When, in February, 1941, Professor James Newland issued this remarkable statement, my paper sent me at once to interview him. He was at this time at the head of the Harvard observatory staff. He lived with his son and daughter in Cambridge. His wife was dead. I had been acquainted with the professor and his family for some time. I first met his son, Alan, during our university days at Harvard. We liked each other at once, and became firm friends--possibly because we were such opposite physical types, as sometimes happens. Alan was tall, lean and muscular--an inch or so over six feet--with the perfect build of an athlete. I am dark; Alan was blond, with short, curly hair, and blue eyes. His features were strong and regular. He was, in fact, one of the handsomest men I have ever seen. And yet he acted as though he didn't know it--or if he did, as though he considered it a handicap. I think what saved him was his ingenious, ready smile, and his retiring, unassuming--almost diffident--manner. At the time of the events I am describing Alan was twenty-two--about two years younger than I. It was his first year out of college. He had taken a scientific course and intended to join his father's staff. Beth and Alan were twins. I was tremendously interested in Beth even then. She seemed one of the most worth-while girls I had ever met. She was a little wisp of femininity, slender and delicate, hardly more than five feet one or two. She had beautiful golden hair and an animated, pretty face, with a pert little snub nose. She was a graduate of Vassar, and planned to take up chemistry as a profession, for she had the same scientific bent as her father and brother. I called upon Professor Newland the evening of the day his statement was published, and found all three discussing it. "You want me to talk for publication, don't you, Bob Trevor?" the professor asked suddenly, after we had exchanged a few pleasantries. He was a wiry little man, about sixty, smooth-shaven, with sparse gray hair, a rugged face of strong character, and a restless air of energy about him. He was an indefatigable worker; indeed, I am confident that, for any single continuous period of work without sleep, he could have run Alan and me into the ground and still have been comparatively fresh. "You want an exclusive follow-up story from me to-night, don't you?" he repeated. I admitted that I did. "What you'll get won't be just what you expect. Look at this." He pulled one of the evening papers toward him vigorously. "They think it is humorous. There--read that." The item to which he pointed was a sprightly account of the weird beings that might shortly arrive from Mercury. "They think it's a joke--some of them. There's another--read that." The attitude of the press was distinctly an inclination to treat the affair from the humorous side. I had seen indications of that during the day at the office.