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173 admit it, but you're bored. Bored from looking for scraps of unknown material that came from an unknown place, for an unknown reason. The words suggest a terribly special kind of excitement, but your feet are tired and your eyes are tired and all you have to show for your hard work is shoes full of dust. Can it be that the government got everything? Years of deal- ing with a host of official agencies and bureaus and offices have left you with the strong sense that 100 percent efficiency is as rare as ... pieces of spaceships. There have to be at least one or two scraps that aren't locked in vaults. After all, Pappy Hender- son, who flew one of the transports loaded with boxed wreckage, managed to pocket a piece, as did at least one of the sergeants who helped box it. How about all of the Gls who scoured the crash sites? Did they all resist the wonderful temp- tation? Some place out there is a whole collection of pieces. In an old coffee can, or a cigar box, or in that battered old trunk up in the attic where Grandpa's army uniform rests, along with the neatly folded flag that briefly covered his coffin. A piece of the foil could easily have been slipped between the pages of a book. For that matter, some pieces could be sitting on someone's mantel, their origin completely unsuspected. THE CRASH SITE TODAY