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DOORSTEP Steadying his elbow on the kitchen table serving as a desk, Brigadier General W. F. Straut leveled his binoculars and stared out through the second-floor window of the farmhouse at the bulky object lying canted at the edge of the wood lot. He watched the figures moving over and around the gray mass, then flipped the lever on the field telephone. "Bill, how are your boys doing?" "General, since that box this morning-" "I know all about the box, Bill. It's in Washington by now. What have you got that's new?" "Sir, I haven't got anything to report yet. I've got four crews on it, and she still looks impervious as hell." "Still getting the sounds from inside?" "Intermittently, General." "I'm giving you one more hour, Major. I want that thing cracked." The General dropped the phone back on its cradle, and absently peeled the cellophane from a cigar. He had moved fast, he reflected, after the State Police notified him at 9:41 last night. He had his men on the spot, the area evacuated of civilians, and a preliminary report on the way to Washington |
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