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Warning from the Stars

Cocking, Ron

Published: 1959

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://gutenberg.org

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It was a beautifully machined container, shaped like a two pound

chocolate candy box, the color and texture of lead. The cover fitted so ac-

curately 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

guards' office, he almost hit 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 Direct-

or, 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—no

express 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 it had

been welded on. But then, if the cover had been closed in the thin atmo-

sphere of 65,000 feet, it would be held on by the terrific pressure of 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 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 box 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 almost certainly be classified. Give me the book and I'll sign for it.

I'll phone you the file number when I find the covering instructions."

Forster was a nervous, over-conscientious 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

competent, secure.

He knew that around the center they contemptuously called him

"Lilliput." 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 wished fervently that

he was around to deal with this matter. Now that relations between East

and West had reached the 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 pat-

tern. But where the box had rested there was a dirty grey rectangular

patch that hadn't been there before.

Forster stared, then opened the door again. He rubbed his fingers over

the 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, fighting

down a sudden irrational wave of panic. He pushed the container to the

other end of the seat.

After all , he rationalized, plastics are notoriously unstable under certain

conditions. This is probably a new alloy Washington wants 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 had 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 its shelf.

Hurriedly, he went through his mail; there was nothing in it referring

to the package. Then he called the classified filing section; nobody there

knew anything about it either.

For

some

reason

couldn't

explain

himself,

wasn't

even

surprised.

He stared into the wastebasket. The clumsily etched instructions glin-

ted up at him: " To be opened as soon as possible… . "

picked

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 and strained.

"Some genius in Washington sent this thing down without any cover-

ing instructions, 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 up in

my face or something." He tried to laugh, but all that came out was a

croak.

The attendant nodded indifferently, then helped Forster into the hel-

met of his pressure suit. He climbed up the steps into the chamber,

pulling the airtight door shut behind him. He placed the 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 air lines, went through

the other routine checks before ascent, 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 arti-

ficial light it seemed full of hidden menace, a knowing aliveness of its

own… .

Forster shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as though to throw off the

vague 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.

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