Warning from the Stars

by Ron Cocking

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  _Don't believe in flying saucers? Neither do we, but that doesn't necessarily mean that there can be no other way for Earth to get its last...._

  WARNING FROM THE STARS

  By RON COCKING

  ILLUSTRATOR SUMMERS

  It was a beautifully machined container, shaped like a two poundchocolate candy box, the color and texture of lead. The cover fitted soaccurately that it was difficult to see where it met the lip on thebase.

  Yet when Forster lifted the container from the desk in the securityguards' office, he almost hit himself in the face with it, so light wasit.

  He read the words clumsily etched by hand into the top surface with somesharp instrument:

  TO BE OPENED ONLY BY: Dr. Richard Forster, Assistant Director, Air Force Special Research Center, Petersport, Md.

  CAUTION: Open not later than 24 hours after receipt.

  DO NOT OPEN in atmosphere less than equivalent of 65,000 feet above M.S.L.

  He turned the container over and over. It bore no other markings--noexpress label or stamps, no file or reference number, no return address.

  It was superbly machined, he saw.

  Tentatively he pulled at the container cover, it was as firm as if ithad been welded on. But then, if the cover had been closed in the thinatmosphere of 65,000 feet, it would be held on by the terrific pressureof a column of air twelve miles high.

  Forster looked up at the burly guard.

  "Who left this here?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine, sir." The man's voice was as close toinsolence as the difference in status would allow, and Forsterbristled.

  "I just clocked in an hour ago. There was a thick fog came on all of asudden, and there was a bit of confusion when we were changing over.They didn't say anything about the box when I relieved."

  "Fog?" Forster queried. "How could fog form on a warm morning likethis?"

  "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 thingmust almost certainly be classified. Give me the book and I'll sign forit. I'll phone you the file number when I find the coveringinstructions."

  * * * * *

  Forster was a nervous, over-conscientious little man, and his day wasalready ruined, because any departure from strict administrative routineworried and upset him. Only in his field of aviation medicine did hefeel competent, secure.

  He knew that around the center they contemptuously called him"Lilliput." The younger researchers were constantly trying to think upnew ways to play jokes on him, and annoy him.

  Crawley Preston, the research center's director and his chief, had beensummoned to Washington the night before. Forster wished fervently thathe was around to deal with this matter. Now that relations between Eastand West had reached the snapping point, the slightest deviation fromsecurity regulations usually meant a full-scale inquiry.

  He signed for the container, and carried it out to the car, stillseething impotently over the guard's insolence.

  He placed it beside him on the front seat of his car and drove up to thebuilding which housed part of the labs and also his office.

  He climbed out, then as he slammed the door he happened to glance intothe car again.

  The seat covers were made of plastic in a maroon and blue plaid pattern.But where the box had rested there was a dirty grey rectangular patchthat hadn't been there before.

  Forster stared, then opened the door again. He rubbed his fingers overthe discolored 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, fightingdown a sudden irrational wave of panic. He pushed the container to theother end of the seat.

  _After all_, he rationalized, _plastics are notoriously unstable undercertain conditions. This is probably a new alloy Washington wants testedfor 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 had restedthere was another discolored patch on the car seat covers.

  Holding it away from him, Forster hurried into the office, then dumpedthe box into a metal wastebasket. Then he went to a cabinet and pulledout a Geiger counter, carried it over to the wastebasket. As he pointedthe probe at the box the familiar slow clicking reassured him, andfeeling a little foolish he put the instrument back on its shelf.

  In his pressurized chamber, Forster read the startlingmessage.]

  Hurriedly, he went through his mail; there was nothing in it referringto the package. Then he called the classified filing section; nobodythere knew anything about it either.

  For some reason he couldn't explain to himself, he wasn't evensurprised.

  He stared into the wastebasket. The clumsily etched instructions glintedup 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 hetalked to the lab attendant in charge of the decompression tank. He usedit a dozen times a month for tests and experiments, yet when he gave hisinstructions his voice was labored and strained.

  "Some genius in Washington sent this thing down without any coveringinstructions, but it has to be opened in a hurry in a thin atmosphere.Er--I'd like you to stay on the intercom for a while in case it blows upin my face or something." He tried to laugh, but all that came out was acroak.

  The attendant nodded indifferently, then helped Forster into the helmetof his pressure suit. He climbed up the steps into the chamber, pullingthe airtight door shut behind him. He placed the box on the desk infront of the instrument panel, then turned back to push the door clampsinto place.

  For the first time in the hundreds of hours he'd spent in the tank, heknew the meaning of claustrophobia.

  Mechanically, he plugged in his intercom and air lines, went through theother routine checks before ascent, tested communications with the labattendant, then flicked the exhaust motor switch.

  Now there was little to do except wait. He stared at the box; in theartificial light it seemed full of hidden menace, a knowing aliveness ofits own....

  Forster shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as though to throw off thevague blanket of uneasiness that was settling around him. So somebodyhad forgotten to send a covering message with the container, or else ithad been mislaid--that could happen, although with security routine asstrict as it was, the possibility was remote. All the same, it couldhappen. After all, what other explanation was there? What was it he wasafraid of? There was something about it--

  He glanced at the altimeter. The needle showed only 10,000 feet, andseemed to be crawling around the dial. He resolved not to look at itfor three minutes by the clock on the panel.

  When he checked the altimeter again, it registered just over 30,000feet. Not even half way yet.

  As the pressure in the tank decreased, he began to be conscious of theneed for "reverse breathing"--and he concentrated on using his tongue tocheck the flow of air into his lungs, then using the thoracic muscles toexhale against the higher pressure inside the suit.

  Time seemed to be passing in micro-seconds ... 25,000 feet ... 30,000... 40,000 ... 50,000.

  At 62,500 feet he gently tested the cover of the container again; itlifted.

  As the altimeter needle flickered on the 65,000-foot mark, he cut theex
haust motor and picked up the box. The cover slipped off easily.

  His feeling of anticlimax was almost ludicrous. As he looked in, all thebox contained was a flattened roll of some greyish material.

  He took it out; despite its comparative bulk, it was feather-light. Ithad the appearance of metal, but was as porous and pliable as a goodgrade of bond paper. He could not feel its texture through his heavygloves. He took a good look.

  It was new all right--no doubt Washington wanted some tests 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 containerhad been shipped in.

  * * * * *

  He started to unroll the material to get a better look at it, then hesaw that it was covered with cramped, closely spaced handwriting in apurplish ink--handwriting that was elusively familiar.

  Then he read the words written in neat capitals at the top, the name ofthe man with the familiar handwriting, and fear came back, clamped coldfingers around his