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Table of contents
CONTENTS
LESSON-1-2
LESSON-3
LESSON-4.1
LESSON-4.2
LESSON-5.1
LESSON-5.2
LESSON-6.1
LESSON-6.2
LESSON-7.1
LESSON-7.2
LESSON-7.3
LESSON-8
LESSON-9
LESSON-10.1
LESSON-10.2
LESSON-11
LESSON-12
LESSON-13.1
LESSON-13.2
LESSON-14
LESSON-15.1
LESSON-15.2
Contraception
The Sex Life of the Gods. Michael Knerr. CHAPTER-1
CHAPTER-2-3
CHAPTER-4
CHAPTER-5-6
CHAPTER-7-8
CHAPTER-9-10
CHAPTER-11-12
CHAPTER-13-14
CHAPTER-15-16
CHAPTER-17-18-19

 

The rocketing ship had appeared over one observation station near Lake 

Ontario. It had been spotted by a CD worker near Auburn, N.Y., then it 

was gone. The last observation of the craft showed it flying an erratic 

track toward the mountain country of Pennsylvania. 

 

At CQ operations office, in Washington D.C., Lt. Colonel Martin Griswold 

tossed the last report on his desk and pinched his lower lip 

thoughtfully. Colonel Delbert, sitting across from him, looked serious. 

 

"It's out of control," he mused. "And it isn't one of ours. Russian?" 

 

"Might be." He looked at the rugged country along the Pennsylvania, New 

York map for a moment, then he picked up the phone on his desk. "This is 

Colonel Griswold. Get me the Pentagon." 

 

At 0930 a special plane left Washington, bound for the town in northern 

Pennsylvania that had been chosen as a base of operations. On board the 

plane were the Secret Service men who were to track down the crashed 

ship. 

 

They were several hours too late... 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE 

 

 

He awakened to flame and smoke and it was as though he had been born 

again. About him lay thick, summer cloaked forests and heavy carpets of 

laurel and brush. Obviously, it was some sort of plane that was burning 

nearby and he had probably been in it. In his mind, he remembered only 

the blinding flash of white light, then a sea of darkness that had 

enveloped him. Whether he had been thrown clear of the wreck, or whether 

he had crawled, he didn't know. But the torn flying suit he wore 

convinced him that he had once been airborne in that battered craft. 

 

The heavy, canvas-like material of the flying suit had protected the 

blue serge business suit underneath, so that besides a ripped pocket it 

was presentable. He grinned wryly in the pre-dawn darkness. Presentable 

to whom? The squirrels? He peeled off the flying suit and added it to 

the flaming wreckage, then staggered off through the night toward the 

valley below. There was usually, he recalled, water in ravines. 

 

He used small saplings for handholds while his head thumped and 

thundered wildly. Probing fingers found a lump beneath blood matted hair 

that was sensitive to the touch. There was a scratch on his cheek, 

sealed with dried blood, and his hands were skinned as though he had 

broken a fall in cinders with them. It was, he decided, amazing that he 

had survived a plane crash with so little injury; but then, stranger 

things had happened. 

 

There was a run at the bottom of the hill, one of those leaf choked, 

meandering little creeks that become stagnant pools in July and August, 


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