We also pointed out that in the past, freaks of weather were always complained of; the coldest day in the history of Washington, D.C., which this December of 1952 had almost but not quite equaled, was February 11th, 1899--which was long before there were any broadcasting stations. Nor did any of this take into account the obvious fact that radio could scarcely be blamed for what seemed our abnormally short winter days. It was not fancy; it seemed an actual fact. And from the southern hemisphere reports gave reverse conditions. The days were growing unnaturally long; sunset and twilight extended abnormally far into the evening. It occurred to me as strange that our A.B.A. never broadcasted a mention of this; that there were never any scientific, authoritative reports concerning it. Surely the scientists could determine with exactitude whether our sun were rising and setting at the times it should! They could, indeed! They could--and they were calculating it only too exactly! But, as I learned afterward, there was a world government censorship upon the whole subject. This censorship was lifted on that memorable February 10, 1953, when father made his startling statement to the world. On February 9th, my job in Indiana ended; the murderess was acquitted amid applause and public rejoicing. But the verdict only held a divided first-page place now with the planet Xenephrene. The new world had steadily been nearing the earth; it was now only twenty-odd million miles away--a magnificent, startling spectacle, a purple point of light blazing near the sun; with the naked eye it appeared twice the size of any star. In the afternoon of February 9th, Freddie phoned me from New York. I had never heard his voice so oddly solemn. "Peter, your father wants you to come to Washington at once." "What's up?" I demanded. "Nothing. He wants to see you and me. You come to New York--join me here--leave to-day. Will you?" "Yes," I agreed. "I'm through out here, fortunately." "I'll wait for you here at your place. I wouldn't try the planes, if I were you--not with storms like this--" "No," I said. "Besides, they're jammed since the railroads are hung up." "Wait your chance--come by train, it's--safer." He was so oddly solemn! It wasn't like Freddie Smith to bother about safety--a dare-devil, if there ever was one. But he was right about the planes; the surest way to get to New York at the moment was to take it slowly. * * * * * For a week the whole northeastern United States had been locked in the grip of a blizzard. The railroads were hung up; the strain of traffic, and the fearful weather had been too much for the passenger planes. Every one was jammed; and several failed to get through and were stalled in the storm along the way. But the railroads now were getting their tracks cleared; service was improving. "I'll see you to-morrow," I told Freddie.