THE ARTIFACT

                                             PHILIP E. HIGH

The place was a shambles, no doubt about that. A blood-stained saber lying in the middle of the carpet
was bad enough, but the killer had gone berserk. Limbs, hands pieces of torso, even fingers and toes had
been flung insanely about the room. Needless to say there was the hell of a lot of blood, much of it
splashed up the walls.

An elaborate attempt had been made to set fire to the place by setting fire to the kitchen. An erection of
cups, soup plates and jugs filled with spirits, whisky, brandy, and cleaning fluids should have started a
blaze capable of gutting the place in less than thirty minutes.

This aspect to me was the worst of all. This was not a single building, this was an apartment, one of eight
in the same block—entire families could have died as well.

Fortunately, in this case, the apartment had a damper that snuffed out the fire before it took hold.

Landlords and the owners of tenements often forget to mention they have installed dampers. The device,
ideal for snuffing out fires, is also able to detect the presence of human life before it comes into operation
but there have been notable cases when it has failed to work. A damper in operation is just as lethal as
the fire itself.

A damper, on detecting a fire, does a number of things: it drops concealed shutters over every window
and door and floods the place withNothreen . This is a newly discovered gas that destroys oxygen so
rapidly in an enclosed space that the fire is snuffed out in minutes.

It is not pleasant to dwell on the deaths of those the device failed to detect. Detective Inspector Ransome
looked round the room several times before he spoke. I had worked with him only a few weeks but he
was a brilliant detective and I respected him from the first but then, well, I had certain advantages.

His thin sardonic face turned in my direction and he gave me his twisted smile. “Any comments, constable
Barret?”

“No, Chief, no yet.”

“Very wise of you, boy, too easy to jump to conclusions but there's something about this set-up which
doesn't feel right.”

I agreed with him entirely but it was not, as yet, my place to say so. He and I got on very well outside of
work, drank a beer together, discussed sport but mainly music as we both loved the classics. At work
however, there was tension, not hostile, but tension nonetheless.

You see, I am the first ‘Sensitive’ to join the Police Department and I am on trial in it. I am that new
psychic guy they've just taken on. Fortunately I've been trained for it but I've taken a lot of stick,
Constable Weirdo, Magician Barret and “How's your bloody spirit guide today, old son?”

Ransome has been both kind and helpful but I can well understand him being ill at ease.

“Know who the tenant is—or was?” he asked.

“Yes, Chief, according to the lists he is an Ivan Berenof.”

Ransome went over to the visaphone. “I'll check him out.” He dialed a number and a face appeared in
the screen.

“Police Sector Nine—Oh, it's you, Chief. What can I do?”

“I want to know if you have anything on Ivan Berenof listed at this address.”

There was a brief pause then: “According to records here, sir, there's a list of offences as long as your
arm, and mine. Actually, sir, forty-four offences—but only one indictment. A smart Alec, Chief, with
brains; he got degrees at university. According to this, he specialized in fraud but was also a con artist.”

“Seems he made good money at it—this apartment is no attic.”

“One of three known, Chief, there may be more. No one seems to know when he arrived in this country
or where he comes from; nearest guess is mid-European.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, he had a car, wheel-less, of course, but not one of the hover jobs—one of the top flight
anti-gravs. Oh! And yes, a squad now searching below you say it's missing.”

Ransome hung up and turned towards me. “Right, looks like an open-and-shut but it isn't, even I see that.
Victim goes berserk and murders con-man—how do you feel about that?”

“I share your opinion, chief, just too easy.”

“But your opinion, man! You must have one.”

“My engagement as a sensitive does not permit me to presume, Chief. Procedure is I am only engaged as
a consultant.”

He scowled at me. “Oh for Christ's sake, can't we stop pussy-footing around this thing and get down to
facts?”

“Very well, Chief, but everything I say will strike you as irrelevant.”

“No matter, I flatter myself I'm open-minded: I'll hear you out.”

“Very well, Chief. There is a small table by the bay window over there. On it is a small vase. I suggest
you call in experts to remove it, experts with appropriate gear for the job. That vase should be treated
like a radioactive object, removed as such and inspected by experts.”

He scowled again, first at me then at the vase. “That little bronze colored thing?”

“Yes.”

“And you say it's radioactive?”

“I do not say it's radioactive as such, but it's giving offsomething . It's lessening slowly, but I'd prefer not
to touch it. I suggest an examination by experts.”

Ransome shrugged. “If you say so—anything else?”

“Yes, the remains of this body: that, too, should be thoroughly examined before being incinerated.”

He looked at me directly. “You sound very sure of yourself. What's the next move?”
“Only advice, Chief, is leave it to the experts. They'll probably have results by morning—you can move
on from there.”

Very early next morning, he had me up and dressed just after five.

Alone in his office, he said: “I have the findings, all of them, and the relevant departments are here. You
were correct: number one, the vase was giving off some form of radiation but not nuclear, they have no
idea what. Number two, and more disturbing, the substance of the vase defies analysis. They have no
idea what it is and can only conclude it's totally alien.”

Ransome paused and shuffled papers angrily around. “The report on the human remains is even more
disturbing. One hand was complete but the fingers had no prints! They had not been erased—they were
just perfectly smooth. The mangled body had no liver or spleen and there was nothing, absolutelynothing
inside the shattered skull.” He glared at me.

“What do you make of this, Barret—you must have ideas?”

“Well, chief, if the fire had taken place, from common sense alone, we should never have known or
suspected that the charred remains were not those of Berenof.”

Ransome nodded slowly. “And that is common sense alone, it has nothing to do with your faculties?”

“No, Chief.”

He nodded, frowning. “Going to be honest with you, boy, it's only fair, although I expect your
introduction here has been none too easy. This may hurt, mind you, but it's better you know the truth.
When the Police Authority tried to introduce you—and the idea that goes with you—forty-seven
precincts in the area turned you, and the idea down flat.

“I'll be frank, I took you on out of pity and a few other things. I felt you should be given a chance if
nothing else. I knew you'd put in twelve years training to do whatever it is you do and you ought to be
given the chance to use it. To me it looked as if you stood on the brink of redundancy otherwise.”

He paused then continued. “Now we come to the gritty bit. The word ‘sensitive’ means absolutely
nothing to me. I am just as ignorant and possibly, just as prejudiced as the precincts which turned you
down. I confess, frankly, that their misconceptions are mine. The Police Authority has not been exactly
open about your purpose in the force. What you are then, to me and the average mind, is a mixture of
clairvoyants, palmists, fortune tellers and aloof mystics.”

He paused again. “I have been honest with you, boy, I don't think it's asking too much to expect the
same in return.”

“True, Chief, but if I am to be absolutely honest, you must be prepared for some really drastic surgery. In
the first place, as far as I am concerned, nothing is ‘mystic'. All our technical advances would have been
regarded as mystic or magic a few hundred years ago. Secondly, speaking for myself, I do not even
pretended to be in communication with spirits from the next world or anywhere else. If spirit guides
surround me, they failed to make themselves known. In simple words: I am a psychic—everyone is
psychic. The majority is not aware of it and many, who deny it, unconsciously use it in their daily lives.
Very few in our present culture are taught of its existence and trained to use it.”

“Hang on, a moment, constable Barret—are you trying to tell me I'm psychic?”

“No, Chief, I'm not telling you anything, but I will ask you a question. How many times in your many
investigations have you acted on a hunch that paid off? How often have you questioned an apparently
innocent man andknew , straight away, that he was lying?”

Ransome turned uneasily away, knowing that the answer was very often.

“I have to admit that,” he acknowledged grudgingly.

“In short, Chief, you often acted on a hunch—and hunches are psychic.”

“Right, you've made your point, constable, but I'd like to hear more about you. Just how do you do
whatever it is you do? Without any psychiatric wrapping, please.”

“Well, Chief, as I have tried to explain, I don't have any spirit contacts. I am not clairvoyant, no spirit
guide whispers facts into my ear and I definitely don't have visions. Boiled down to basics, all I do isfeel
things. You, yourself, admitted when we entered that alleged murder scene, that it didn't feel right. To me,
needless to say, the feelings were much more powerful. The radiations from the supposed normal vase
were particularly strong. Again, the alleged body, apparently carved to pieces by a berserk, felt very near
the theatrical. The whole thing was a set-up which might have worked but for the damper.”

“There was no murder at all?”

“Not in my opinion, Chief, no.”

“Then the remains were not those of a certain mid-European con-man?”

“I am absolutely certain, Chief, that no one died in that room.”

Ransome looked at me directly. “You sound very sure of yourself, constable, and I am prepared to go
along with much of what you say but there's a hell of a lot of unfilled gaps. We found an almost complete
organic, human body. Just where the hell did it come from? In this part of the world all bodies are
cremated by law, no one has been buried for over a hundred years so the corpse was not dug up. Again
how the hell did he get it up there—any ideas?”

“Yes, Chief, but with respect, I'd like to keep it to myself until I get more confirmation. What I'm getting
now is, even to me, kind of bizarre.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. In any case, it seems to me in your business, you have something you can't
push.”

I thanked him both for his understanding and his patience but he brushed it aside. “Let's run along to the
science section and see what they've cooked up.”

I was shaken when I got there. In a few short days with a highly elusive subject they had unearthed more
about Berenof than he knew himself. What he ate and drank, all his con-techniques and the type of
woman he favored.

On top of all this, they had constructed a three-dimensional image which was standing under a light in the
show section. A tall, not unhandsome man of about forty, with well-cut features and dark, wavy hair.

“Any idea where he is?” enquired Ransome as we left the building.

“An inclination only, a map would help.”

Presented with it, I drew a circle. “I feel he's somewhere in that area.”

Ransome frowned at it. “Big, must take in a square K at least. It's well in to the suburbs but close to the
city limits with a main thoroughfare running right through it; a close rat-run that. On the other hand, he can
only move around at peak hours in the center of crowds. As a crook he must know that every building in
the city is sewn with micro-surveillance units that are now looking for his image. The units only want one
clear shot and they'll scream blue murder.”

I had to put a lid on his enthusiasm. “Sorry, Chief, but I have the feeling, only the feeling, mind you, that
it's not going to be that easy. Further, I feel that time is on his side.”

He frowned. “A right barrel of laughs you are.” Obviously he was beginning to trust me despite his
words. “We'll have to try and smoke him out, flood the area with spy-eyes for a start. A few house to
house searches might shift him; that sort of thing gets around like wild fire.”

Two days later a likeness was picked by a micro-unit. It was, Ransome admitted, only a likeness and not
an outright positive but it was enough to make a move. Our precinct, however, was not the only one to
do so.

When we arrived there were at least thirty armed men under the command of District Commander
Shering—not a man I cared for. He had a florid, petulant face and deep-set little button eyes. He always
bellowed his commands and was known locally as The Bull Frog.

I soon learned, from listening to immediate conversations, that with these men nothing had changed.
News from our sector had been ignored; as far as they were concerned Berenof had been done to death
and his affairs taken over by an almost exact double.

I watched as armed men encircled a derelict building that had once held furniture. It was a low,
discolored plastic building with four steps leading up to wide closed door. Apparently recognizable life
emanations were detectable on doors and surrounds.

An emanation is only detectable for thirty minutes, after which it fades. The wanted man must, therefore,
be in the building.

“Officer Krole! Officer Martel!” Shering's bellowing voice seemed to fill the entire street. “Enter building
and arrest suspect.”

I felt and knew at that moment exactly what was going to happen. I broke ranks and ran forward. “Stop!
It's a trap.”

Shering's bellow seemed almost to wash my warning away. “Place that idiot under restraint—now!”

A hand was clapped over my mouth, my arm was twisted behind me and jerked up my back with
unnecessary violence.

“See if your bloody spirit guide can get you out of this one,” said a voice in my ear.

I realized it was Bruck's voice, the man who jeered at me on every possible occasion but at the time it
didn't seem to matter.

I watched the two officers, weapons ready, mount the steps and push open the door.

There was a blue-white flash.

The first officer swirled back into the street as a cloud of ash. What remained of the second, rolled,
smoking, down the steps but was consumed by heat before it reached the street.
The hand was taken from my mouth and my arm released. When I turned no one, with exception of
Ransome, would face me. Their embarrassment was obvious and acute.

Shering was already climbing into his official car. He knew, as everyone present knew, that this was the
end. He would not be dismissed or even face a cut in salary but his active days in the force were over.
He had lost credibility and, after this incident, could never regain it. They would give him a civilian suit
and a desk job in administration. Many, faced with like circumstances preferred retirement on a reduced
pension.

As I walked to my own transport, someone overtook me.

“A moment, please.” It was Bruck, the man with the sneering comments who had viciously twisted my
arm.

He didn't speak, he was unable to look me in the face but he put his hand briefly on my shoulder. That
touch told me everything; it was an abject apology and a recognition of his bigotry.

I held out my hand and when we shook I knew I had made a friend for life.The atmosphere at work
changed also. I took, perhaps, twice the ribbing I had endured before, but now it was friendly and I
could reply in kind. I knew, of course, that I would always be known as Psychic Jim but that was a
nickname of affection and I was happy to live with it.

I did not have long to enjoy it. Ransome almost pushed me into the waiting staff car. “I thought you ought
to see this before forensic take it away for testing.”

Twenty minutes later he was leading me into the same building where the two officers had died.

At the back of the long room was a spiral stairway to a cramped office. Men in white parted rather
grudgingly to one side as we entered. They felt, I sensed, that we were intruding into their own speciality.

“Over here.” Ransome pointed. There was a small desk containing four drawers, one of which was open.

Ransome pointed again. There!”

I was a little shaken: in the center of the drawer, palm upward was an open human hand.

I bent closer, shocked, not by the gruesome find but the hand itself. It was a complete unit. It had not
been hacked or surgically removed from the parent arm. There was no blood, bare bone or trailing
tendons. Where the wound should have been was pink normal flesh, no scar tissue as if the object was a
natural thing and life in itself.

I had regained my composure by now. “May I touch it?”

“Now just a minute.” One of the white coats thrust forward. “You could be destroying valuable—”

Ransome cut the sentence short. “Your protocol is showing, Darcy. We are asking you nicely, or would
you like me to pull rank?”

White-coat backed down. “I don't suppose it will really do much harm.” Needless to say, the hand when
I felt it was as cold and rigid as stone, but it was still flesh.

“Learn anything?” Ransome's face was intent.

“Call it confirmation, but I don't think this is the time and place.”
We left with scowling faces behind our backs; forensic had been hoping for some sort of revelation.

Outside, Ransome said: “Well?” almost aggressively.

“Right, right, but I warned you earlier in this case that my findings might be bizarre. This proves that
conclusion—Berenof knows how to create organic life.”

“Oh come on!” Ransome's words were almost an explosion. “Barret, you cannot possibly expect me to
believe that.”

“I didn't expect you to believe it. You asked me a direct question and I've answered it in exactly the
same way.”

“But it's insane, man. It takes science a year to produce anything organic, such as a kidney and even that
is clinically dead. It has to be incorporated in a living body in order to function.”

“I know all the arguments, Chief, and I have a moderate knowledge of the human body, but I cannot
change my opinion.”

“But surely you must see—” He appeared to run out of words suddenly and stood there just staring at
me.

“I have a choice,” I said. “I have been developed and trained to trust my faculties. Experience has
proved to me that they are nearly always correct so what would you do in my position?”

“Sometimes there must be a mistake.”

“The only mistake which ever occurs is in interpretation. I might misunderstand what I feel. Not in this
case. I am absolutely clear.”

“But what would be thepoint ?”

“With respect, Chief, consider the matter on a purely criminal level. If a man could create his own
physical image he could commit a crime in New York yet furnish an unbreakable alibi that he was in
London at the time.”

“I regard the theory as utterly absurd but I follow you.” Ransome had recovered from his initial shock
and was thinking clearly again. “Barret, I don't like this at all because your wild theory has got me
thinking. Assume, just assume, mind you, that your theory is true. We do know that human parts have
been found and that fact is something I cannot dispute. On the other hand, I know damn well that the
average man can't make human parts unless, of course, he has help.” He stopped abruptly and glowered
at me.

“Right, Barret, I know you're way ahead of me but putting these facts together makes me go cold inside.
In comes an alien artifact from God knows where but it ends up in the possession of a well-known
con-man. Whereupon, the said con-man develops apparent magical powers in the construction of his
own double.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I started, so I'll finish. If there is an alien entity involved in this matter I'm
sure it did not confer magical powers on a prospering crook out of the goodness of its heart—if it has
one. The target shifts, Barret, from the human to something else. Any ideas about our next move?”

“Yes, I'd like ten minutes alone with that alien vase thing now that it's stopped radiating.”
The science department didn't like our intrusion but they had little choice, with all their equipment they
could only repeat it was an alien object, which was hardly informative.

When I took the object in my hands it was a job to hold on to it. My first reaction was not only cold fear,
but complete and utter revulsion. Here was an intelligence that had no knowledge of, and worse, could
not conceive of, the aspects of life which normal people regard as natural. Loyalty and compassion, to
quote two examples, were not emotions it had rejected. These were concepts that it had never known,
never considered and could not comprehend.

I, for my part, could not understand the means by which it had reached Earth. All I could get was an
impression of distortions and brain-wrenching gulfs. Perhaps it had arrived by space ship or oblique
travel though time/space. Whatever it was escaped my understanding.

I did know why it was here and that knowledge too was a numbing shock. For such an immense
intelligence to inhabit Earth for such limited ends was beyond my comprehension.

Countless books have been written about aliens seeking to conquer or dominate the Earth but this could
not have cared less. It was here only for one purpose, a surfeit of self-indulgence—it was here to eat.

Ransome took the information calmly, at first then his face paled.

“Eat what?” Then: “Don't answer that question, I can work out the answer for myself. Did you learn
anything about Berenof?”

“Only a little but I feel the alien has faculties for selecting the best subject available for its purpose. Having
done so, it provided that subject, with a technical device which altered the owners mental abilities beyond
imagination, In short—and you may not believe this—Berenof can now construct organic life by an effort
of will.”

“You mean he can make a bloody human being—oh, come on!” Ransome was flushed and slightly
breathless.

“Not human life, no. Call it pseudo-life. If it makes it more understandable, call it an organic robot.”

Ransome thought about it, frowning. “Creation by mind power? Many scientific journals have speculated
over that possibility over the past hundred years. I can, at least, accept the idea imaginatively. Sadly, I
can also see why. No doubt the alien thing has promised Berenof the wealth of the Earth in return for his
services, but in the long run it will eat him too. Any idea where it is?”

“Roughly but I need a map, but not one of those wall things. I need a printed map which I can put my
hands on and feel.”

He found one and I ran my fingers over it. “Around here.”

“A big area that, must be a square K at least. Can you tell me more about this alien if we find it—weapon
power, for example?”

“Yes I did get that, it has only one weapon and—cheer us all up—it only needs one. It can deflect
everything , thrown stone, spear or missile. A superbomb, for example, it could probably bounce into
the center of the nearest city.”

Ransome said: “Thanks,” wearily. “Let us face it, Barret, unless we can find some answers this is the end
not from our presumed alien but from ourselves. Sooner or later some mindless high official is going to
call in the army. A massed air attack, missiles, we'll lay waste a quarter of the Earth ourselves. Is there
anything more we can do?”

“There might be but you'll have to tread on a lot of corns and bang hard on some sacred doors to get it.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I want everything picked up and held by forensic and like departments known to have belonged to
Berenof. Handkerchiefs, tickets, programs, pens, notes on pieces of paper, everything.”

“I can try, of course, but why? All, and every one of those articles have been through every conceivable
test known. Fingerprints, breath analysis, sweat emanations, magno-pressures, digital photo-sessions etc,
etc. There can't be a single thing on those objects left to find.”

“Chief, you are raising the very barriers that they are going to raise. They can't find anything so no one
can.”

He looked at me sharply, then he nodded. “I see your point but you've got a bloody nerve. They're not
going to like that, Barret. I have friends upstairs but the others will put you through it. If they can find an
excuse they'll block you. Worse, you're on your own. I can't help you directly.”

There were men sitting at a long table facing me with a man in a judge's robes sitting in the middle.

“The medicine man has arrived for his bones,” said someone nastily.

“If he expects us to give them we want some straight answers. Tell me, my good fellow. Are you a
medium, do you see visions or converse with departed spirits?”

“No I am not a medium, I see no visions and I have no connection with departed spirits.”

“You claim superiority. You know more about criminal detection than the experts?”

“You conclude that because I wish to try my methods I am disputing yours?”

“Barret, you cannot possibly find anything.”

“In which case why the objections? When I fail you can all laugh and say I told you so.”

There was a short uncomfortable silence, then: “Do you believe in life after death, medicine man?”

“No, Iknow there is life after death. There is a difference if you think about it.”

The man in the judge's robes rose and banged his fist on the table.

“Enough, this has become a farce. The man may be misguided but he's obviously sincere, and as he
rightly points out, we can laugh at him later.”

He paused and looked at everyone at the table. “We came very damn close there to branding ourselves
complete idiots. Give the man all he asks for.”

Ransome was smiling when I got back; word had evidently got around very quickly.

“It was not sheer unpleasantness,” he said. “They wanted to discredit you. They don't want outsiders,
particularly weird outsiders, invading their closed departments; they see themselves as a kind of
priesthood.”

I began to unpack my collection on my desk and he came closer. “I claim ignorance and on those
grounds hope to be excused. You'd like me to get you some equipment or something?”

I laughed. “Believe it or not, Chief, I am my own equipment.”

“You have some mystic application?”

“No, something quite ordinary and ages old. Science has tested on a technical level, materially. I work on
a different level of consciousness, I work mentally.”

“You're beyond me, Barret.”

“I'm not really, Chief. A material hand leaves a material print but it also leaves a psychic one. We had a
regular exercise in training, a student would hold a tissue between the palms of his hands for thirty
seconds. Another student, preferably unknown to him, would take the tissue and ‘read’ what he felt.
Some of those readings were so accurate and so detailed that they caused red faces.”

Most of the articles had not been in Berenof's possession long and the impressions were faint. There was,
however, a small notebook that he had used for telephone numbers that handed me information on a
platter.

“The alien is part telepathic,” I said. “Berenof was the only one susceptible enough, and ruthless enough
to suit its purpose. He was guided to the artifact and shown mentally how to use it.”

I reached for the printed map. “I know the real area of operation.”

Ransome leaned over my shoulder as I ran my fingers over the paper.

“There!”

“That's Graymede Park,” he said. “Lived around there as a kid. Know it well, sits on a hill with the old
observatory on the top. There's a boating lake for the kids, small covered swimming pool and a couple of
tennis courts at the back. Nice lot of trees and grassy slopes, used to have picnics there once.”

“This observatory, what is it exactly?”

“Oh, it's an ancient monument now, listed as such by the City Council. It was built well before the
millennium, around two hundred and fifty years ago. It has real telescopes in it, tubes with lenses in them,
if you know what I mean. None of this radar-satellite technology they use now.”

“Does the roof still part for observation?”

“Why, yes, I suppose—” He stopped suddenly. “You're not saying the bloody thing is holed up in that
place?”

“I'm not saying anything, yet, Chief, but I think we ought to take a look.”

“With armed back-up?”

“I don't think so, what would be the point?

There was a short paved drive, a path and an area of grass, containing a bench leading up to the park
gates.

An elderly man sat on the bench warming himself in the sun. “Local,” said Ransome. “A friendly chat will
do no harm.”
When he returned he said: “Interesting, no one seems to come to the place now, crowds fallen away in
the last five years. Two odd things, people used to walk their dogs here once. Now if you try it, you have
to drag it in, no dog will go in there willingly. Item number two, look at the trees—note the top
branches.”

“Gulls and other sea birds.”

“Yes, the old boy said they've been coming in ones and two's for weeks now. Look at that tree on the
left there, must be thirty in it.”

He shook his head frowning. “We're four hundred K's from the sea, large river or lake, makes no damn
sense—can you make anything of it?”

“Give me a minute or so, please, Chief.”

I didn't concentrate. A sensitive's faculties don't work like that. One has to let go entirely and sooner or
later something will drift into the mind. What comes does not always make sense but, you never question,
you accept and wait.

What drifted in my mind were bears. Big bears and small, standing by a swift-moving river.

There was nothing in the river yet but they knew something was coming. Yes, they know, racial memory
or animal precognition. I realized suddenly what it was—salmon were coming.

I turned my attention to the birds and realized that en masse, their faculties were greater than my own.

I turned to Ransome. “How was the roof of that observatory opened, Chief?”

“Not quite sure, a simple electrical device, I think.”

“Could the police technical section get it open by remote control?”

“I don't know, is it important?”

“I'm not going to answer that, Chief, you are. In your imagination, walk through those gates, don't think
of anything, just feel. Smell the flowers, feel the breeze in your hair, the warmth of the sun on your face
and the cry of the gulls.”

He was silent for about fifteen seconds and when he turned towards me he was pale. “The bloody thing
is up there isn't it? I understand what you mean now: you canfeel it.”

He shivered visibly. “Worse than that, I could alsosmell it and it turned my inside over.” He began to
make numerous calls to headquarters.

I felt indebted to him as he called, for I knew he liked and trusted me. He was an astute man, but with me
he was working in the dark and allowing me to lead him. He was risking his career and reputation on my
say-so and it made me feel very humble.

Finally he said: “It will take some setting up but they assure me it will be foolproof by morning—six
o'clock. Okay?”

It was summer and it was light by five. At five-thirty the birds started moving.

The observatory has a round dome that parts in the middle in order to raise the telescopes. Surrounding
are ornamental rails that rise from the walls.
In ones and twos the gulls and smaller seabirds launched themselves from the trees and settled
themselves on the railings. They seemed in no great hurry, they behaved as if they were just resting. They
preened themselves, they wiped their beaks on the railings, they inspected their webbed feet and their
numbers increased.

Ransome was in a bad way. He divided his time between dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief
and glancing at his watch. Science tells us that time is relative; believe me that is true. The last five minutes
seemed like a solid hour to both of us.

The dome must have been a little bit rusty for there were a lot of shrill rasping noises when it began to
open and I am sure we both prayed that it wouldn't stick.

It must have been worse for Ransome. I knew, or had a rough idea, of what would happen but he was
completely in the dark.

The birds waited until the roof was fully open then one of the gulls put its head on one side and looked
down. Unhurriedly it spread its wings and sailed downwards.

It was followed two seconds later by two more and then they began to arrow down one after another.

I was braced for a reaction although I had no idea what it would be. When it came I almost went down
at first. Ransome, however, had no defense at all and there was nothing I could do to help him.

His face lost color, he put both hands over his ears and dropped to his knees. He looked up at me as if
seeking an answer then his eyes closed and he keeled over sideways.

The thing was screaming but it was not the physical anger that ripped at one, it was the sheer, naked
malevolence. It hated everything that lived or moved and breathed. It even hated itself: it should have
foreseen this. It had taken care of everything this planet could dream up including the solar bomb and
biological warfare but it had never conceived of anything like this—a natural, brainless, organic life which
would fancy it for food. It had no defense against it and it was being eaten alive.

Gradually the screaming subsided but perhaps I was the only one in the area who knew it was no defense
to cover one's ears. This was a telepathic scream and a soundproof room would not have shut it out.

When hooded, protected men went in four days later there was nothing to examine. All that remained
were bird droppings, and the building, half-eaten away, was in a state of collapse.

Berenof was found two days later, hacked to pieces by one of his own creations.

There is not much left to tell save aftermath. Understandably the incident never reached the media but
word got around with the service.

Within a week, two sensitives were appointed by Tokyo police. London added another two, seven were
engaged in various parts of America.

It will not be long now before we enter medicine, big business and finally governments. When that time
comes the constitution of the world will begin to change. Ideals, cherished and dreamed of for centuries,
will slowly become realities.

Out there, you know, beyond the stars, beyond time/space are vast intelligences waiting to welcome us
into a new dispensation.

Copyright © 2002 by Philip E. High