He spun the air inlet controls; impatiently, he watched as the altimeter needle began its anti-clockwise movement. He'd call a staff meeting right away, find the culprits and suspend them from duty. Preston would have to back him up. If Summerford proved to be the ringleader, he would insist on his dismissal, Forster decided. And he would see to it that the young punk had trouble getting another post. The fantastic waste of time involved in such an elaborate forgery ... Forster trembled with indignation. And using the name of a dead man, above all a scientist who had died in the interests of research, leaving behind him a mystery which still troubled the Atomic Energy Commission, because nobody had ever been able to explain that sudden dive in a plane which was apparently functioning perfectly, and flown by a veteran crew.... He glanced down at the roll. Was it his imagination, or had the purplish ink begun to fade? He ran a length of it through his fingers, and then he saw that in places there were gaps where the writing had disappeared altogether. He glanced up at the altimeter needle, which was sliding by the 24,000-foot mark. He looked back at his hands again, just in time to see the roll part in two places, leaving only the narrow strip he held between his gloved fingers. He put the strip on the desk, and bent clumsily in his suit to retrieve the other pieces from the floor. But wherever he grabbed it, it fell apart. Now it seemed to be melting before his eyes. In a few seconds there was nothing. He straightened up. The strip he had left on the desk had disappeared, too. No ash, no residue. Nothing. His thought processes seemed to freeze. He glanced mechanically at the altimeter. It read 2,500 feet. He grabbed at the two pieces of the container. They still felt as rigid as ever. He fitted them together carefully, gaining a crumb of security from the act. He realized vaguely that the altimeter needle was resting on zero, but he had no idea how long he had been sitting there, trying to find a thread of logic in the confused welter of thoughts, when he heard the scrape of metal on metal as somebody wrestled with the door clamps from the outside. * * * * * He was certain of only one thing. His memory told him that the signature that was no longer a signature had been written by Jim Rawdon, who couldn't possibly have survived that crash into the Timor Sea.... From behind, somebody was fumbling with his helmet connections, then fresh air and familiar sounds rushed in on him as the helmet was taken away. Summerford's thin, intelligent face was opposite his. "Doc! Are you all right?" he was asking sharply. For once, there was no superciliousness in his voice. "I'm fine," Forster said heavily. "I--I've got a headache. Stayed in here too long, I suppose." "What's in the box?" Summerford asked. The way he asked told Forster at once that the youngster knew nothing about it.