The farmer blinked across the table at him, red eyed and fearful.
"I don't know what you want," he was saying. His voice was high and
querulous. "I didn't ask no trouble of the Federal Men. They asked me
all them questions, and I told them--"
"That's all right," said Faircloth. "We're just rechecking. You were
the first party the Alien contacted as far as we can tell. The ship
landed on your property, didn't it?"
The farmer nodded. "Over by the river. Scrub oak and elms standing over
there on the bluff. Haven't never cleared it because it'd be too rocky
to farm."
"All right, all right," said Faircloth sharply. "I want you to tell me
what happened that night."
The farmer's eyes flitted to Faircloth's face and back down to the
table. "I already told you twenty times. Why do you pick on me?" he
whined. "I couldn't help it he happened to stop here. Heard him on the
porch about ten o'clock at night--I was just gettin' ready for bed.
And he said he was travelin' and wanted something to eat. We don't see
strangers around here very often, Mister--" he looked up at Faircloth
fearfully. "I--I looked at him, and he looked all right to me. My eyes
were tired, like I said. I couldn't see him too well, but he came in,
and ate, and I offered to bed him for the night. He said no, he had to
make on for Des Moines."
Faircloth watched the man's eyes. "Details, Mr. Bettendorf. You've
left some out along the line, haven't you? I have a report here that
was filed by our field team that talked to you." He pulled out a sheaf
of papers in the dim kitchen light. "Says something about your dog
barking."
The farmer's face went white. "There anything wrong with that? I reckon
the dog did bark. I don't remember."
"And you went to open the door, and the stranger was there, eh?"