There was one other explanation: The thing was not intended to be seen; it had got out of control. In this event; the long hovering period at Godman Field was caused by the need for repairs inside the flying saucer, or repairs to remote-control apparatus. If it were Air Force or Navy, that would explain official concern; even if completely free of negligence, the service responsible would be blamed for Mantell’s death. If it were Russian, the Air Force would of course try to conceal the fact for fear of public hysteria. But if the device was American, it meant that Project “Saucer” was a cover-up unit. While pretending to investigate, it would actually hush up reports, make false explanations, and safeguard the secret in every possible way. Also, the reported order for Air Force pilots to pursue the disks would have to be a fake. Instead, there would be a secret order telling them to avoid strange objects in the sky. By the time I finished my check-up, I was sure of one thing: This particular saucer had been real. I was almost positive of one other point-that the thing had been over 30 miles high during part of its flight. I found that _after_ Mantell’s death it was reported simultaneously from Madisonville, Elizabethtown, and Lexington—over a distance of 175 miles. (Professor Hynek’s analysis later confirmed this.) How low it had been while hovering over Godman, and during Mantell’s chase, there was no way to determine. But all the evidence pointed to a swift ascent after Mantell’s last report. Had Mantell told Godman Tower more than the Air Force admitted? I went back to the Pentagon and asked for a full transcript of the flight leader’s radio messages. I got a quick turn-down. The reports, I was told, were still classified as secret. Requests for pictures of the P-51 wreckage, and for a report on the condition of Mantell’s body, also drew a blank. I had heard that some photographs were taken of the Godman Field saucer from outside the tower. But the Air Force denied knowledge of any such pictures. Puzzling over the riddle, I remembered John Steele, the former Intelligence captain. If by any chance he was a plant, it would be interesting to suggest the various answers and watch his reaction. When I phoned him to suggest luncheon, Steele accepted at once. We met at the Occidental, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Steele was younger than I had expected—not over twenty-five. He was a tall man, with a crew haircut and the build of a football player. Looking at him the first time, I expected a certain breeziness. instead, he was almost solemn. “I owe you an apology,” he said in a careful voice after we’d ordered. “You probably know I’m a syndicate writer?” I wondered if he’d found out Jack Daly was checking on him. “When you mentioned the Press Club,” I said, “I gathered you were in the business.” “I’m afraid you thought I was fishing for a lead.” Steele looked at me earnestly. “I’m not working on the story—I’m tied up on other stuff.”