the near side to us we logically assume protected. Therefore we search, radically if necessary to find the reason why. After years of painstaking study, I virtually walked away emptied handed, then as I studied pictures of the moon, one scene in particular leapt right out at me: There was three craters together.
I scanned that picture diligently, scouring my way over the surface of our only natural satellite, and suddenly they started to appear, perfect three crater formations.
I looked to the Martian surface, and there they stared to appear again, three crater construction; to obvious to be impacting meteorites there needed to be a more profound answer, gravity seemed the solution. I guessed as heat inside our planet or Moon produced a vacuum, a structural collapse happened, and if this was the case, then we have to assume crop-circles are produced through the very same application.
No humans in the dead of night creating complex patterns, no Extraterrestrial life landing spacecraft, but a distortion in the gravitational field. If this is the case, and a prediction for it was made, then I would suggest for any scientist they measure the level of gravity in a wide pattern over open farmland in England especially, as there appears a high concentration there.
Or at least I thought that, until I met Jack Spiller down the pub. I stayed with the crop-circles until about 5pm that afternoon then slowly made my way back to my car. I was stopped on the way by the local gamekeeper, his shotgun stretched over his arm and me volunteering information like it was going out of fashion.
I never have liked guns that much, and most certainly never could trust anybody with one. I was escorted from the land and warned severely not to return. He told me next time I would face the police.
I assured him I had absolutely no intention of returning whatsoever. It was just coming up to 6pm when I arrived back in the village and parked outside a quaint English pub: The red Lion.
Out side an aged crooked building was placed three large wooden tables with obligatory wooden benches. People turned at my arrival, and I offered my finest smile as I entered a dimly lit bar. There was only two other people in the pub saloon lounge as I entered.
One of those was a man I initially came across when I entered the village this morning. He was in the tobacconist and purchased twenty cigarettes. The second was an older gentleman in his early seventies I guessed with a blistered red face of broken blood vessels and very weathered features.
He looked as though he had spent years working the land, and this was his eagerly awaited retirement, a bar-stool, a pint of bitter constantly refilled and no problems whatsoever. I stood by the bar and ordered from a teenage girl a pint of best bitter, and politely offered both seated gentlemen one.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged as they thanked me, and I moved to a small corner table with a book to wait the arrival of Jack Spiller. I was told he left to join the army twenty years ago and had arrived back four years since. I thought that would make him in his late thirties, possibly early forties.
I was half way through my second pint when a youngish man arrived in the bar, a large parcel under his arm wrapped in white tissue paper. A young barmaid took it from him, momentarily disappeared out back and then returned.
She pumped him a pint, flirting as she did so. He lifted himself tall, and I got my first full impression of Jack Spiller. He was a good six foot, muscular and broad shouldered, very heavily tanned, and his blonde thinning hair nearly bleached white from the sun, as was his eyebrows, and couple of days stubble.
Jack wore plain green combat trousers, and a maroon T-shirt, the parachute regiment motif etched across its front. I closed my book, lifted myself and walked over to the bar.
"Jack Spiller!" I said, my voice strong as I placed my glass on the counter.
He closed his eyes defeated. "I can explain about the venison," he huffed.
I told him I was not a policeman, although thinking back, the lack of emotion in my voice might have led him to believe I was.
He seemed so relieved when I told him I was an independent scientist, researching a thesis doctrine of universal and unexplained theory, although he did look at me as though I was mad. He asked me what he could do for me?, after I bought him a pint of course. I told
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