. We do this until we come to an area where saucers
have not been sighted. Okay?"

Scotty nodded. "Okay. There is only one tiny flaw in this plan. If we
head straight north, we drop Steve's car into the Little Choptank. If we
cross that safely, we'll get wet in the main Choptank."

Rick sighed. "If there is anything I detest, loathe, and despise, it is
people who get up in the morning feeling full of humor. We will go to
Cambridge, missing the Little Choptank, and cross the Choptank on the
bridge. Route 50 goes almost straight north. Is that more precise and
acceptable, Donald?"

"It is indeed, Richard. I'm a stickler for accuracy."

"You're a stickler in the mud. Let's get a notebook and start
traveling."

A conference after dinner the night before had resulted in a plan of
action. The boys had decided to reduce all the rumors about flying
saucers to statistics that could be examined to see what elements the
various sightings had in common. The way to obtain the statistics was
through interviews.

The problem of the white-haired man with the familiar face still
remained. Steve's books had disclosed that Calvert's Favor was famous,
that it had been so named by the original settler because he had been
granted the land by Lord Calvert, that it had changed hands only twice
in more than a century. What the books didn't give was its location. The
place was identified only as "a quiet creek, entirely within the
original land grant." There was no mention of a Calvert Creek in the
vicinity. They decided to put the question of its location aside until
Steve's return.

It was a lovely morning. The convertible hummed smoothly over the
blacktop roads to Cambridge, onto Route 50, across the Choptank River
and north. Rick braked to a stop as the highway met the turnoff to
Easton. "Think we're far enough north?"

Scotty had been consulting a road map. He shook his head. "Not yet.
Easton is almost due east of Knapps Narrows, and we know the saucers
have been sighted there. Better go on to Wye Mills."

"Okay." The road was dual-lane cement, now, and Rick relaxed while the
car sped northward. "Odd name, Wye Mills. Lots of Wyes around here.
Three Wye Rivers on the chart, a Wye Landing, and a famous old Wye Oak."

"Sounds like a song," Scotty said. "Wye, tell me Wye, are there saucers
in the sky--"

"Please," Rick protested, "I'm in pain."

Route 50 turned at Wye Mills, leading to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge that
crossed the