 Warning from the Stars by Ron Cocking. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. Warning from the Stars by Ron Cocking. Don't believe in flying saucers? Neither do we, but that doesn't necessarily mean that there are no other way for Earth to get its last... Warning from the Stars by Ron Cocking. It was a beautiful machine container shaped like a two-pound chocolate candy box. The color and texture of lead. The cover fitted so accurately that it was difficult to see where it met the lip on the base. Yet, when Forster lifted the container from the desk in the security guard's office, he almost hid himself in the face with it. So light was it. He read the words clumsily etched by hand into the top surface with some sharp instrument. To be opened only by Dr. Richard Forster, Assistant Director, Air Force Spatial Research Center, Petersport, Maryland. Caution, open not later than 24 hours after receipt. Do not open in atmosphere less than equivalent of 65,000 feet above MSL. He turned the container over and over. It bore no other markings. No express label or stamps. No file or reference number. No return address. It was superbly machined, he saw. Tentatively, he pulled out the container cover. It was as firm as if it had been welded on. But then, if the cover had been closed in the thin atmosphere of 65,000 feet, it would be held on by the terrific pressure of a column of air 12 miles high. Forster looked up at the blurly guard. Who left this here? Your guess was as good as mine, sir. The man's voice was as close to insolence as the difference in status would allow. And Forster bristled. I just clocked in an hour ago. There was a thick fog came on all of a sudden. And there was a bit of confusion when we were changing over. They didn't say anything about the bugs when I relieved. Fog, Forster queried. How could fog form on a warm morning like this? You're the scientist, sir. You tell me. Went as fast as it came. Well, it looks like very sloppy security. The contents of this thing must most certainly be classified. Give me the book. I'll sign for it. I'll phone you the file number when I find the covering instructions. Forster was a nervous, over-conscious little man. And his day was already ruined. Because any departure from strict administrative routine worried and upset him. Only in his field of aviation medicine did he feel confident, secure. He knew that around the center they contemptuously called him Lillipa. The younger researchers were constantly trying to think up new ways to play jokes on him and annoy him. Crawley Preston, the research center's director and his chief, had been summoned to Washington the night before. Forster was feverately that he was around to deal with this matter. Now that relations between east and west had reached a snapping point, the slightest deviation from security regulations usually meant a full-scale inquiry. He signed for the container and carried it out to the car. Still, seething impotently over the guard's insolence. He placed it beside him on the front seat of his car and drove up to the building which housed part of the labs and also his office. He climbed out. Then as he slammed the door, he happened to glance into the car again. The seat covers were made of plastic in a maroon and blue plaid pattern. Before the box had rested, there was a dirty gray rectangular patch that hadn't been there before. Forster stared. Then opened the door again. He rubbed his fingers over the discolor spot. It felt no different than the rest of the fabric. Then he placed the box over the area. It fitted perfectly. He flopped down on the seat. His legs dangling out of the car, fighting down a sudden irrational wave of panic. He pushed the container to the other end of the seat. After all, he rationalized, plastic are notoriously unstable under certain conditions. This is probably a new alloy Washington once tested for behavior under extreme conditions of temperature and pressure. What's gotten into you? He took a deep breath, picked up the box again. Where it rested, there was another discolored patch on the car seat covers. Holding it away from him, Forster hurried into the office. Then dumped the box into a metal wastebasket. Then he went to a cabinet and pulled out a Geiger counter. Carried it over to the wastebasket. As he pointed the probe at the box, the familiar slow clicking reassured him. And feeling a little foolish, he put the instrument back on his shelf. Hurriedly, he went through his mail. There was nothing in it referring to the package. When he called the classified filing section, nobody there knew anything about it either. For some reason, he couldn't explain to himself, he wasn't even surprised. He stared into the wastebasket. The clumpfully etched instructions glinted up at him, to be opened as soon as possible. He picked up the phone and called the decompression chamber building. There was no valid reason why he should have been self-conscious, as he talked to the lab attendant in charge of the decompression tank. He used it a dozen times a month for tests and experiments. Yet when he gave his instructions, his voice was labored in strength. Some genius in Washington sent this thing down without any covering instructions. But it has to be opened in a hurry in a thin atmosphere. I'd like you to stay on the intercom for a while in case it blows up in my face or something. He tried to laugh, but all that came out was a croak. The attendant nodded indifferently, then helped force her into the helmet of his pressure suit. He climbed up the steps into the chamber, pulling the airtight door shut behind him. He placed a box on the desk in front of the instrument panel, then turned back to push the door clamps into place. For the first time in the hundreds of hours he'd spent in the tank, he knew the meaning of claustrophobia. Mechanically, he plugged in his intercom and airlines. Went through the other routine checks before ass sent. Tested communications with the lab attendant, then flicked the exhaust motor switch. Now there was little to do except wait. He stared at the box. In the artificial light it seemed full of hidden menace. A knowing aliveness of its own. Forster shrugged his shoulders impatiently as though to throw off the big blanket of uneasiness that was settling around him. So somebody had forgotten to send a covering message with the container. Or else it had been mislaid. That could happen. Although with security routine as strict as it was, the possibility was remote. All the same it could happen. After all, what other explanation was there? What was it he was afraid of? There was something about it. He glanced at the altimeter. The needle showed only 10,000 feet and seemed to be crawling around the dial. He resolved not to look at it for three minutes by the clock on the panel. When he checked the altimeter again, it registered just over 30,000 feet. Not even half way yet. As the pressure on the tank decreased, he began to be conscious of the need for reverse breathing. And he concentrated on using his tongue to check the flow of air into his lungs. Then used the thoracic muscles to exhale against the higher pressure inside the suit. Time seemed to be passing in microseconds. 25,000 feet, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000. At 62,500, he gently tested the cover of the container again. It lifted. As the altimeter needle flickered on the 65,000 foot mark, he cut the exhaust motor and picked up the box. The cover slipped off easily. His feeling of anticlimax was almost ludicious. As he looked in, all the box contained was a flattened roll of some grayish material. He took it out. Despite his comparative bulk, it was feather light. It had the appearance of metal, but was as porous and pliable as a good grade of bond paper. He could not feel his texture through his heavy gloves. He took a good look. It was new all right. No doubt worse didn't want some test run on it. Although without covering instructions and data, this trip was wasted. But some heads would roll when he reported back on the way the container had been shipped in. He started to unroll the material to get a better look at it. Then he saw that it was covered with cramped, closely spaced handwriting in a purple ink. Handwriting that was elusively familiar. Then he read the words written in neat capitals at the top. The name of the man with a familiar handwriting. And fear came back, clamped cold fingers around his throat. James Rodden Bentley. Dear Dick, the writing went on. Take a large, economy-sized grip on yourself. I know this is going to sound like a voice from the dead, but I'm very much alive and kicking. In the best of health, in fact. The writing blurred, and instinctively Forster put his fist up to rub his eyes. Only to meet the hard plastic of his helmet visor. James Rodden Bentley. It was January 18, 1951, three years ago. And a jagged line of the Australian coast stretched like a small-scale map to the black curve of the horizon. From the converted bomber that was his flying lab, Forster could see the other American observation plane cruising on a parallel course, about half a mile away. And beyond it, downwind, the fringe of the bellowing cloud dome of the super-secret British thermonuclear shock. Then suddenly, Bentley's voice from the other plane was crackling over the earphones, sharp and urgent. Our geigers and scantilometers are going crazy. We're getting out of here. There's something coming inside. A light. Silence. Forster had washed in helpless horror as the other ship dipped a silver wing, then nose down ever so slowly. It seemed down, down, in a dive that seemed to take hours as Forster's plane tracked it. Ending in a tiny splice like a pebble being thrown into a pond. Then the grimly beautiful iridescence of oil and gasoline spreading across the glassy waters of the time or sea. No parachutes had opened on the long journey down. An Australian Airsea Rescue Launch and helicopter were at the scene of the crash in minutes. But neither bodies nor survivors had been found, then or later. Everything okay, Dr. Forster? Yes, he said hoarsely. Yes, everything's okay, just routine. Forster focused his eyes on the writing again. There was no doubt at all that it was Bentley's. They had roomed and studied together for four years at MIT. And then there had been a couple of years post-graduate work after that. During all that time, they had used each other's notes constantly. But Bentley was dead. Forster read on stun. First, you want to know what happened over the time or sea after the shot. But very simply, I, the rest of the technicians and the crew of the B-29, were trans shipped to another vehicle. Without any damage to ourselves. Hal, I'm not allowed to explain at this stage. Actually, they only wanted me, but it wasn't feasible to collect me and leave the rest behind so they're all here safe and well. Who are they and where am I? The second question I can't answer. Not allowed to. Bentley, roughly translated, are the shining ones. Which doesn't tell you anything, of course. Briefly, there are a couple of light years ahead of Earth at evolution, mentally, morally, and physically. Although I use the last word loosely. Too bad that English is a commercial language. It's so hard to discuss really abstract ideas. Why am I here? The whole reason for this message is wrapped up in the answer to that. As you probably know, Project Longfall, which I was heading up, was delayed about a year due to my removal. That was a sole purpose. Although I and the rest of us are getting special instruction to keep us occupied. About the same time, they also took several other key people from Britain, Russia, and the United States. Others were already here. The idea then was delay. To delay more test shots of atomic weapons. In the hope that east and west would come to some agreement. Now, because of the growing volume of tests and the critical tension which prevails, delay will no longer suffice. And far more drastic steps are to be taken. I wish you could be here for only a few minutes to see what happens after a multi-megaton thermonuclear test shot is set off on earth. I can't describe it in terms which would have any relation to your present knowledge of physics. All I can say is that life here is intimately bound up with the higher laws of electromagnetism. Which at present are only being guessed at on your level. It's not the radioactivity which you know as such which causes a problem. There are neutralizing devices throughout the planetary system to take care of that. The damage is caused by an ultra, ultra short wave radiation. Which not even the most sensitive scintillometer you have can pick up. A very subtle byproduct of every chain reaction. It doesn't have too much immediate effect on the lower forms of life, including human beings, if you pardon the expression. But here it causes a gossily carnage. So gossily it sickens me even to think about it for a second. The incredible thing is that the people here could stop earth from firing another shot if they wish to. And at 24 hours notice. But their philosophy is totally opposed to force. Even when it means their own destruction. That would give you an idea of the kind of people they are. Here they say that Einstein was on the fringe of discovering the theory involved when he died. But was having trouble with the mathematics. Remember how Einstein always complained that he was really a poor mathematician? But with atomic warfare threatening to break out on earth at any minute, they have got to do something. This is what they plan to do. This is what they are going to do. Starting within a few hours after you receive this message, a mass removal of key scientists will begin. They will take 20, 30, or 40 roughly equal numbers from both sides, every few hours as technical conditions allow. That will go on until east and west agree to drop this whole mad weapons race. It will be done quietly, peacefully. Nobody will be hurt except by a fluke. But if needs be, they will lift every major scientific brain off of the face of the earth to stop the present drift to disaster for everybody. There are no weapons, no devices that you have at present which can stop this plan going into effect. There it is. It's as simple as that. If you knew what you were really headed for, it would need no steps from here to make both sides on earth stop this horrible foolishness in a moment. The lesson of Mars is part of the orientation course here. I'm not on Mars. I'm using up space, so I'll go into note form for a bit. Martians had an atomic war. Forgot they had to breathe. Destroyed 60% of their atmosphere. Canals on Mars aren't. They're closely spaced lines of shafts leading to underground cities. Views from earth, telescopes. Shaft mouse appears dots which run together into lines due to epitome. British Royal Astronomical Society figured that out 30 years ago at least. Sea papers on their proceedings. Photographs here show monsters created by wholesale mutations. Lasted about four generations before reproduction failed. Now only vegetation on Mars. Saw pictures of last survivors. Horrible. I was ill for days after. Imagine having to take 40 separate breaths after making a single step. Getting back to the others here. A regular UN. Remember O'Connor and Walters in our class? They're here. Check. You'll find that O'Connor is detached from Oak Ridge and Walters from Aiken for spatial duty. That's central intelligence story for their disappearance. Remember those top German boys the Russians were supposed to have gotten to before the Allies could reach them after the Nazi collapse? They're here too. And Kamal Kapal and Pressure Kapun of the Russian Academy. Believe me. The style and the writing was a little less urgent again now. I've had all the intellectual stuffing knocked out of me here. We all have had that for that matter. We're supposed to be the cream of the crop. But imagine sitting down to instruction from people whose IQs start where yours leaves off. But what was really made most of us here feel pretty humble is a way they have demolished Earth's so-called scientific method and used the method itself to prove that it doesn't stand up. You know how we've always been taught to observe, collect data, then erect a theory to fit the data? A theory which has to be modified when other data came along which didn't fit into it? Here they work the opposite way they say. Know the fundamental principles governing the operation of the universe and then all the pieces fit together inside this final truth. I understand now why so many of the Oak Ridge boys turned to religion after they had been exposed to the electron microscope for a while. They realized they had gone as far as their scientific training would ever take them. Time and space are running out. I know all this must sound confused and incredible, Dick. I'm still confused myself. But I want you to think about what I've written. Then take the action you think best. I know it won't be easy for you. If you think this is some maniac's idea of a joke, you'll have proof very soon that it isn't. Because one of the people at your center is due to leave for here anytime now. You're wondering why I 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 set 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 could wish for yourself, Jim. Foster examined the sedentary. That was the way Bentley made the capital J. It looked almost like a T with just a faint hook at the bottom of the downstroke. Then the way it joined the, hey doc, are you going to tie up the tank all day? I've got work to do. Foster recognized the voice on the intercom as Tom Summerford. 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 his critical days. Practical joke, anger flooded over him. Yes, this was all in a cob 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, are 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 his anti-clockwise movement. He'd call a staff meeting right away. Find a culprit since 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 tripled with indignation, and using the name of a dead man, above all a scientist who had died in the interest 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 glove 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 chrome 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 Rodden, who couldn't possibly have survived that crash into the time or sea. From behind somebody was fumbling with his helmet connections. Then fresh air and familiar sounds rushed in on him as the helmet was taken away. Summerfors' thin, intelligent face was off to his. Doc, are you all right? He was asking sharply, for once there was no super-siliceness in his voice. I'm fine, Forster said heavily. I've got a headache. I stayed in here too long, I suppose. What's in the box, Summerford asked? The way he asked told Forster at once that the gunster knew nothing about it, or just some half-baked idea out of the Pentagon, some colonel trying to justify his existence. He clutched a box to him as though Summerford might try to take it away. The tank's all yours. He turned and clamored out of the chamber. He put the box down on the concrete floor and climbed out of the pressure suit, watching the box all the time. It seemed to gleam up at him as though it had eyes, full of 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 a scrambler, which connected directly with the Pentagon. General Morgensen, she said, heading 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 closed behind the girl. Forster, what did Dickens's happen to Preston? My driver met the train here this morning, but there was no sign of him. But the Pullman Porter checked him in last night and we found all his gear and papers in his compartment. He left here in plenty of time to catch the train general, Forster heard himself say, he took the train to get a nice rest. He realized how irrevolent the last statement was only after he had made it. The general was talking again. Important meeting with the Joint Chiefs. Whole briefing team was being held up. He reported it to the CIA as a precautionary measure. Forster could see the words on the roll, the roll that wasn't as though they were engraved on his eye retinas. As a beginning and to prove this isn't just a bit of hocus pocus, one of the people at your center is due to leave for here anytime now. General Forster broke in hoarsely. I've got some very important information which you must have. I'll leave by Hella Plain right away. He replaced the phone receiver in his cradle, wondering how convincing he would be able to make his story. At least, even if he didn't have Bentley'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 Morgenson was the newest product of the atomic age. Half soldier, half scientist, shrewd and perceptive, an intellectual giant. He listened carefully without comment or change of expression as Forster doggedly went through his story in chronographical order. Halfway through, he held up his hand and started pushing buttons on the console built into his desk. Within a few moments, men began filing into the room and sat down around Forster. Then the general motion to the clerk seated in the corner by a tape recorder. Gentlemen, listen to this playback, and then I'll have Dr. Forster here go on from there. What was left of Forster's confidence leaked away as he heard his own defiant voice filling the room again. It was like being awake in the middle of a weird dream. But when the tape recorder hissed into silence, he went on, staring straight ahead of him in quiet desperation. When he ended his story, there was silence for a moment. Everyone set motionless. Then Morgenson looked up and around. Well, gentlemen, Mr. Bates, CIA First. There was no longer a story told by one man. It had become a problem, a situation to be evaluated objectively. Well, sir, the only part of the thing I can comment on at this point is the stuff about O'Connor and Walters, that checks. They both disappeared without a trace. He was treated as a maximum security situation, and we did give out the story that they had been assigned to special duty. He glanced briefly at Forster. Up until now, we assumed that only the directors of Aiken and Oak Ridge knew the real situation outside of the Atomic Energy Commission and the CIA, of course. This represents a very serious leak, or his voice trailed away. Colonel Barfield, intelligence. The young colonel tried to sound flippant, unsuccessively. General, acting on the assumption the story is true, he would answer about 200 question marks in our files, maybe more, with brother study. The CIA man cleared his throat and raised a finger. For everybody's information, he said, a preliminary field check shows that Dr. Precious's train was stopped for 10 minutes by fog last night. The train's radar installation failed simultaneously. There wouldn't be anything odd about that, except the temperature at a time was about 65 degrees and the humidity was only 55%. Consider that, gentlemen. Theoretically, fog can't form under such conditions. Similar local fog occurred on the occasions when O'Connor and Walters were reported missing. The Met people couldn't explain that either. That's all. Morgansson set up straight as though he had suddenly made a decision. I don't think there's any value in further discussion at this point. You will all have transcripts of Dr. Forster's statement within a few minutes. According to that statement, we are due to lose a number of key men in the next few hours. I'll have Code 1 emergency precautions instituted at all research and status-based spots, and I think the chairman of the Joint Chief should hear from me right away. Colonel Barfield, I'd like you to ask Colonel Malinkowski, the Russian military attaché, to see me here not later than an hour from now. We'll have a full-dress conference here at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning with written evaluation reports in detail from all branches. Dr. Forster, consider yourself assigned to Pentagon duty as of now and until further notice. Forster set days until he realized that the others had left and a general was standing in front of him. Go get some rest, Forster, the other man said with surprising gentleness. You've had a rough day. As Forster slept that early summer night, weathermen across the world were marking their weather maps with thousands of observations. There were wind arrows, temperatures, barometric pressures and relative humidities. Then as they drew their isobars, a pattern for the northern hemisphere emerged. A giant high pressure system with the center in northern Oklahoma promised warm, fair weather across America. Another centered east of the Ural Mountains forecast clear weather for most of Europe and northern Asia. A low-pressure trough between dropping light warm rain on the green fields of England. But from Seattle to Worcester, D.C., from Stettin to Vostok, the sun was rising and setting in clear skies. Then, about 9 p.m. eastern standard time, a thickening mist descended over warm and drowsy southwest South Carolina. It was a fog that was not a fog, observers said yet afterwards, there was no damp, no coldness, just a steady loss of visibility until a man couldn't see his hand held up in front of his face, even though a bright moon was shining. Most of the reporting night shift at the Aiken Hydrogen Bomb plant never reached the tightly guarded gates. Those who did were not allowed in. At the same hour across the world at the newly built underground heavy water factory at Rossovisco Corsi, west of the southern tip of Lake Bog, the late morning sun casts deep shadows into the gaping holes in the hillside which marked the plant's interest and excess. Deep below, miles of filtration chambers hiss quietly as they prepared their daily concentrate. Then, without warning, the sun grew watery and pale, and within a few minutes a haze began to form at ground level. It grew thicker and thicker. The sun became a dim orange sphere, then was blotted out. Total darkness enveloped the area, and at the same hour the watchers met in the lonely circle of probing radar domes basing each other across the frozen waste of the Arctic. Cursed softly in Russian and English sweeping the upper air, first went blank, and then dark. There were shaken men at the meeting in General Morgensen's office the next morning. Over 30 key men gone from Aiken, Morgensen was saying. In terms of goals, it means that our 1960 program now cannot possibly be fulfilled until 1965. If the situation develops as forecast or statement, our entire nuclear weapons program will grind to a halt within two weeks. If we drain men from the civilian research, it will cause a total breakdown in the civilian atomic power production program. As you all know, the nation's entire economic expansion program is based on the availability of that power. Without it, industry will be forced into a deep freeze. That in turn means we might as well run up a white flag on their White House lawn. He smiled thinly. I would be a lot more worried than I am, except we had the first indications that the other side is in the same boat. I broke every regulation in the book last night when I talked to Malikowski. I took the liberty of warning him on the basis that there was nothing to lose. His reaction then was that it was all the Wall Street capitalist plot psychological warfare he called in. He phoned me an hour ago. Stounded as though he had just seen a ghost. He said the Russian ambassador had asked for an appointment with the secretary of state this morning. Forester will be wilted, and out of his depth in these global problems, let the flood of words pour over him. Then he realized that Morgensen was staring at him with a telephone receiver at his ear, and that the room was very quiet. Then Morgensen said respectfully, very well Mr. President, we'll have Dr. Forester there. Forester was relegated to the sidelines after his interview with a grave-faced man in the White House. Events were moving swiftly. Events which Forester could read behind the blurred black headlines of the newspapers. The Russian ambassador was closeted with the secretary of state for a record six-hour talk. Then the Soviet foreign minister took off for Washington at 30 minutes notice, and another record was made when he spent all day with the president. The Washington columnist began to hint of lessening testing in the Cold War, and the wire services carried reports of Russian radio broadcasts talking of a new era of cooperation between East and West. Only fragments of the broadcast could be monitored because radio reception had suddenly deteriorated right across the world. The reports could not be confirmed because Russia had cut all phone communication with the outside world. There was no possible mode of contact. Meanwhile, in the United States, television reception was blacking out for hours at a time, with no explanation available. The Civil Aeronautics Administration and the Air Force banned all plane movements under instrument flight conditions because radar navigational equipment had become so unreliable as to be useless. Newspapers across the nation were reporting sudden fogs of short duration which baffled local weathermen. The U.S. Weather Bureau in Washington refused to comment. For the first time in the history of an East-West conference, there was no haggling, no propaganda speeches. Hour after hour, even as the talks went on, the cream of the world's scientific brains quietly continued to disappear. It was revealed later. In three days, the major powers accomplished what they had failed to do in the previous 15 years. Just four days and 21 hours after Forrester had first talked to General Morgensen at the Pentagon, a treaty was signed ending world atomic weapons race. And it had all happened was over and done before the people of the globe could realize what was happening before they could rise in mass panic in the face of the incredible unknown. Almost immediately after the announcement, radio and radar communications suddenly returned to normal and reports of the mysterious fog ceased. Back at the center, as he walked down the floodlit ramp of the heliport towards his car, Forrester found himself thinking of the experimental work on the dream state which he had performed as a graduate student. He knew that a dream which might take half an hour to recount took only a fraction of a second to occur in the subconscious of the sleeper as he awoke. It was the same way with the events of the last five days. Already details were becoming fuzzy and blurred as though they had happened five years ago. He opened the car door and the soft glow of the dome light filled the interior. Then he saw again the neat rectangular discoloration on the seat covers and the jolt back to reality was almost a physical thing. Relief overwhelming flooded over him. He looked up into the indigo velvet sky. Above him was the enormous triangle formed by Dineb, Vega and Altar. Framed within it were a thousand other dimmer stars but all he knew, far, far bigger than the speck of solidified gases called Earth. Somewhere out there living, thinking, breathing was Bentley. Good night Forrester said out loud and somehow he was sure he wasn't talking into thin air. This concludes a reading of Warning from the Stars by Ron Cocking. The White Feather Hex This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Karen Wolfer The White Feather Hex by Don Peterson It all started with a Dutchman, a Pennsylvania Dutchman named Peter Scheinberger who towed a weather-beaten farm back in the hills. A strong, wiry man he was, his arms were knotted sections of solid hickory forming themselves into gnarled hands and twisted stubs of fingers. His furrowed brow, dried by the sun and cracked in a million places by the wind, was well as long rivulets of sweat. When he went forth in the fields behind his horse and plow, it wasn't long before his hair was plastered down firmly to his scalp. The salty water poured out of the deep rings in his ruddy neck and ran down his dark brown back. As he grew older, the skin peeled and grew loose. It hung on him in folds like the brittle hide of a rhino. It seemed that the more years he spent in his fields behind the plow horse, the more he slipped back into the timeless tradition of his forefathers. He was a proud descendant of a long line of staunch German settlers commonly known as the Pennsylvania Dutch. He grew up in his fundamental religious sect having never known any other environment. He was exposed to the sun, soil and wind from the early days of his childhood, and along with the elements, he also was exposed to the evils of the Hexary. The Hexary, or witchcraft, was something that was never doubted or scoffed at by his people. Then why should he, a good Pennsylvania Dutchman, doubt or scoff at such tradition? Perhaps had he moved away from his ancestral lands and had been cultured in modern communities, been educated and raised in other schools, he might have matured, but having no time for any other diversions that might be found on his rustic homestead, he grew up behind the plow horse tramping in the dark, stony pasture land, eking out his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania. Now, Peter's life could have gone unnoticed among these forgotten hills, except for the strange visit of Martin G. Meierstone, student of German history. It was a cold night when Peter met Meierstone. Peter had been sitting up rather late, pondering over an old yellowed book by the light of a kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls, sending shadows, scurrying back and forth, creating all types of weird shapes and designs. Peter huddled over the withered pages, every now and then glancing up at the walls to watch the fantastic games in the dark were playing. Then, putting his book aside for the night, he prepared to go to bed. He went over to the window to draw the shutters, stopping for an instant to peer out into the gloom along the stony path that ran from his house to an old footbridge about fifty feet away. Curling up from the gorge, mist seemed to play among the rotted planks. It rose and fell in great billowing blankets, sometimes concealing the structure from view. Peter was about to latch the shutter and leave when his attention was focused upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog, sort of fading in from nowhere. It made its way across the narrow span like some ghostly apparition. The mist enveloped his legs and clouded his features. Peter drew back in terror for the mere appearance of the man coming out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant brain with visions of death and hexery. As the figure drew closer, Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak. All the more ghostly it appeared with the cloak sailing behind him in the wind like some devil's banner. Peter just stood transfixed as he watched the stranger come up the winding road to his house. Slamming the shutter, he hurriedly fastened it and then turned to the door to bolt that also, too late. The door was thrown open, revealing a tall man clothed in black. His face was heaved in a wide grin, a grin that seemed to make fun of the grayish polar of his face and the ominous appearance of his wild garb. Before the man stepped inside, Peter made a mental image of the scene for it was to be firmly embedded in his mind so that he would never get the slightest detail for the rest of his life. The wind blowing about the fierce facade, tossing up the long strands of hair, the massive veined hand that clutched the wrought iron thumb latch and the way that the lamp struck his face, highlighting the thin, ridged nose and high cheekbones. Peter Scheinberger, a. The man spoke in perfect German. Peter Scheinberger, the last of your clan here in America, it was several seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage to answer him. Drawing back slowly, he braced himself against the table and in a thick, guttural German asked, Who are you? The stranger shut the door and drew the bolt. He crossed the room and with an air of one who was accustomed to having his own way wherever he went, scanned the shelves of Peter's larder with a practiced eye. Peter watched him closely as he drew down a bottle of wine, broke the neck against the beam above him and settled down in Peter's easy chair. He poured a glass full and shoved it across the table toward the anxious Peter and then poured another glass for himself. Meierstone, the stranger finally answered, Martin G. Meierstone. Then draining his glass, he added, student of German history. All this was beyond Peter's comprehension. No one ever had the audacity to walk into his house and help himself to whatever he wanted. It was indeed unheard of in his tiny social world. Well, what are you staring at? Meierstone boomed out. Take my cloak, please. Then be seated. We'll talk. Taking the cloak and draping it over a wooden peg in the wall, Peter moved cautiously around the foreboding character that monopolized his small house. Carefully seating himself opposite the man, he moved the table so that it set between them as a protective barrier. I'll make myself clear to you, Meierstone explained, for I want my stay to be as brief as possible. He poured himself another glass of wine, then settled back in the chair, half closing his eyes. You see, you might say, of German history or folklore. I am in the process of writing a collective history of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk, their habits, beliefs, and he broke off for an instant as he leaned forward across the table, staring into the frightened eyes of Peter and their superstitions. Shifting his chair around in order to get benefit from the heat of the fireplace, Meierstone went on. Now I went fax, Scheinberger. Authentic fax. I am prepared to pay you well for your trouble, but I insist on information that is backed up with sound, accurate truth. Peter became more relaxed, but still slightly uneasy. He didn't like the attitude of this man, Meierstone. He was too sure of himself, altogether too cocky. But then, on the other hand, he had said they would be a financial gain from any business that he could transact with him. Money was something that Peter knew he needed in order to keep his farm going, and any income, however small it may be, would be welcomed gratefully. Yes, he decided that he had better endure the rudeness of this man. For a few seconds, however, the tall stranger seemed to lose all of his cockiness, and a somber look crept over his jovial features. Have you ever heard of the hex of the white feather? Peter thought a moment before he replied, Yes, I have heard of it. Then nervously, he fingered his glass of wine that he had not as yet touched. Raising it up to his lips, he sipped it slowly as he stared at Meierstone over the rim of the glass. Yes, I have heard of it, he repeated. Good, good, you have heard of it. Now, you will tell me about it, of course. I want to know all about it. How it is practiced, the results, and so forth. Is that why you came here? Only to learn of the white feather hex? Meierstone climbed to his feet and paced the room. Yes, he said. Peter noted a sad tone in his voice, and he waited for him to say more. Yes, Meierstone continued, I have, like you, heard of the hex of the white feather. I have traced it down to several families, but none could tell me anything about it that was factual. Half of the stupid fools made up stories as they went along. Some concocting the biggest bunch of ass-9 tales that I've ever heard. But you, Peter, are a descendant of the white feather hex. I know for a fact that Otto Scheinberger practiced the white feather hex and passed the power on down to your father. From there, it stopped. However, there must be some record of it in your family. You are in possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't you? I have several of his books, some of them I have read. Well, anything about the hex? Yes, answered Peter. I read about that which you mentioned. Splendid, now we are getting somewhere. Can you find me the book that tells of it? Peter finished drinking his wine and setting the glass upon the table. He slowly rose and faced Meierstone with a look of superiority playing about his rustic features. No, I am afraid not. You see, I have burned the book. Meierstone's face went white. You burned it? Yes, said Peter. I don't wish to have anything to do with such black magic. It is better burned. But you must remember the hex. Although the book is destroyed, you still have the information in your head, nine. I could never forget it if I wanted to, replied Peter reluctantly. If I burned my memory also, it would be better. Meierstone went back to the fireplace and placed several chunks of wood on the blaze. A bright orange glow leaped out from the hearth and danced mockingly over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls and the shadows cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim specter he rose up towering above the little Dutchman. Peter had only to look into his eyes to see the imperative request that lingered behind the hollowed sockets. Throughout the remainder of the night Peter, almost in spite of himself, wracked his brain to bring back to mind everything that was mentioned in the book about the hex of the white feather. The idea was clear enough, but the minute details, the infinite possibilities for mistake and the exacting specifications concerning the experiment were blurred in his memory. He knew that with time he could bring back everything that he had read, but it would take deep concentration and perhaps many days of trial and error to determine the right path that they must follow in order to have success. Meierstone, realizing that any distraction would break Peter's train of thought, sat quietly in the corner finishing off the Dutchman's supply of wine. He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes and it seemed that his compelling stare was the only force that could drive the frightened Peter on. Every so often, Peter would glance up and see Meierstone leaning back in the corner, half concealed by the deep shadows. Only his partially opened eyes could be seen flickering in the fiery glow of the hearth. Peter, with his large knotted hands, worked the twisted fingers through his hair and tried to bring back to mind the evil recipe. The glow from the fireplace gradually died down to make room for the streams of morning dawn. Peter blinked sleepily and got up to stretch a bit. Outside, the dull morning light worked its way over Peter's farm. Clouds of mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridge and creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched the heavy, oaken door and went outside to the outbuildings. Meanwhile, Meierstone had started a fire in the stove and was placing slabs of bacon in the pan. Nothing like a good old-fashioned peasant's breakfast he laughed as Peter came in the door so you brought a goat, eh? He noticed. Are you figuring on starting in soon? Peter set a small kid on the floor and watched it scamper about the room looking for an exit. Yes, we might as well. I don't like this business at all. I wish to get it over with as soon as possible and Peter eyed Meierstone squarely. I expect to be paid well for my trouble. He was trying to make himself believe that that was his only reason for complying with Meierstone's demands. Actually, he was not so sure. As the heat of the noonday sun blasted down on their backs, Meierstone watched Peter pass a feather freshly plucked from a white leg horn under the nose of the bleeding kid. Meierstone listened carefully to what Peter was telling him. The breath of the victim had to be spread over the feather before anything further could be done. Tie him, commanded Peter. Meierstone held the goat by the scruff of his neck and fastened a halter about him. The other end was secured to a stake allowing the kid to run about in a circle of ten feet or so in diameter. We will leave him for a while, said Peter as he walked back to the kitchen. Meierstone followed in the Dutchman's footsteps, and when they were inside he listened intently as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant over the feather. The chant is easy enough to learn, Peter assured him. You will master it quickly. I understand so far, Meierstone said. Then that is all, Peter finished, except that you can hang the feather up and watch it grow red. Yes, Peter explained. That is the only way you can tell if the hex has worked. Peter went to a chest at the foot of his bed and drew out a small box of sewing utensils. He broke off a piece of black thread and replaced the box in the chest. Now I'll show you what I mean. Peter spoke wearily as he tied the feather with the thread and suspended it from one of the rafters in the room. Just sit and watch. It was not many minutes before a light red tint crept up the feather's quill, spreading slowly outwards toward the fringed edges. Deeper and deeper grew the intensity of the color until it reached a pure blood red. Hurry outside, cried Peter. You can see the goat in its last seconds of life. Meierstone hurried after the Dutchman. Jerking at the halter, the goat bleated in agony, prancing up and down frantically. Its eyes grew horribly bloodshot and finally closed. With a feeble, choking sigh, the animal dropped over on its side, its legs still twitching spesmodically. Meierstone bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now wet with perspiration. Nothing can be done for the beast? No, Peter looked on with a touch of pity in his eyes. Nothing can be done once the feather has turned red. As if the death of the kid was their cue, masses of thick thunderheads turned over with a deep, rumbling thunder. The sky became crystal clear and a greenish glow could be seen working its way across the horizon. The sky darkened as a glistening thunderhead now taking on an ominous coloring, worn the farmers of the impending storm. It was later that evening, rain drummed against the slate roof of Peter's house and reverberated through the rooms to where Meierstone and the Dutchman sat by the fire in silence. Meierstone broke the still atmosphere by putting forth a question that Peter somehow knew would be coming sooner or later. I wonder how the Hex would react on a human being. Peter hoped to end the topic by answering him quickly and not beating around the bush trying to evade the question. It would kill him eventually, maybe not so quick as a goat but it would kill him. What do you mean not as quickly as a goat? Do you think it would take more time on a human? Perhaps I have heard of cases in which once it was started, dragged on for many days. I see. Meierstone stacked back again thinking to himself. Peter didn't like this. He wanted to get rid of Meierstone. Well, you have your information. I showed you how the Hex works. So why not pay me and leave? Meierstone got up and laughed in the Dutchman's face. Crossing to the larder, cracking the neck on the beam above, just as he had done the night before. A wave of apprehension overcame Peter as he realized the old flip attitude of Meierstone was coming back. That meant definite trouble and Peter began to fear the consequences. So why not pay me and leave? He again ventured. Or do you want something else? Peter knew that he didn't need to ask that last question for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing about in Meierstone's head. Yes, I just told you what I wanted. I want to see the Hex on a human before I go. Why you have your information? Why do you want to see it work on a man? My stupid little peasant friend. Do I look like a student of history? For the first time Peter actually looked at Meierstone and saw him for what he was. Of course he couldn't be a student. No student would act as he did or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as he was about to voice a reply. Ha! Martin G. Meierstone. Student of history. Student of German history. No, my little oxen friend. I am no more a student of history than you are. But I need the Hex for other reasons which do not concern you. Then as if he were contemplating a great new joke he continued. But on the other hand maybe the future of the white feather hex does concern you. Meierstone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows. But somehow Peter seemed not to notice. Somewhat later Meierstone stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of his host. Peter had been over 24 hours now without sleep and although the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight off the drowsiness that overcame him the recent excitement of the day had finally taken its toll. Lightning struck nearby followed with an ear-splitting blast that shook the house to its rocky foundations. Pieces of slate flew off the roof and were carried away into the night. The rain poured down in a great deluge blurring the window making it impossible to see in or out. Meierstone held out a glistening white feather in his long spidery fingers. He placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and watched the delicate edges riffle on the Dutchman's breath. Crossing to the table he leaned over the white fluff and poured German incantation over it. How it glistened in the firelight. He bent closer and closer as he whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him his breath ruffling the feather playing about in the fringe softness. He hung up the feather by a thread and watched it hop back and forth in the center of the room. Peter awakened and saw Meierstone sitting by the fire noting every movement of the feather. What are you doing, eh? Meierstone swung around and glared at the bleary-eyed Dutchman. Sit down, he commanded. Sit down and watch the feather turn red. Peter didn't need to be told that it was his feather. He knew by the merciless eyes of Meierstone that everything was over. So you were determined to find out what would happen if the hex were tried on a man? Peter was surprised at how easily he took his fate. There was no need of excitement. This was his end and there was no changing it. Yes, I had to know for I can't leave until I have a complete record of all the results. Meierstone certainly was not cocky now. He looked almost ashamed of himself as he sat there nervously watching a man's fate swing by a silken thread. I'm sorry, Peter, my friend, but that is how it must be. You are a stepping stone to a glorious reckoning that will soon take place. The hex of the white feather I can hardly believe that I have at last tracked it down. And you, Peter, are the last witness, the last link in the chain of those who know the secret and how can it better end than by you becoming a part of the secret. Peter realized he had not much longer to live and nothing he could do to Meierstone would change his fate. Perhaps he could save others, though. What is this glorious reckoning you were speaking about? As soon as I see how your case ends, I'll be able to go ahead and release my vengeance on those stupid bungling fools who have thwarted my progress in the black arts. In the name of humanity, no less. In that case, exclaimed Peter, I won't let myself be a foothold for your damned work. It is of the devil, and I'll have no part of it. Shut up, fool. You are a part of it already. Not if my body is destroyed before you can get hold of it. Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and slipped out the door into the storm. Meierstone jumped up after him, but it was too late. He appeared out into the raging tempest making out the figure of Peter struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak about him and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face, blinding him momentarily and before he could see clearly a dark mass pounded by swift hooves spattering mud all over him. He rode sped Peter on the horse down the road and towards the footbridge. Meierstone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollow staccato of horses hooves on the planks for an instant followed by a splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural cry pierced the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the seething death awaiting them. Cursing savagely, Meierstone trudged back through the rain to the house. He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There was one more bottle on the shelf. He smashed the neck and poured a glass. If one could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into his wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spread over Meierstone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who was the hero's part and saved other lives by ending his own made Meierstone fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died. The hex had worked a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now he certainly would be delayed in his progress for he had counted on examining the body for any traces left that would suggest something out of the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned that the hex at least worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over the rocks would be enough proof on that score. Meierstone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placed the glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised the wine to a drinking position it blocked his view of the room. As he slowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view. The ceiling first and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hanging from the ceiling and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass the thread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able to see the end of the line. Meierstone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread for on the end of it was a pure white feather. In an instant Meierstone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter's death at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely plunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would have long since been read. Therefore the tragedy was no more than an accident and Meierstone's hands were innocent of the Dutchman's blood. That realization, of course, didn't bother him. For he was not concerned he was responsible for Peter's death but he was genuinely worried in the failure of the hex. He wondered if he had done something wrong. If he had, the last link that could have corrected him was broken. From here on in he was on his own. He calmed himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he had done to see if he couldn't have found some margin in which error he remembered how carefully he had bent over the feather reciting the exact words taught him by Peter. He especially remembered that part of the hex for hadn't the feather been ruffled by his breath when he spoke? Gradually the truth began to dawn on Meierstone. His own breath must have released Peter from the hex. The last person's breath that touched the feather would feel the sting of power. Meierstone sat back dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig. What ghastly horror was he in for? Would he die quickly like the goat? Or would his death be prolonged over a period of days like Peter had suggested? He gripped himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses. There must be a way out of the predicament. But Peter said that as soon as Peter turned him back. Ah, there's the answer. The feather is still white. There's still a chance. Meierstone grabbed his cloak and raced for the door. He must get an animal, another goat perhaps, and expose the feather to its breath. He must hurry lest the spell will start working. The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress. But he struggled on through the storm. It was so black outside that he could hardly make out the buildings. All at once he saw the barn looming ahead of him. Which door? Every second counted. He would try the first one he came to. Wait, what's this holding his cloak? Meierstone turned and fumbled with some barbed wire fencing. It had snagged him in the dark and he soon became hopelessly entangled in it. Crying and shrieking he broke from his shoulders and ran on in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and sprawled in the barn headfirst. On his hands and knees he scurried across the mealy floor to the goat stall. The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in drunkenly, grabbing about in the dark from one of them. Catching one by the hind leg he groped his way out again. Thrust in his shoulders forward he slid through the gripping mud tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand. His leg left numb from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire and a trickle of blood was running down his shins. Without thinking he reached down to rub the wound but quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that horrible sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the flesh he saw? He couldn't see in the rain but his leg told him there was something hairy almost bristly. He ran on towards the house stumbling in the treacherous mud. Once he fell completely down in the slime. Wiping the dripping earth from his face he was told again that something was wrong. His cheeks verified his shins story of a rough jagged caress. Holding his hand in front of his face he saw amidst a flash of lightning black claw bristling with long ragged hairs. Screaming hysterically he dropped the kid and fell forward into the door of the house. The latch gave way with his weight and he tumbled into the cottage. Dancing madly on the end of a thread was a blood red feather. End of The White Feather Hex recorded by Karen Wolfer January 24th, 2008.