Dolan shrugged noncommittally. "You might compare it to a police-man who's found a small lost child wandering the streets.
The cop can see it's a boy with two arms and two legs, approximately two years old. The kid's clothes are J. C. Penney, and his shoes are Buster Browns. He says his first name is Joey, but he doesn't know his surname, address, or phone number. We're in the same boat, Mr. Pitt, as that cop."
"Could you translate your analogue into factual detail?" Pitt asked, smiling.
"Please observe," Dolan said with a professional flourish. He produced a ball-point pen from a breast pocket and probed it about like a pointer. "We have before us the frontal landing gear of an aircraft, an aircraft that weighed in the neighborhood of seventy or eighty thousand pounds. It was a propeller-driven craft, because the tires were not constructed for the stresses of a high-speed jet landing. Also, the strut design is of a type that has not been built since the nineteen fifties. Therefore, its age is somewhere between thirty and forty-five years. The tires came from Goodyear and the wheels from Rantoul Engineering, in Chicago. As to the make of the aircraft and its owner, however, I'm afraid there isn't too much to go on."
"So it ends here," Pitt said.
"You throw in the towel too early," said Dolan. "There is a perfectly legible serial number on the strut. If we can determine the type of ship this particular nose-gear model was designed for, then it becomes a simple matter of tracing the strut's number through the manufacturer and establishing the parent aircraft."
"You make it sound easy." i
"Any other fragments?"
"Only what you see."
"How did you come to bring them here?"
"I figured that if anybody could identify them, it would.be the Federal Aviation Administration."
"Putting us on the spot, huh?" Dolan said, grinning.
"No malice intended," Pitt said, grinning back.
"Not much to go on," Dolan said, "but you never can tell; we might get lucky"
He made a thumbs-down motion toward a spot circled with red paint on the concrete floor. The forklift operator nodded and lowered the pallet holding the parts. Then he wheeled the forklift backward, cut a ninety-degree right turn, and clanked off toward another corner of the hangar.
Dolan picked up the oxygen tank, turned it over in his hands in the manner of a connoisseur admiring a Grecian vase, and then set it down. "No way in hell to trace this," he said flatly. "Standardized tanks like this are still produced by several manufacturers for any one of twenty different aircraft models."
Dolan began to warm to his task. He got down on his knees and examined every square inch of the nose gear. At one point he had Pitt help him roll it to a new position. Five minutes went by and he didn't utter a word.
Pitt finally broke the silence. "Does it tell you anything?"
"A great deal." Dolan straightened up. "But not, unfortunately, the jackpot answer."
"The odds favor the proverbial wild-goose chase," said Pitt. "I don't feel right putting you to all this trouble."
"Nonsense," Dolan assured him. "This is what John Q. Public pays me for. The FAA has dozens of missing aircraft on file whose fates have never been solved. Any time we have an opportunity to mark a case closed, we jump at it."
"How do we go about laying our fingers on the make of aircraft?"
"Ordinarily I'd call in research technicians from our engineering division. But I think I'll take a stab in the dark and try a shortcut. Phil Devine, maintenance chief over at United Airlines, is a walking encyclopedia on aircraft. If anyone can tell us at a glance, he can."
"He's that good?" asked Pitt.
"Take my word for it," Dolan said with a knowing smile. "He's that good."
"A photographer you ain't. Your lighting is lousy." A nonfiltered cigarette dangled from the lips of Phil Devine as he studied the Polaroid pictures Dolan had taken of the nose gear. Devine was a W. C. Fields-type character-heavy through the middle, with a slow, whining voice.
"I didn't come here for an art review," replied Dolan. "Can you put a make on the gear or not?"
"It looks vaguely familiar, kind of like the assembly off an old B-twenty-nine."
; "That's not good enough."