Dr. Alan E. Nourse, who when last heard of was vacationing in Alaska—andprobably gathering material for SF or Mystery stories set againstthis background—is the author of many mystery and science fictionstories including MARTYR, the lead novel in our January 1957 issue.
The man's meteoric rise as a peacemaker in a nation tiredby the long years of war made the truth even more shocking.
The huge troop transportplane eased downthrough the rainy drizzleenshrouding New York InternationalAirport at aboutfive o'clock in the evening.Tom Shandor glanced sourlythrough the port at the wetlanding strip, saw the dimlanding lights reflected in thesteaming puddles. On an adjacentfield he could see therows and rows of jet fighters,wings up in the foggy rain,poised like ridiculous birdsin the darkness. With a sighhe ripped the sheet of paperfrom the small, batteredportable typewriter on hislap, and zipped the machineup in its slicker case.
Across the troop hold thesoldiers were beginning tostir, yawning, shifting theirpacks, collecting their gear.Occasionally they stared atShandor as if he were totallyalien to their midst, and heshivered a little as he collectedthe sheets of paper scatteredon the deck around him,checked the date, 27 September,1982, and rolled them upto fit in the slim round mailingcontainer. Ten minuteslater he was shouldering hisway through the crowd ofkhaki-clad men, scowling upat the sky, his nondescriptfedora jammed down over hiseyes to keep out the rain,slicker collar pulled up abouthis ears. At the gangway hestopped before a tired-lookinglieutenant and flashed thesmall fluorescent card in hispalm. "Public InformationBoard."
The officer nodded wearilyand gave his coat and typewritera cursory check, thenmotioned him on. He strodeacross the wet field, scowlingat the fog, toward thedimmed-out waiting rooms.
He found a mailing chute,and popped the mailing tubedown the slot as if he wereglad to be rid of it. Into thespeaker he said: "Special Delivery.PIB business. It goesto press tonight."
The female voice from thespeaker said something, andthe red "clear" signal blinked.Shandor slipped off his hatand shook it, then stopped ata coffee machine and extracteda cup of steamingstuff from the bottom aftertrying the coin three times.Finally he walked across theroom to an empty videobooth, and sank down into thechair with an exhausted sigh.Flipping a switch, he waitedseveral minutes for an operatorto appear. He gave her anumber, and then said, "Let'sscramble it, please."
"Official?"
He showed her the card,and settled back, his wholebody tired. He was a tall man,rather slender, with flat,bland features punctuatedonly by blond caret-shapedeyebrows. His grey eyes wereheavy-lidded now, his mouthan expressionless line as hewaited, sunk back into hiscoat with a long-cultivatedair of lifeless boredom. Hewatched the screen withoutinterest as it bleeped a time ortwo, then shifted into thefamiliar scrambled-image pattern.After a moment he mutteredthe Public InformationBoard audio-code words, andsaw the screen even out intothe clear image of a large,heavyset man at a desk.
"Hart," said Shandor. "Story'son its way. I just droppedit from the Airport a minuteago, with a rush tag on it.You should have it for themorning editions."
The big man in the screenblinked, and his heavy facelit up. "The story on theRocket Project?"
Shandor nodded. "Thewhole scoop. I'm going homenow." He started his hand forthe cutoff