Free The Flying Eyes by j. Hunter Holly Page A

it.
    He told Wes, and Wes agreed that it sounded logical. “But what do we do with it once it’s blinded?” Wes asked. There was a crawly look on his face. “I don’t think I could muster the courage to touch one of those things. To touch it and carry it—what would an eye feel like to touch?”
    Linc shivered. “Ughhh. I hadn’t considered that.”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    â€œFind some other way to maneuver it into the cage. Something to pull or push it.”
    â€œPulling sounds best to me. They float, so if we could get something around it and pull, it ought to float along behind us.”
    Even as Wes talked, the picture he created took form in Linc’s mind, and the tool they needed was there in the picture. “A net,” Linc said. “We’ll get a big net, and while the thing is blinded by the gas, we’ll throw the net over it and pull it in.”
    Wes sighed a loud sigh of relief. “Here’s the glass.” He fitted it into the slots. “It sounds crazy—going after an Eye with tear gas and a net—but at least it’s a plan. When I volunteered, I doubted if you’d ever figure it out.”
    â€œYou volunteered for more than either of us expected. Frankly, I thought Iverson would grab my idea, then give it to some poor fools to carry out, and I’d have to bear the guilt of their failure.”
    â€œHe gave it to two poor fools, all right. Linc Hosier and Wesley Rowe—two fools in the traditional pattern.”
    * * * *
    Morning came brightly and they left the house three-strong, because Ichabod refused to be locked behind. He had been alone too much since the departure of the housekeeper and demanded companionship.
    â€œI haven’t heard of the Eyes attacking animals,” Wes said, as he put the dog between them on the front seat.
    â€œHe’ll be safe.”
    The dog was nervous and eager, bumping Linc’s arm with his busy nose. It was the last thing Linc needed, but he made no comment.
    They had driven home in the lab’s pick-up truck, and now it clattered down Colt Street, disturbing the morning silence. Linc thought they must make a strange sight: two men and a dog, a rattly truck, and on that truck, covered with a tarpaulin, an eight-foot cage, empty and waiting. They were going out to do battle like men armed with sticks against cannons. The tear gas bombs were in a box that Wes held, two gas masks on top of them. The net lay folded beside the cage.
    Linc took the deserted roads into the country. The farms they saw were devoid of activity; they might as well have been dead farms. Linc was headed in the direction of the game preserve and the “hole,” but minutes passed and they were still alone. There was no Eye in sight.
    The sun had climbed to ten o’clock and still they moved alone down the road, making a clear target, but unchallenged. Linc’s hands were sweaty as the minutes ticked by without release from tension.
    â€œWhy don’t they come?” he hissed at Wes. “Do we have to go right up to their den?”
    â€œLet’s not try that.” Wes’ hand was on Ichabod’s head, taking his own nerves out in the comfort of his dog. “Maybe we’re not juicy enough prey. One truck—two men—they go for bigger numbers.”
    â€œThey’ve got to go for us!”
    â€œTake it easy. You’ll get yourself so worked up you’ll panic when we do find one.”
    The fields at their side were high with weeds, and looming ahead was a small woods, bright-colored against the sky. He tried to see its beauty, the red torches of maples, and the higher yellow of elms. He tried to relax in it. Too much tension could lose a battle, and this would be a bale so dangerous that he must have all his wits about him. If there was a battle.
    As they neared the woods, Ichabod stiffened. His busy nose ceased its probing and pointed, quivering,