But there was nothing in his black bag which could aid the crash victim. His black-pupiled eyes rolled in the handsome blue head, and his fine-boned blue hand reached for the touch of his companion's fingers in a gesture of farewell. Then he was dead. "I'm sorry," Woodward said. "Your friend is gone." There was no grief evident in the placid blue face that looked down at the body. Once again, the alien lifted the metal box and forced the doctor's attention on the diamond-shaped screen. The picture was that of Woodward's house. "You want to come home with me?" Woodward said. Then he gasped as he saw himself on the screen, entering the house, alone. Then he realized that the scene typified a request--or a command. The man from space wanted the doctor to return home. "All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll go home, my friend. But I can tell you right now--don't expect me to keep all this a secret." He turned, and limped through the woods. Woodward had just entered the house when the woods burst with light, one incredible split-second of white fire that lit the world for miles. It was the alien's funeral pyre. Then the alien came back. When the doctor answered the door, he strode into the room purposefully, and placed his strange visual aid on a table top. He looked squarely at Woodward, and then placed a finger in the center of his smooth blue forehead. "Borsu," he said. The doctor hesitated. Was the alien identifying himself by name? Indicating himself by the most vital organ, his brain? The doctor pointed to his own forehead. "Carl," he said. Then he looked about, and his eyes fell on the book he had been reading. He picked it up, and tapped its cover. "Book," he said. The stranger took it from his hand. "Book," he said. "Borsu, Carl. Book." And the alien smiled. * * * * * Woodward handled his request to see Ridgemont, Secretary of Science, with extreme care. He understood the functions and fears of the bureaucrat, the ever-present concern about wasting time on crackpots, lobbyists, representatives of various useless or lunatic fringe groups. He had arranged the meeting through the Secretary of the Navy, and made certain that Ridgemont knew of his good service record, that he was convinced that Woodward was a man of sound mind and character. Only then did he make the appointment. Yet despite his precautions, Ridgemont looked at Woodward exactly as the doctor knew he would. "A man from _where_?" he said. "From outer space," Woodward said quietly. "Not from our own solar system, but from another. Their world exists no longer. Borsu and the others recall nothing about it, but that was a case of deliberate Forgetting; I'll tell you about that later. The important thing is--" "The important thing," Woodward said icily, "is for you to see the right person. Frankly, this department isn't concerned with--extra-terrestrial matters. Perhaps the Department of Defense--"