The letters had to be large; he was limited in space to the fore part of his body; involved argument was impossible. He was limited to a fairly simple warning. If he had been quite right in his mind, perhaps be would have been able to devise a more cleverly worded warning-but then he was not.
In time, he had covered his chest and belly with cicatrix tattooing worthy of a bushman chief. He was thin by then and of an unhealthy color; the welts stood out plainly.
His body was found floating in the Pacific, by Portuguese fishermen who could not read the message, but who turned it in to the harbor police of Honolulu. They, in turn, photographed the body, fingerprinted it, and disposed of it. The fingerprints were checked in Washington, and William Eisenberg, scientist, fellow of many distinguished societies, and high type of homo sapiens, was officially dead for the second time, with a new mystery attached to his name.
The cumbersome course of official correspondence unwound itself and the record of his reappearance reached the desk of Captain Blake, at a port in the South Atlantic. Photographs of the body were attached to the record, along with a short official letter telling the captain that, in view of his connection with the case, it was being provided for his information and recommendation.
Captain Blake looked at the photographs for the dozenth time. The message told in scar tissue was plain enough:
"BEWARE-CREATION TOOK EIGHT DAYS."
But what did it mean?
Of one thing he was sure-Eisenberg had not had those scars on his body when he disappeared from the Mahan. The man had lived for a considerable period after he was grabbed up by the fireball-that was certain. And he had learned something. What? The reference to the first chapter of Genesis did not escape him; it was not such as to be useful.
He turned to his desk and resumed making a draft in painful longhand of his- report to the bureau. "-the message in scar tissue adds to the mystery, rather than clarifying it. I am now forced to the opinion that the Pillars and the-La-Grange fireballs are connected in some way. The patrol around the Pillars should not be relaxed. If new opportunities or methods for investigating the nature of the Pillars should develop, they should be pursued thoroughly. I regret to say that I have nothing of the sort to suggest-"
He got up from his desk and walked to a small aquarium supported by gimbals from the inboard bulkhead, and stirred up the two goldfish therein with a forefinger. Noticing the level of the water, he turned to the pantry door. "Johnson, you've filled this bowl too full again. Pat's trying to jump out again!"
"I'll fix it, captain." The steward came out of the pantry with a small pan. ("Don't know why the Old Man keeps these tarnation fish. He ain't interested in 'em-that's certain.") Aloud he added: "That Pat fish don't want to stay in there, captain. Always trying to jump out. And he don't like me, captain."
"What's that?" Captain Blake's thoughts had already left the fish; he was worrying over the mystery again.
"I say that fish don't like me, captain. Tries to bite my finger every time I clean out the bowl"
"Don't be silly, Johnson."
Project Nightmare
"Four's your point. Roll ‘em!"
"Anybody want a side bet on double deuces?"
No one answered; the old soldier rattled dice in a glass, pitched them against the washroom wall. One turned up a deuce; the other spun. Somebody yelled, "It's going to five! Come, Phoebe!"
It stopped—a two. The old soldier said, "I told you not to play with me. Anybody want cigarette money?"
"Pick it up, Pop. We don't—oh, oh! ‘Tenshun/"
In the door stood a civilian, a colonel, and a captain. The civilian said, "Give the money back, Two-Gun."
"Okay, Prof." The old soldier extracted two singles. "That much is mine."
"Stop!" objected the captain. "I'll impound that for evidence. Now, you men—"
The colonel stopped him. "Mick. Forget that you're adjutant. Private Andrews, come along." He went out; the others followed. They hurried through the enlisted men's club, out into desert sunshine and across the quadrangle.
The civilian said, "Two-Gun, what the deuce!"
"Shucks, Prof, I was just practicing."
"Why don't you practice against Grandma Wilkins?"
The soldier snorted. "Do I look silly?"
The colonel put in, "You're keeping a crowd of generals and V.I.P.s waiting. That isn't bright."
"Colonel Hammond, I was told to wait in the club."
"But not in its washroom. Step it up!"
They went inside headquarters to a hail where guards checked their passes before letting them in. A civilian was speaking: "—and that's the story of the history-making experiments at Duke University. Doctor Reynolds is back; he will conduct the demonstrations."
The officers sat down In the rear, Dr. Reynolds went to the speaker's table. Private Andrews sat down with a group set apart from the high brass and distinguished civilians of the audience. A character who looked like a professional gambler—and was—sat next to two beautiful redheads, identical twins. A fourteen-year-old Negro boy slumped in the next chair; he seemed asleep. Beyond him a most wide-awake person, Mrs. Anna Wilkins, tatted and looked around. In the second row were college students and a drab middle-aged man.
The table held a chuck-a-luck cage, packs of cards, scratch pads, a Geiger counter, a lead carrying case. Reynolds leaned on it and said, "Extra-Sensory Perception, or E.S.P., is a tag for little-known phenomena—telepathy, clairvoyance, clairaudience, precognition, telekinesis. They exist; we can measure them; we know that some people are thus gifted. But we don't know how they work. The British, in India during World War One, found that secrets were being stolen by telepathy." Seeing doubt in their faces Reynolds added, "It is conceivable that a spy five hundred miles away is now ‘listening in'—and picking your brains of top-secret data."
Doubt was more evident. A four-star Air Force general said, "One moment, Doctor—if true, what can we do to stop it?"
"Nothing."
"That's no answer. A lead-lined room?"
"We've tried that, General. No effect."
"Jamming with high frequencies? Or whatever ‘brain waves' are?"
"Possibly, though I doubt it. If E.S.P. becomes militarily important you may have to operate with all facts known. Back to our program: These ladies and gentlemen are powerfully gifted in telekinesis, the ability to control matter at a distance. Tomorrow's experiment may not succeed, but we hope to convince the doubting Thomases"—he smiled at a man in the rear—"that it is worth trying."
The man he looked at stood up. "General Hanby!"
An Army major general looked around. "Yes, Doctor Withers?"
"I asked to be excused. My desk is loaded with urgent work—and these games have nothing to do with me."
The commanding general started to assert himself; the four-star visitor put a hand on his sleeve. "Doctor Withers, my desk in Washington is piled high, ‘but I sin here because the President sent me. Will you please stay? I want a skeptical check on my judgment."
Withers sat down, still angry. Reynolds continued: ‘We will start with E.S.P. rather than telekinesis—which is a bit different, anyhow." He turned to one of the redheads. "Jane, will you come here?"