Carter was the only black man Rick had ever known well, and the only friend he'd had in the outfit. Now Carter was off with Major Jefferson. Major Hendrix was missing a leg and had stayed behind to hold the roadblock south of them. Parsons and Galloway were the only officers left.

The plan had been for Galloway to take the hilltop and hold it until the helicopters came; then they could go back for the wounded. Rick hadn't like the idea, but Hendrix made it an order. Someone had to hold the roadblock and someone else had to capture a landing area; Hendrix couldn't move, which left the hilltop to Galloway.

But Hendrix hadn't held the roadblock very long-and now there wouldn't be any helicopters.

And that's that, Rick thought. He had no choices left. For the first time, he couldn't even run.

Something caught his attention. Rick looked up. "What the hell?" He pointed toward the ink-black sky. A bright light moved among the stars. It seemed to come closer, and it made no sound at all.

"Where did Labon get aircraft?" Rick demanded.

Parsons shrugged. "From the Cubans, I suppose-Rick, that is no aircraft."

He was right. The silent light moved closer, and in strange patterns like no airplane Rick had ever seen before. There was only the one light; it was impossible to make out the size or shape of the craft, but it blotted out stars. Too many stars. He realized with a shiver that it was big. It moved too fast and turned in weird patterns, and it moved in total silence. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck.

It came lower, and a bright light stabbed down to illuminate the crest of the hill. There was enough light reflected upward to show what the tropical night had hidden.

"A goddamn flying saucer!" one of the troops shouted. There was a shot.

"Hold your fire!" Rick screamed.

Parsons looked at him curiously.

"That's nothing of Labon's. Why shoot at it? And-I'm not sure we can hurt it…

"It is landing," Parsons said.

"Of course." Rick felt an inane urge to giggle. Why not? he thought. We're defeated, surrounded, every one of us marked for a firing squad within the week, so why not flying saucers too? He felt lightheaded, and it was not just the wine. He was glad that he hadn't tried the local equivalent of pot.

Flying saucers weren't real. They weren't even science fiction. The girl he liked to think of as his mistress-he knew she'd have resented the label, and he'd never used it in her hearing, but he liked to think of himself as a man who'd once had a mistress-had been interested in science fiction, and had got Rick to read some of the classics; but neither she nor her friends "believed in" flying saucers.

The thing settled on the hilltop. It was very large, as big as a 707, and it wasn't precisely saucer-shaped, although seen edge on at a distance it might give that appearance. It was more like half a football sliced lengthwise, nearly flat at the bottom. It did nothing for a moment. Then a bright orange rectangle opened in the center of one side.

Sergeant Elliot caught up to him. Other troopers crawled into the CP trench. "What do we do, Captain?" Elliot demanded.

"Keep the men at their posts. There are still a thousand Cubans out there," Rick said. He studied the bright opening. Nothing happened. The only sounds were mutters from his own troops, and no one-or no thing-came out. "Take over," he told Parsons. "I'm going to have a look."

Parsons spread his hands in a wide gesture, a typical French shrug. "You are mad. But I will go with you-"

"No." Rick stared at the ship again. For a moment he felt rising hope. Could this be an experimental plane, something kept secret by the CIA and sent to get him out? The Agency had got them into this mess and would be embarrassed if they were captured. "Elliot, get headquarters."

"Can't, sir. Radio stopped working about the time we saw that thing."

"Flying saucer," someone muttered.

Rick had heard the stories. When people saw flying saucers, electrical gear stopped working. Ignition, radios, TV-anything electrical. But so what? He willed himself to believe that the Agency had sent this craft to rescue him. It made sense, even to risk a secret craft, in order to save the embarrassment of political trials and- There was no point in just looking at it. He didn't want to go alone, but Parsons would have to remain in command, and Elliot would be needed to control the troops. He looked at the others who'd crawled into his CP. "Mason, come with me."

"Right." Mason was a corporal; a short, stocky man with a lot of self-confidence and a phlegmatic temperament. He'd do.

Rick slung his rifle and started forward. Mason carried his at the ready, walking just behind Rick. "I never believed in flying saucers," Mason said.

"Neither did I. Not sure I do now," Rick told him. "Could be the Agency coming for us."

"Yeah. Sure," Mason said.

Rick could guess how the man felt. Rick Galloway didn't believe it either. This was no illusion, no swamp gas. It wasn't the planet Venus or a weather balloon. This was a real ship which had silently landed on his hill, and it was too damned advanced to be anyone's secret weapon. Anyone with a fleet of ships like that could dictate terms to the whole world. The way it had come in, zipping along in silence and changing direction in random ways, it would be unstoppable by any missile or interceptor Rick had ever heard of.

He reached the lighted square. He could feel the troops behind staring at his back. The sounds of gunfire started up again off to the south, and probably half his troops had left their posts to come look at the ship. Others, though, were dug in, grimly waiting. They'd make the Cubans pay for the hill. But how long could they hold? Rick looked inside the ship.

The lighted square was a doorway into a small chamber about three meters on a side. There was no one inside, and there were few features to see except for what appeared to be sliding doors, closed, on three of the walls. The opening was less than two meters high, a bit low for Rick's six feet and a fraction. He stood outside looking in until he felt silly. Finally he shouted. "Anybody home?"

"Come in, Captain Galloway," a voice said. It was a perfectly ordinary male voice, nothing unearthly about it. "You have very little time, Captain. Come aboard."

"My God, maybe it is the Agency," Rick muttered. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been an ordinary human voice with an accent he couldn't place.

It spoke again. "You may leave your weapons outside. You will not need them, and they might tempt you to rash actions. If we wished you harm, Captain Galloway, you would be dead now."

That, Rick thought, was for sure. This thing- whatever it was-couldn't be worse than the Cubans. He unslung his rifle and laid it on the ground. Mason did the same, but threw him a significant look. Rick nodded. They both had knives, and Rick had his.45 automatic pistol under his jacket. He was certain that Mason had another.

The opening was inconveniently high off the ground, above waist level. "No gangplank for us," Rick told Mason. He put his hand on the sill. It felt like metal, but was slightly warm to the touch. "Here goes," he muttered, and vaulted in. Mason followed closely.

He had half-expected the opening to close once he was inside, but it did nothing. The doorway to his left slid open silently, revealing a short corridor. Rick gestured to Mason to follow and went down that. Another door slid open at the far end. The room beyond was very brightly lit.

He went in gingerly, feeling very much alone. Corporal Mason hadn't hesitated to lead an infantry attack on a Cuban tank two days before, and had himself crept up to it and blown off a tread with a satchel charge; he looked far more nervous now than when he went off to attack the tank. Rick wondered if he were as shaky as the corporal, tried to straighten up and get control of his face. It wouldn't do to let the troops see their officer shaken.