“And you’re  Spencer’s older son, aren’t you?” Radnor asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Travis answered. “I’m Travis.  We did the surveying.  That funny star is one end of a flying machine.  We could see it through my theodolite.  Winston got a good sketch of it.”

“The young lady, Melanie Hayes, did a much better one,” Winston said.  “She may show up here with it.”

“So how far up is it?” Radnor asked.  “I can ask that airplane fellow to fly up, get a good look at it from up close.”

Travis bit his lips.  “I double-checked everything.  It’s not low.  It’s seventy thousand feet off the ground.”

“Seventy thousand feet?” a disbelieving Radnor said.  “That’s like half-way to the Moon, isn’t it?”

“Moon is two hundred thousand miles,” Winston interjected.  “This is only fourteen.”

“Still way too high for an airplane,” Travis said.  “World record is only seven miles up, plane or balloon.  That’s too high to breathe, air’s too thin.”

“Winston, you’re the smart one?” Radnor said.  “How do I persuade the Army, or the Navy, they’ve got good airplanes, to investigate?

“Had time to think about it,” Winston said. “We hold a ‘press conference’.  That’s a new Eastern idea.  I stand up on the front porch, reporters all face me, ask questions, and take photos.  We kill two birds with one stone, get the Journal-Miner reporter off our backs, and get Spencer Surveying some free publicity.”

“Fine idea,” Radnor said.  “You do it.  And if something goes wrong, I can say ‘My grandson is a really smart fellow, but he grew up back east and went to some Eastern college. What can you expect?’ That should do it.”

The next morning, the Journal-Miner put out its Extra edition.  “Mystery Airship!” the big headline read.  “Fourteen miles high.  It’s dead center above the Heath.”  The article went on at some length, emphasizing the precision surveying of Spencer and Sons, the careful work of Travis Spencer, and the good sense of Sheriff Radnor, letting his grandson Winston Cooper run with his investigation.  They printed a sharp copy of Melanie Hayes’ drawing, ‘the mystery airship revealed’, but did not mention how much they had paid her for her sketch.

At high noon, Winston found himself pressed into giving a genuine press conference, just the way President Harding did it.  There were a good dozen reporters there, with more arriving soon from the East Coast.   Gramps had dressed him in full sheriff’s regalia, complete with vest, shiny silver badge, and two six-guns.  Winston told himself he really needed to spend a little time on a firing range.  He knew how to pull the trigger, but he found that hitting a target was still something of a mystery.