GROUNDED

                          By William Sambrot

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Startling Stories Fall 1954.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Lieutenant Colonel Martin sat back in his hard desk chair and looked
out through the tinted window to where the slim, dartlike jets waited,
poised on the sun-washed runways. A red and blue jet swooped down out
of the brilliant, cloudless sky and shot along the runway, wheeled and
rolled back toward the parking strip. It was the courier ship from
Washington.

The colonel frowned, his sunburned face breaking into sharp, diagonal
lines. The courier plane was used only in cases requiring utmost
secrecy. And always, it brought trouble. Today, it brought trouble for
Martin.

He waited, tapping a lean finger on the desk, his eyes distant but not
seeing the harsh ridge of up-flung barren mountains, looming clear and
incredibly near despite the fact they were sixty miles away--sixty
miles of alkali wasteland where only gila monsters moved, scuttling
from rock to rock to escape the brazen sun.

Beyond those mountains was Project Breakaway, the Air Force's top
secret attempt to fling a dart up high enough and fast enough to
break free of earth's clutching gravity. It was Colonel Martin's job
to command one group of jets that guarded the approaches to Project
Breakaway. It had been a dull job--routine, boring--up until yesterday
morning.

It was twenty-eight hours ago, to be exact, that Colonel Martin,
Captains Morelli, Sayers and Ryan had sighted and chased the fantastic
platelike object that zoomed, wobbled and ducked in circles about
them even though, with all coal poured on, they were hitting close to
eight-hundred miles an hour.

Morelli, Sayers and Ryan had never come back from that chase. At
eight-hundred miles an hour, with visibility limited only by the
farthermost rim of the horizon, under a glaring desert sun, all
three had plowed simultaneously into a sun-drenched ridge, a mere
nine thousand feet above sea-level--a ridge, it appeared, they'd
deliberately headed for and smashed into. How? Why had all three made
the same error of judgment? Why had they dropped from thirty-thousand
feet to nine thousand in a steep, zooming dive, flying formation, and
not once mentioned it over their radio?

Why indeed? These were all questions asked Colonel Martin by suspicious
security agents, Air Force Intelligence three-star generals, and, by
direct TV hookup, the Air Secretary himself.

But the sixty-four dollar question they asked was: why hadn't Colonel
Martin smashed into that ridge too? Good question. Unfortunately, his
answer was so bad, it called for the services of a trained alienist.
They'd flown one in. He'd listened and asked for time. He was getting
it.

Martin swung and watched the occupants of the red and blue jet swing
down and stride quickly across the hot concrete.

He recognized one of the approaching men as Under-Secretary of
Air, Saunders. The other was General Brereton, on the staff of G2.
Regardless of whether or not they considered him insane, they felt that
something had happened--something important enough to rate two next in
rank to the top commanders.

       *       *       *       *       *

They came in unescorted. He stood at attention until the burly general
waved a hand rather irritably, putting him at ease, then he sank down
again into his hard seat. Now it would start all over again. The
questions, the careful scrutinizing of the plates he'd taken, the hard
narrowed eyes, the disbelief--

"In your own words, again," the general was saying, "Will you repeat
to Mr. Saunders what you told me over the TV hookup last night?" The
general leaned forward and fumbled with the pile of color photographs
on his desk. "Are these--the shots you took?"

Colonel Martin nodded wearily, sighed, looked briefly out the window
and said in a soft even voice, "Captains Morelli, Ryan and Sayers and
I took off at 0800--"

"Who gave permission for the flight?" Saunders cut in crisply. "Is it
routine for your people to fly formations around here without some
special alert?"

Martin stiffened slightly. "No sir. It was an unauthorized flight. My
idea." He moistened his lips. "We are on twenty-four hours alert, of
course--"

"A fat lot of good that would do if every group leader took off when he
felt like it," the general sputtered, impaling Martin with eyes like
blue icicles.

"We are allowed twelve hours a month flight time," Martin said. "I will
admit I didn't file a plan or report my intention to take the group
up--but that, sirs, is important in view of what happened." He leaned
forward. "I believe--I'm certain, sirs, that we caught--_them_--off
guard." He chewed his lips at the sudden veiled look in Saunders' eyes.
It was plain they considered him mentally unhinged.

They waited, saying nothing, their faces as chill and immobile as
marble. Martin spread his big, raw-knuckled hands.

"We took off. I flew lead, as usual," Martin began. "We were up to
about twenty thousand and climbing when I ordered an attack pattern. We
were doing about six hundred ground speed when Ryan, I believe it was,
suddenly shouted over the radio, that something had just made a pass
at him. We all saw it at once, after that, a round platelike object,
about thirty inches in diameter, maybe ten inches thick and the color
of buffed aluminum. It moved sort of jerkily, wobbling back and forth
and occasionally dancing up and down--almost as though it were attached
to a string or something."

The two listeners exchanged glances. It was obvious what they were
thinking, but Martin went doggedly on.

"I ordered the men to break formation but to remain at thirty thousand
and keep it in sight. I put my ship on auto-pilot--I carry a camera
and I wanted to get some shots. I did, about twelve color pix, aiming
directly at the thing. I couldn't possibly have missed."

       *       *       *       *       *

General Brereton snorted and handed the developed prints to Saunders.
Saunders examined each one, his brows lifting higher and higher.
Finally he handed the pictures to the general and turned to Martin.

"Those pictures are utterly blank," he said quietly. "They show nothing
but blue sky and a distant horizon. How do you account for that?"

"I can only say," Martin replied, "that the camera doesn't lie. I've
taken too many shots with that camera not to know that it's in top
condition. It couldn't--and didn't lie. _There was no flying disc in
front of us._"

"No!" The general frowned and sat up with a jerk. "First you tell us
this story of an object darting and weaving about your formation--an
object four men see and give chase. An object that led three good
pilots to their death--and now you say there was no object!"

"It's the only explanation I can give for the way in which Morelli,
Ryan and Sayers hit that peak," Martin said patiently. "As I say, my
ship was on auto-pilot. I was shooting away--and at all times, _that
disc was directly in front of me_." He stopped and looked at the two to
see if they caught the significance of what he'd just told them. They
hadn't.

"Don't you understand--the others kept up a running commentary, each
saying that the disc was directly in front of him--and all the time,
unknown to me--they were in a steep dive and simultaneously, they hit
that peak at nine-thousand feet."

There was another long silence, broken only by muffled sounds from the
field outside--the chugging of fuel trucks, shouts of mechanics, the
occasional crackling hum as a jet was fired up.

"Then it is your contention," Saunders said, "That each of you was
suffering from a hallucination--a mirage, in fact. A mirage which took
the form of a flying disc and which caused three trained pilots to fail
to notice that they were losing altitude and heading directly into a
mountain peak. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"It was not a mirage," Martin said. "It was a deliberately implanted
impression."

"Explain yourself," the general said hoarsely. He exchanged a swift
glance with Saunders.

"The disc suddenly wasn't there--after the others had hit, I imagine. I
don't know for sure--but suddenly, the thing just sort of--turned off.
It wasn't there. I looked around and saw the pillar of smoke far off to
my left and rear but no following ships. I swung around and tried to
contact my men. No result. I went over the spot where the fires were
and recognized them immediately as--the remains. I contacted the base.
While I was hanging around up there, I had a lot of time to think. I
realized then what I've already told you--that each of the men thought
the disc was directly before him. Each followed it--to his death. I
wasn't operating manually--my auto-pilot--" he smiled strangely--"isn't
susceptible to--hypnotic suggestions--so it flew a straight course--at
thirty-thousand."

"You believe that you--and the others--were hypnotized into thinking
you were seeing a flying disc. Is that it?" the general said dryly.

"I believe that we caught someone--some _thing_--off guard when we
took off on an unannounced flight," Martin said with firm conviction,
ignoring the sudden reaction they showed. "I'm sure we were heading in
a direction where some secret lay--without sufficient advance warning
for whatever holds that secret to cover up. I'm positive we were
hypnotized--lured away just like a mother quail pulls the broken wing
stunt to get a dog away from her nest."

"Doesn't that explanation strike you as unbalanced, to say the least,"
Saunders said slowly. "What person could possibly have such powers--or
devices, to hypnotize four men flying thirty-thousand feet above the
earth at eight-hundred miles an hour?"

"No power on earth," Martin said softly. "The Panamint Indians won't go
near those mountains." He gestured to the tinted window and beyond, to
where the great range of jagged mountains gleamed luridly orange and
purple under the slanting rays of the desert sun. "They have positive
beliefs--not legends--about beings from other worlds who dig in the
hills for shining metals.... Who have great ships that fly. Beings
who can make a man who comes too near die of thirst even though he
carries water at his belt. Beings who can control the minds of men." He
hesitated. "That's why they named those mountains--the Superstitions."

"I'm afraid you'll have to find a better explanation than that," the
general said stiffly.

"You have the written reports of the radio men on duty," Martin
said. "They all heard Ryan, Morelli and Sayers talking. They back
up every word I've said. You asked my opinion and I've told you.
Someone--something, didn't want us snooping around when they weren't
prepared for it--and they simply drew us away by means of delusion or
mind control of some kind."

"We've photographed every inch of this entire corner of the state," the
general said. "You have stated that the camera doesn't lie. We have
observed nothing unusual in any of the many excellent photographs made
of the area you flew over yesterday."

       *       *       *       *       *

Martin smiled briefly. "You observed nothing because they were ready
for you. It wouldn't be much of a job for them to camouflage, if
they're prepared in advance. I imagine they intercept every message in
and out of here."

"You make it sound very plausible," the general said sourly. "But we're
looking for something besides words."

Martin rose and his lean figure towered over them. "I held this out
because I wanted you both to understand what line of reasoning made
me go back. I sound insane because, of course, what I've said isn't
pleasant for human minds to accept."

He brought out a large composite, constructed of carefully
joined-together aerial photographs pasted on a board. "Yesterday, after
I saw the smashed ships, and while I waited for the base to confirm, I
went back over the route I'd taken while following the will-o-the-wisp
disc--on auto-pilot. This time, I shot downwards--at the earth." He
slid the composite around so that it faced the two men. They came
erect, eyes glittering, staring down at it.

"I didn't mention this over the TV hookup last night, or to any of the
interrogators for reasons already given. I wanted to make certain only
the highest echelon would see this." He handed the general a powerful
magnifying glass. "Those ships must be a good thousand feet long, don't
you think?" He laughed softly, a thin, triumphant sound that filled the
room. "Who'd think that spiders--like those--could make such machines."

Saunders and the general stared grimly at the fantastic shapes and
objects that were frozen in sharp clarity on the magnified photos.
Great round-domed buildings, connected with long, dully-gleaming
walks. And here and there tall needle-pointed ships rested on broad
concrete-like bases, their slender snouts pointed up towards the blue
sky, while about their bases swarmed creatures that were squat and
broad and many-limbed.

The two men looked at him, then turned once again to their scrutiny of
the composite, their faces impassive, unchanging. Martin opened the
desk drawer and piled half a dozen thin negatives near the general's
elbow.

"Here are the negatives," he said. "You can see--they're genuine," he
said.

"Genuine," Martin echoed. "And they grounded me because they thought I
was insane!" He flashed a white grin. "But I won't be grounded after
this--and neither will the rest of us, because not a hundred miles
away, sirs, is the answer to everything--everything we've ever wanted
to know. Project Breakaway?" He laughed aloud again. "Kindergarten
stuff to them!"

"Perhaps they're not interested in teaching--kindergarten," Saunders
said slowly. He gave Martin a piercing glance. "A most remarkable job,
Colonel. Lucid thinking. You're to be congratulated."

"Thank you," Martin said. "I'm glad it convinced you."

"So much so," the general said, "That we'll have to leave with it
immediately." He stuffed the negatives and composite into a briefcase.
They shook hands, exchanged a few more congratulatory words, then
stepped out the door. Beyond them, he saw the alienist, Major Elliston,
at the end of the hall. They shut the door quietly and Martin stared at
it, a faint crease between his eyes. He licked his lips, swallowed once
or twice and drew a deep, shaky breath.

       *       *       *       *       *

The door opened and the major came in. He looked curiously about the
room. "Had the radio on?" he asked. "An awful lot of conversation in
here, it seemed."

Martin sank into the chair, looking over at the sparkling pitcher of
cool water on the sidetable. "Funny you should ask that," he said
vaguely. "Didn't you recognize--"

"Better get ready for the big brass," the major interrupted. "And for
God's sake, if you insist on that story about being hypnotized, at
least make it a little more plausible than the one you told me--" He
stopped and looked out the window. "Here they come now."

Martin whirled and stared out the green-tinted window overlooking the
runway. A red and blue jet streaked along, wheels down, hit, bounced
and braked to a stop. It wheeled about, flashing under the late sun,
and rolled up to the parking strip.

"Another courier ship!" Martin murmured. "But, I don't--"

"Another--" the major looked curiously at him. "What do you mean,
'another courier ship'? That's the only one today--and one's too many,
if you ask me."

Dry tongue scraping over dry lips, Martin stared at him, then back to
the familiar red and blue jet. He swung and looked down the line of
parked jets, straining to see the other red and blue which had landed
over an hour ago. There was no red and blue jet there.

"Here they come now," the major muttered. "Holy cow! Saunders,
Under-Secretary to the old man, no less. And General Brereton--G2." He
turned to Martin. "Better give it to them straight--" He broke off,
seeing Martin's burning eyes in his drawn gray face, hearing the sudden
strange rattling breath as he pawed weakly through the empty desk
drawer.

"Negatives. Composite," Martin croaked. "Gone. _They_ took them, and I
never guessed!" His hands trailed limply and he fell across the desk,
bounced and rolled onto the floor.

With a single bound the major was at his side.

"Good God! It's unbelievable!" he gasped.

He stared in horror at the dry lips, the swollen black tongue. In the
space of seconds the hard young man was a limp scarecrow whose lips
cracked and moved in a dry-as-dust whisper. The major bent his ear
close to the withered mouth, listening.

"Water." The words were faint in his ear. "For heaven's sake--water."

The major reached up and lifted the big pitcher of cool water off the
sidetable. "Here, colonel, drink. Here's all the water you could want."

But already, it was too late.