"He's that good?" asked Pitt.

"Take my word for it," Dolan said with a knowing smile. "He's that good."

"A photographer you ain't. Your lighting is lousy."

A nonfiltered cigarette dangled from the lips of Phil Devine as he studied the Polaroid pictures Dolan had taken of the nose gear. Devine was a W C. Fields-type character — heavy through the middle, with a slow, whining voice.

"I didn't come here for an art review," replied Dolan. "Can you put a make on the gear or not?"

"It looks vaguely familiar, kind of like the assembly off an old B-twenty-nine."

"That's not good enough."

"What do you expect from a bunch of fuzzy pictures — an absolute. irrefutable ID?"

"I had hoped for something like that, yes," Dolan replied, unruffled.

Pitt was beginning to wonder if he was about to referee a fight. Devine read the uneasy look in his eyes.

"Relax, Mr. Pitt," he said, and smiled. "Harvey and I have a standing rule: we're never civil to each other during working hours. However, as soon as five o'clock rolls around, we cut the hard-assing and go out and have a beer together."

"Which I usually pay for," Dolan injected dryly.

"You government guys are in a better position to moonlight," Devine fired back.

"About the nose gear Pitt said, probing quietly.

"Oh yeah, I think I might dig up something." Devine rose heavily from behind his desk and opened a closet filled from floor to ceiling with thick black-vinyl-bound books. "Old maintenance manuals." he explained. "I'm probably the only nut in commercial aviation who hangs on to them." He went directly to one volume buried among the mass and began thumbing through its pages. After a minute he found what he was looking for and passed the open book across the desk. "That close enough for you?"

Pitt and Dolan leaned forward and examined an exploded-view line drawing of a nose-gear assembly.

"The wheel castings, parts_, and dimensions" — Dolan tapped the page with his finger — "they're one and the same."

"What aircraft?" asked Pitt.

"Boeing Stratocruiser," answered Devine. "Actually I wasn't that far off when I guessed a B-twenty-nine. The Stratocruiser was based on the bomber's design. The Air Force version was designated a C-ninety-seven."

Pitt turned to the front of the manual and found a picture of the plane in flight. A strange-looking aircraft: its two-deck fuselage had the configuration of a great doublebellied whale.

"I recall seeing these as a boy," Pitt said. "Pan American used them."

"So did United," said Devine. "We flew them on the Hawaii run. She was a damned fine airplane."

"Now What?" Pitt turned to Dolan.

"Now I send the nose gear's serial number to Boeing, in Seattle, along with a request to match it with the parent aircraft. I'll also make a call to the National Transportation Safety Board in Washington, who will tell me if they show any lost commercial Stratocruisers over the continental United States."

"And if one turns up missing.

"The FAA will launch an official investigation into the mystery," Dolan said. "And then we'll see what turns up."

Pitt spent the next two days in a chartered helicopter, crisscrossing the mountains in everwidening search-grid patterns. Twice he and the pilot spotted crash sites, but they turned out to be marked and known wrecks. After several hours in the air — his buttocks numb from sitting, the rest of his body exhausted from the engine's vibration and from the buffeting by surging drafts and crosswinds — he was genuinely thankful when Loren's cabin came into view and the pilot set the copier down in a nearby meadow.

The skids sank into the soft brown grass and the blades ceased their thump and idled to a stop. Pitt unclasped his safety belt, opened the door, and climbed out, luxuriating in a series of muscle stretches.

"Same time tomorrow, Mr. Pitt?" The pilot had an Oklahoma twang, and a shortcropped haircut to go with it.

Pitt nodded. "We'll angle south and try the lower end of the valley."

"You figuring on skipping the slopes above timberline?"

"If a plane crashed in the open, it wouldn't go missing for thirty years."

"You can never tell. I remember an Air Force jet trainer that smacked the side of a mountain down in the San Juans. The impact caused an avalanche and the plane's debris was buried. The victims are still under the rock."

"I suppose that's a remote possibility," Pitt said wearily.

"If you want my opinion, sir, that's the only possibility." The pilot paused to blow his nose. "A small, light plane might fall through the trees and become hidden till eternity but not a four-engine airliner. No way pine and aspen could conceal wreckage that size. And even if it did happen, some hunter would have surely stumbled on it by now."

"I'm open to any theory that pans out," said Pitt. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Loren running across the meadow from the cabin. He slammed the door and waved off the pilot, turning and not bothering to look back as the engine whined into life. The craft lifted and droned over the tops of the surrounding trees.

Loren leaped into his arms, breathless from her dash in the thin air. She looked alive and vibrant in tight white slacks and red turtleneck sweater. Her elegantly molded face seemed to glow in the lateafternoon sun, the slanted light heightening the effect by tinting her skin to gold. He twirled her around and pressed his tongue through her lips, staring into a pair of liquid violet eyes that stared right back. It never failed to amuse Pitt that Loren forever kept her eyes open when kissing or making love, claiming that she didn't want to miss anything.

At last she came up for air and pushed him away, wrinkling her nose. "Whew, you stink."

"Sorry about that, but sitting behind the plastic bubble of a helicopter all day is like dehydrating in a greenhouse."

"You don't have to make excuses. There's something about a masculine musk smell that turns women on. Of course, the fact that you also reek of gas and oil doesn't help any."

"Then I shall immediately pass Go and proceed to the shower."

She glanced at her watch. "Later. If we hurry, you might still catch him."

"Catch who?"

"Harvey Dolan. He called."

"How? You have no telephone."

"All I know is a forest ranger came by and said you were supposed to call Dolan at his office. It was important."

"Where do we find a phone?"

"Where else? The Rafertys'."

Lee was in town, but Maxine was only too happy to show Pitt to the telephone. She sat him down at an old-fashioned rolltop desk and handed him the receiver. The operator was efficient, and in less than ten seconds Dolan was on the other end of the line.

"Where in hell do you get off calling me collect?" he grumbled.

"The government can afford it," Pitt said. "How did you get word to me?"

"The citizen-band radio in my car. I bounced a signal from the public-communications satellite to a ranger station in the White River National Forest and asked them to relay the message."

"What have you got?"

"Some good news and some not-so-good news."

"Lay it on me in that order."

"The good news is, I heard from Boeing. The nose gear was installed as original equipment on air-frame number 75403. The notso-good news is, that particular aircraft went to the military."