ILLUSTRATOR SUMMERS
IT WAS a beautifully machinedcontainer, shaped like a twopound chocolate candy box, thecolor and texture of lead. Thecover fitted so accurately that itwas difficult to see where it metthe lip on the base.
Yet when Forster lifted thecontainer from the desk in thesecurity guards' office, he almosthit himself in the face with it,so light was it.
He read the words clumsilyetched by hand into the topsurface with some sharp 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 overand over. It bore no other markings—noexpress label or stamps,no file or reference number, noreturn address.
It was superbly machined, hesaw.
Tentatively he pulled at thecontainer cover, it was as firm asif it had been welded on. Butthen, if the cover had been closedin the thin atmosphere of 65,000feet, it would be held on by theterrific pressure of a column ofair twelve miles high.
Forster looked up at the burlyguard.
"Who left this here?"
"Your guess is as good asmine, sir." The man's voice wasas close to insolence as the differencein status would allow, andForster bristled.
"I just clocked in an hour ago.There was a thick fog came onall of a sudden, and there was abit of confusion when we werechanging over. They didn't sayanything about the box when Irelieved."
"Fog?" Forster queried. "Howcould fog form on a warm morninglike this?"
"You're the scientist, sir. Youtell me. Went as fast as it came."
"Well—it looks like verysloppy security. The contents ofthis thing must almost certainlybe classified. Give me the bookand I'll sign for it. I'll phone youthe file number when I find thecovering instructions."
Forster was a nervous, over-conscientiouslittle man, and hisday was already ruined, becauseany departure from strict administrativeroutine worried andupset him. Only in his field ofaviation medicine did he feelcompetent, secure.
He knew that around thecenter they contemptuously calledhim "Lilliput." The younger researcherswere constantly tryingto think up new ways to playjokes on him, and annoy him.
Crawley Preston, the researchcenter's director and his chief,had been summoned to Washingtonthe night before. Forsterwished fervently that he wasaround to deal with this matter.Now that relations between Eastand West had reached the snappingpoint, the slightest deviationfrom security regulations usuallymeant a full-scale inquiry.
He signed for the container,and carried it out to the car, stillseething impotently over theguard's insolence.
He placed it beside him on thefront seat of his car and droveup to the building which housedpart of the labs and also his office.
He climbed out, then as heslammed the door he happened toglance into the car again.
The seat covers were made ofplastic in a maroon and blue plaidpattern. But where the box hadrested there was a dirty grey rectangularpatch that hadn't beenthere before.
Forster stared, then openedthe door again. He rubbed hisfingers over the discolored spot;it felt no different than the restof the fabric. Then he placed thebox over the area—it fitted