My cohort, an airworthiness (maintenance) inspector, and I found Walter sitting forlornly in a back room of the FBO, surrounded by men wearing a variety of uniforms and equipped with an impressive array of firearms. As in Lexington, these guys weren’t sure if he was a terrorist, a druggie or, simply, a confused and lost novice pilot. I smiled and burst into the room with, “Walter, what in the hell’s going on?” which had the desired effect; the uniforms relaxed a little since an FAA inspector obviously knew this guy. But in a quiet aside to my partner, I suggested we “find a reason to hang a condition notice on that airplane.” Hearing the whole story, the cops said they’d be satisfied if Walter would just get the hell out of there. But I knew if we extricated him from the clutches of the law and he launched again in that 150, there’d be another interstellar incident. So we hustled him into the G-car, assuring the uniforms that the FAA would fully investigate and impose appropriately severe sanctions (i.e., remedial training).