent hesitation. I thanked him and hung up, still wondering. If it was an attempt at a plant, it was certainly crude. The mention of his former Air Force connection would be enough to arouse suspicion, unless he counted on his apparent frankness to offset it. And what about the Press Club angle? That would indicate Steele was a newspaperman. Could this be merely an attempt to pump me and get a lead on True’s investigation? But that would be just as crude as the other idea. Of course, he might be sincere. But regardless of his motives, it looked bad. Arid who had told him about me? I thought about that for a minute. Then I picked up the phone and dialed Jack Daly’s number. “Jack, do you know anyone named John Steele?” I asked him. “I think he’s a newspaperman.” “Nobody I know,” said Jack. “Why, what’s up?” I explained, and added, “I thought maybe you knew him, and he’d heard about it from you.” “Hell, no,” said Jack. “You ought to know I wouldn’t leak any tip like that.” “It wouldn’t be a tip—I don’t know anything about this deal yet. By the way, when you were on the _Star_ did you handle anything on ‘foo fighters’?” “No, that was after I left there. Bill Shippen would have covered that, anyway.” I told him I would look it up in the _Star’s_ morgue. Jack said he would meet me there at three o’clock; in the meantime he would see what he could find out about Steele.