The General!          Things were getting a tad bit odd.          We were now more determined than ever to see this mystery through. If anything: we needed to prove to ourselves that Smith and his cronies (if he really had any) were not crazed blood sucking zombies - or, worse yet, Democrats. The desert is dangerous enough without weirdoes running rampant.          And it's good to know who your enemies are.          The following morning at sunup we packed all the gear into the truck and set off per directions indicated on the map Smith had given us two weeks earlier.          By 7:00AM we had verified that Smith's map was at least leading us somewhere. Landmarks were all correct and accounted for. We navigated past certain rock outcroppings, marked wood posts, and mining claims.          At 8:00AM the terrain became rugged to the point that it thwarted our 4WD vehicle. We were forced to proceed on foot. After thirty minutes of crawling up rocky slopes and fording deep ravines, we yanked off our backpacks to take five. That's when we noticed the old hermit sitting on a rock.          Under other circumstances the situation might have been somewhat humorous. He looked like a poor man's Santa Claus: bent, prematurely gray, severely weathered, scraggly beard. In one hand was a rugged black transceiver held to his lips. In the other was a potent-looking side-by-side shotgun pointed our way.                    As we watched, the man spoke a few words into the transceiver. He looked slightly annoyed.          Bill saw his chance to introduce ourselves.          "You're not planning to do us in with skeet shot, are you?", he asked.          Me? I saw my whole life flash before my eyes.          The old guy suddenly grinned from ear to ear and leveled the weapon directly at Bill.          "As a matter of fact," the hermit croaked, "I've loaded three dollars worth of dimes into each round. That's about the only reason, as I see it, that you're still standing. May not be cost effective to ruin your day!"          Before Bill or I could formulate any proper reply, sweet smelling smoke suddenly filled the air around us. Things began to blur.          The hermit began laughing.          "Remember that scene in Close Encounters," he was saying, "Where they gas those folk climbing up Devil's Tower?"          I did. And even as I sank to my knees, I found the wherewithal the gasp out the appropriate response.          "We were invited too!", I said.          We woke, one hour later, on the wood slat floor of an amazingly dilapidated shack. As I sat up, and the world spun dizzily around me, the hermit handed me a cup of coffee and told me to drink. I saw Bill upending a mug on the other side of the room.                    The first swallow of coffee immediately steadied the room. I noticed it had a peculiar flavor.          "There's an herbal anti-nausea additive to help you through the side effects of the gas," the hermit pointed out. "Take it slow and you won't even end up with a headache!"          Bill had recovered somewhat quicker than I.          "Dave - meet the General!" he said.          It figured.          "I 'm truly sorry I had to do that to you," the General apologized later. "You'll understand my precautions shortly. I had to make sure you were unarmed - your weapons will be returned to you later - and I had to see to it that you could not retrace your steps back to this place."          Bill and I were both on our feet by this time. We both looked around the shack with disgust. There was a grimy and yellowed mattress in one corner that looked like it was ready and willing to take on the whole world of medicine.          "You live here?", one of us asked.          The General rolled his eyes and chuckled.          "Well - yes and no," he said and pulled out of a pocket what appeared to be an electronic garage door opener. There were two buttons on it. He pressed one. "My real habitat is down below..."          As he spoke there was a grating sound and a section of floor dropped six inches and slid sideways under the rest. A vertical shaft was now revealed. A crude metal ladder descended into darkness.          "The shack is just a cover," he continued. "And the mattress - well, some gypsy drug it in here. Would you believe that human beings sleep on it sometimes?"          Without another word he began climbing down the ladder.          "You fellows hungry?" he asked. "It's lunchtime!"

NEXT: TIP OF THE ICEBERG