Warning from the Stars | Page 5

used this weird and wonderful means of
communication. The problem was to find a writing material which
would stand up in Earth's atmosphere--oddly enough, it's not the
oxygen which causes the trouble, but the so-called "inert" nitrogen. The
container will probably not disintegrate for a couple of days at sea level
atmospheric pressure, but this material I'm writing on would not last
more than a few seconds. That's one reason they picked you--most
people just don't have a spare decompression chamber up in the attic!
The other reason was that with your photographic memory, you'll know
this is my handwriting, beyond the shadow of a doubt, I hope.
I'm sure you've sat in that pressure suit long enough. But remember, if
you want to take another look at this, you'll have to put it back in the
container before you go "down."
Wishing you all you would wish for yourself,
Jim.
Forster examined the signature. That was the way Bentley made the
capital J--it looked almost like a T, with just a faint hook on the bottom
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 to
do."
* * * * *
Forster recognized the voice on the intercom as Tom Summerford's.
Summerford was one of the crop of recent graduates to join the
Center--brash, noisy, irresponsible like the rest of them. He knew
Forster hated being called "Doc," so he never lost an opportunity to use
the word. True, he was gifted and well-trained, but he was a ringleader
in playing the practical jokes on Forster which might have been funny
in college, but which only wasted a research team's time in these
critical days.
Practical joke.
Anger flooded over him.
Yes, this was all a macabre game cooked up by Summerford, with the
help of some of his pals. Probably they were all out there now,
snickering among themselves, waiting to see his face when he came out
of the decompression chamber ... waiting to gloat....
"Hey Doc! You still with us?"
"I'll be out very shortly," Forster said grimly. "Just wait right there."
He spun the air inlet controls; impatiently, he watched as the altimeter
needle began its anti-clockwise movement.
He'd call a staff meeting right away, find the culprits and suspend them
from duty. Preston would have to back him up. If Summerford proved
to be the ringleader, he would insist on his dismissal, Forster decided.
And he 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, leaving
behind him a mystery which still troubled the Atomic Energy
Commission, because nobody had ever been able to explain that sudden
dive in a plane which was apparently functioning perfectly, and flown
by a veteran crew....
He glanced down at the roll.
Was it his imagination, or had the purplish ink begun to fade? He ran a
length of it through his fingers, and then he saw that in places there
were gaps where the writing had disappeared altogether. He glanced up
at the 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 in
two places, leaving only the narrow strip he held between his gloved
fingers.
He put the strip on the desk, and bent clumsily in his suit to retrieve the
other pieces from the floor. But wherever he grabbed it, it fell apart.
Now it seemed to be melting before his eyes. In a few seconds there
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 the
altimeter. It read 2,500 feet.
He grabbed at the two pieces of the container. They still felt as rigid as
ever. He fitted them together carefully, gaining a crumb of security
from the act.
He realized vaguely that the altimeter needle was resting on zero, but
he had no idea how long he had been sitting there, trying to find a
thread of logic in the confused welter of thoughts, when he heard the
scrape of metal on metal as somebody wrestled with the door clamps
from the outside.

* * * * *
He was certain of only one thing. His memory told him that the
signature that was no longer a signature had been written by Jim
Rawdon, who couldn't possibly have survived that crash into the Timor
Sea....
From behind, somebody was fumbling with his helmet