writing material which wouldstand up in Earth's atmosphere--oddly enough, it's not the oxygen whichcauses the trouble, but the so-called "inert" nitrogen. The containerwill probably not disintegrate for a couple of days at sea levelatmospheric pressure, but this material I'm writing on would not lastmore than a few seconds. That's one reason they picked you--most peoplejust don't have a spare decompression chamber up in the attic! The otherreason was that with your photographic memory, you'll know this is myhandwriting, beyond the shadow of a doubt, I hope.
I'm sure you've sat in that pressure suit long enough. But remember, ifyou want to take another look at this, you'll have to put it back in thecontainer before you go "down."
Wishing you all you would wish for yourself,
Jim.
Forster examined the signature. That was the way Bentley made thecapital J--it looked almost like a T, with just a faint hook on thebottom of the down-stroke. Then the way it joined the--
"Hey, Doc--are you going to tie up the tank all day? I've got work todo."
* * * * *
Forster recognized the voice on the intercom as Tom Summerford's.Summerford was one of the crop of recent graduates to join theCenter--brash, noisy, irresponsible like the rest of them. He knewForster hated being called "Doc," so he never lost an opportunity to usethe word. True, he was gifted and well-trained, but he was a ringleaderin playing the practical jokes on Forster which might have been funny incollege, but which only wasted a research team's time in these criticaldays.
Practical joke.
Anger flooded over him.
Yes, this was all a macabre game cooked up by Summerford, with the helpof some of his pals. Probably they were all out there now, snickeringamong themselves, waiting to see his face when he came out of thedecompression chamber ... waiting to gloat....
"Hey Doc! You still with us?"
"I'll be out very shortly," Forster said grimly. "Just wait rightthere."
He spun the air inlet controls; impatiently, he watched as thealtimeter needle began its anti-clockwise movement.
He'd call a staff meeting right away, find the culprits and suspend themfrom duty. Preston would have to back him up. If Summerford proved to bethe ringleader, he would insist on his dismissal, Forster decided. Andhe would see to it that the young punk had trouble getting another post.
The fantastic waste of time involved in such an elaborate forgery ...Forster trembled with indignation. And using the name of a dead man,above all a scientist who had died in the interests of research, leavingbehind him a mystery which still troubled the Atomic Energy Commission,because nobody had ever been able to explain that sudden dive in a planewhich was apparently functioning perfectly, and flown by a veterancrew....
He glanced down at the roll.
Was it his imagination, or had the purplish ink begun to fade? He ran alength of it through his fingers, and then he saw that in places therewere gaps where the writing had disappeared altogether. He glanced up atthe altimeter needle, which was sliding by the 24,000-foot mark.
He looked back at his hands again, just in time to see the roll part intwo places, leaving only the narrow strip he held between his glovedfingers.
He put the strip on the desk, and bent clumsily in his suit to retrievethe other pieces from the floor. But wherever he grabbed it, it fellapart. Now it seemed to be melting before his eyes. In a few secondsthere was nothing.
He straightened up. The strip he had left on the desk had disappeared,too. No ash, no residue. Nothing.
His thought processes seemed to freeze. He glanced mechanically at thealtimeter. It read 2,500 feet.
He grabbed at the two pieces of the container. They still felt as rigidas ever. He fitted them together carefully, gaining a crumb of securityfrom the act.
He realized vaguely that the altimeter needle was resting on zero, buthe had no idea how long he had been sitting there, trying to find athread of logic in the confused welter of thoughts, when he heard thescrape of metal on metal as somebody wrestled with the door clamps fromthe outside.
* * * * *
He was certain of only one thing. His memory told him that the signaturethat was no longer a signature had been written by Jim Rawdon, whocouldn't possibly have survived that crash into the Timor Sea....
From behind, somebody was fumbling with his helmet connections, thenfresh air and familiar sounds rushed in on him as the helmet was takenaway.
Summerford's thin, intelligent face was opposite his.
"Doc! Are you all right?" he was asking sharply. For once, there was nosuperciliousness in his voice.
"I'm fine," Forster said heavily. "I--I've got a headache. Stayed inhere too long, I suppose."
"What's in the box?" Summerford asked.
The way he asked told Forster at once that the youngster knew nothingabout it.
"Er--just some half-baked idea out of the Pentagon. Some colonel tryingto justify his existence." He clutched the box to him as thoughSummerford might try to take it away. "The tank's all yours."
He turned and clambered out of the chamber. He put the box down on theconcrete floor, and climbed out of the pressure suit, watching the boxall the time. It seemed to gleam up at him, as though it had eyes, fullof silent menace.
He realized vaguely that Summerford was standing in front of him again,looking anxious.
"Are you quite sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," Forster said, hardly recognizing his own voice.
He picked up the box and stumbled out, heading for his office.
When he walked in, his secretary was answering the line fitted with ascrambler, which connected directly with the Pentagon.
"General Morganson," she said, handing him the receiver.
Forster took the receiver, sat down at his desk and took a deep breath,fighting hard to regain his self control.
"Forster," he said into the mouthpiece when the office door closedbehind the girl.
"Forster! What the dickens has happened to Preston? My driver met thetrain here this morning, but there was no sign of him. But the Pullmanporter checked him in last night, and we found all his gear and papersin his compartment!"
"He left here in plenty of time to catch the train, General," Forsterheard himself say. "He took the train to get a night's rest." Herealized how irrelevant the last statement was only after he had madeit.
The General was talking again ... important meeting with the JointChiefs ... whole briefing team was being held up ... he'd reported it tothe C.I.A. as a precautionary measure....
* * * * *
Forster could see the words on the roll, the roll that wasn't, as thoughthey were engraved on his eye-retinas: _As a beginning, and to provethis isn't just a bit of hocus-pocus, one of the people at your Centeris due to leave for here any time now._
"General," Forster broke in hoarsely. "I've got some very importantinformation which you must have. I'll leave by heliplane right away."
He replaced the phone receiver in its cradle, wondering how convincinghe would be able to make his story. At least, even if he didn't haveBentley's letter, he had the container. That should help.
But when he looked across the desk, he saw that it too had disappeared,without a trace.
* * * * *
General Morganson was the newest product of the Atomic Age, halfsoldier, half scientist--shrewd and perceptive, an intellectual giant.
He listened carefully, without comment or change of expression, asForster doggedly went through his story in chronological order.
Half way through, he held up his hand and started pushing buttons on theconsole built into his desk. Within a few moments men began filing intothe room, and sat down around Forster.
Then the general motioned to the clerk seated in the corner by a taperecorder.
"Gentlemen, listen to this playback and then I'll have Dr. Forster herego
on from there."
What was left of Forster's confidence leaked away as he heard his owndiffident voice filling the room again. It was like being awake in themiddle of a weird dream.
But when the tape recorder hissed into silence, he went on, staringstraight ahead of him in quiet desperation.
When he ended his story, there was silence for a moment. Everyone satmotionless.
Then Morganson looked up and around.
"Well gentlemen? Mr. Bates, C.I.A. first."
This was no longer a story told by one man; it had become a problem, asituation to be evaluated objectively.
"Well, sir ... the only part of the thing I can comment on at this pointis the stuff about O'Connor and Walters. That checks. They bothdisappeared without a trace. It was treated as a maximum securitysituation, and we did give out the story they had been assigned