Flight Lieutenant Harry Easton stared at the submarine-shaped object in front of his F16.

“Oh my God, it’s real!” he said softly.   He had been up investigating UFO sightings at least a dozen times over the last two years.   But until now they had always turned out to be weather balloons, advertising blimps, ball lightning, or other explicable phenomena.   But this time there could be no doubt.   “A real flying saucer!”   Although the silvery object was more cigar-shaped than saucer-like.

As his fighter caught up with the UFO, Harry saw that it was the size of an ocean liner with thousands of portholes in neat rows down the side.   “It’s real, dammit!” he said, reaching for his microphone.

“Able-Baker…” he started to say.   But his words turned to a cry of, “Holy Jesus!” half prayer, half curse as a blinding white light streamed from the rear of the UFO.   For a second he thought the UFO had blown up.   “It’s accelerating!” he cried, as he covered his eyes with his hands.   Then — too late — he realised the white light was some form of beam directed at him.

“Able-Baker, Able-Baker,” he called into his microphone.   But he received back only a static hiss.   Then as the dials on his flight consul began to spin crazily, he realised it was a lot more serious than just the radio playing up.

“I’m going down!” he said as his plane began to disintegrate around him.   “The damn thing has shot me down.”   He activated his ejector seat then promptly blacked out.

*      *      *

When he came to Harry Easton was lying amid the tangled cords of his parachute in a field of tall corn staring up at a clear azure sky.   And at a tall, muscular looking white-bearded farmer wearing blue coveralls and holding a pitchfork in his left hand.   “Either they’ve got corn fields in hell,” thought Harry staring warily at the pitchfork, “or I’ve landed safely on someone’s farm.”

As a strong wind rustled through the corn field Harry could suddenly also smell wheat, rice, and soya beans.