As soon as his business was concluded, Hartson Brant planned to drive to Steve's, where the Brants and the two girls would join Rick and Scotty for a vacation on the houseboat. There was plenty of room. The Spindrift was thirty feet long and ten feet wide, and had two cabins. Four could sleep in the forward cabin, and two amidships where the galley, dinette, and bath were located. Steve had agreed to drive the Brant car to Spindrift on his next trip to New York. The houseboat, with the full clan aboard, would travel leisurely back to the home island.
Rick was delighted with the arrangements. The Brants – and that included Scotty, who had become one of them after his discharge from the United States Marine Corps – were a close-knit family whose members enjoyed doing things together. Rick considered Jan Miller, Barby's dearest friend, a welcome addition to the party.
"Range light ahead," Scotty said.
Rick nodded. The light was set atop a black piling. The color meant he would have to pass it to port, then pick up the red beacon at the entrance to the Narrows, passing the red beacon to starboard. This was in accordance with the old sailors' rule: red right returning, which means keep red markers and buoys on the starboard, or right, when returning from seaward. It was fun navigating in strange waters. He had never heard of Knapps Narrows a few days before, or of Tilghman Island, where the Narrows were located. Nor had he heard of the Choptank River, which lay just below the island.
The houseboat plowed ahead, its twin outboards purring. Its bow, rounded like the front of a toboggan, slapped into a slight swell. Rick passed the range light and headed for the red tower that marked the opening of the Narrows. In a few moments they were in the Narrows, passing lines of docked crab, oyster, and clam boats. There was a bridge ahead, with a gasoline dock in its shadow. Rick gauged wind and current and decided how he would maneuver into place. The current was heavy in the channel, running in the direction in which he was headed.
"I'll nose in, and you jump off with a bowline," he directed Scotty. "We'll let the stern swing around with the current. That will leave us facing the way we came, so we won't have to turn when we leave."
In a short time the maneuver was completed. Rick edged the rounded nose of the houseboat against the seawall as Scotty stepped ashore carrying the bowline. He snubbed it tightly around a piling and held fast while the ungainly boat swung with the current. Rick stepped to the seawall with the stern line as the craft swung completely around, and the boys made the boat fast.
"Now," Scotty said, "let's gas up and eat."
After filling the gas tanks, loading the icebox with fresh ice, and topping off the water tank, the boys slipped into shirts, slacks, and shoes, then headed for the restaurant that adjoined the dock. Over delicious, spicy Maryland crab cakes and coffee, they talked with the proprietor, a friendly, heavy-set Eastern Shore man who spoke with the typical slurred accents of the region.
"Quite a boat you got there," the man said.
Rick grinned. "It does look sort of odd, but it's comfortable."
"Expect so. Thought it was a seagoin' flyin' saucer when I saw it comin' through the Narrows."
Scotty munched crab cake appreciatively. "Seen many flying saucers around here?" he asked whimsically.
"A few."
The boys stared.
The man smiled at the reaction. "Didn't expect that? It's true. We see one now and again."
"Really?" Rick asked.
"Sure as geese fly. Don't know that they're really flyin' saucers like we read about in the Washington and Baltimore papers – we get both – but they're somethin' strange. Not natural, anyway."
The boys looked at each other. There was no doubt that the proprietor believed what he was saying. He was as casual as though reporting a catch of fish.
"Seen any recently?" Scotty inquired.
"Two nights ago. Always see 'em about dusk. Real plain, against the sky. Sun hits 'em when they get high enough. They shine, sometimes silver, sometimes red."
"Funny we haven't seen anything about it in the papers," Rick commented.
"Oh, I don't know. Used to be we'd report 'em, and the papers carried a few lines. But the way the stories got written, you'd think us Eastern Shore folks were short a few marbles. We got tired of being laughed at, so no one says much about the saucers any more."
"But lots of people see them?" Scotty asked.
"Sure. Anyone that happens to be outdoors."
"Ever report these sightings to the authorities?" Rick wanted to know.
"Did at first. Called the State Police myself. The Coast Guard boys are located right here at the Narrows, and they reported to Baltimore. Nothin' happened. The authorities aren't sold on flyin' saucers, you might say. I guess the last report was when Link Harris was kidnaped by one."
Rick's scalp prickled. "You honestly mean someone was kidnaped by a flying saucer?"
"It's the only thing we can think of. Link went out to set his crab lines, like always, and never came home. We set out to find him, and we found his boat all right, but no Link. One of the saucers was seen by several folks, and they said later it seemed right over where he was workin' at about the time he was there."
The boys digested this startling information. "Maybe he was drowned," Rick ventured.
"In a creek? Not likely! Link's been crabbin' for thirty years in these waters. Water was smooth. Not a ripple, even out on the bay. Even if he fell over, he could almost walk ashore. Tide was out and he was settin' lines in about six feet, and he's better than two yards high. Shore wasn't more than twenty yards away."
"Maybe he hit his head when he fell," Scotty suggested.
"Possible, but even if he drowned we'd have found his body."
Rick shook his head. "It's hard to believe a man could be kidnaped by a flying saucer. Couldn't he have gone ashore and walked out of the area? Maybe he wanted to disappear."
"You're mighty hard to convince," the proprietor said good-humoredly. It was clear he didn't particularly care whether they were convinced or not. He was making conversation just to be sociable. "Where Link was settin' lines is just a little creek with marsh all around. No man with any sense would get out of a boat and go ashore into marshland, now would he? Besides, there's no reason Link would want to disappear. He lived all alone and did about what he pleased. Crabs netted him enough money for his needs."
"How long ago did this happen?" Rick asked.
"Two, three weeks. Not long."
"Where?" Scotty queried.
"Few miles south. In a creek off the Little Choptank."
"That's where we're going!" Rick exclaimed.
"So? Well, watch for Swamp Creek. It's on the chart. That's where they got Link. Where you headed?"
"A place called Martins Creek," Rick replied.
"Uh-huh. Well, Martins is on the south shore, and Swamp Creek is on the north, about three miles closer to the river mouth. You'll pass it on the way. Better keep an eye open. That boat of yours might attract flyin' saucers the way a decoy attracts ducks."
Rick saw the twinkle in the proprietor's eye. "We'll set a bear trap on the upper deck," he said. "Any flying saucer tries to pick us up, the pilot will catch one of his six legs in it."
"Likely," the man agreed. "You catch one, bring it to the Narrows, will you? Always wanted to see one at close range."
"We'll