By the second Scotch, the reporter’s nerves had begun to settle. His typing began to fall back into the easy staccato rhythm of a veteran, punctuated ever more quickly by the ding! zzzip sound of another line’s end.

The next morning, he typed, the local police found the two abandoned cars out by Kelley Swamp and called in the scientists. What had at first seemed like an ordinary crime scene soon became much more interesting — and ominous.

* * *

Police Chief Creighton removed his visored cap and scratched his head as he stared down at the charred holes in the ground between the abandoned police cruiser and the Plymouth sedan belonging to Carl Peterson, the pharmacist. He bent down and touched the chunks of fused glass that lay at the center of one of them. They were still warm to the touch, which caused Creighton to stand up in alarm.

“These things are still hot, Hank!” he yelled to the burly crime scene photographer, who paused and lowered his Ensign Commando folding camera. “Did you get a shot of these?”

“Not yet, Chief,” said Hank. “I’m still getting shots of the car.” He turned back to the Plymouth and started focusing his camera. A junior police officer, wearing a cap two sizes too large, moved out of the way of the shot, and walked over to Chief Creighton.

“What do you make of it, Chief?”

“Darndest thing I’ve ever seen. Looks like residue from a lightning bolt, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky last night.”

“Gosh, do you think maybe it has something to do with those reports of glowing lights over Kelley Swamp last night? That’s what Johnson and Smith were doing out here, after all.”

“Could be,” the Chief said, putting his cap back on his bald head. “But until we find Johnson and Smith, or Carl Peterson, I guess we won’t know for sure, will we? Why don’t you take your cruiser over to the swamp and see if there’s anything there. Then go back to the McKenna farm.” Creighton jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “See if they saw anything last night. Then I want you to interview everyone who called in a report of the glowing lights. Donaldson back at the station logged all the names.”

“Right chief.” The patrolman saluted clumsily and scooted back to his car.

“Hank, I want you to get these burn marks from every angle,” Creighton called to the photographer.

“Right, Chief.”

As the patrolman’s car turned around and drove off, it passed a black station wagon driving toward the crime scene. MONTEREY COAST ATOMIC RESEARCH LABORATORY was stenciled in white letters along the driver’s side door. The car pulled up behind the Chief’s car.

“Oh, good, it’s the scientists from the atomic lab,” Creighton said as he walked over with another patrolman. The driver door opened and a tall, stern-looking woman with streaks of gray in her shoulder-length black hair got out. She wore a white lab coat over a black suit.

“Professor Madeleine Abbot,” she said, extending her hand to Chief Creighton, who shook it. “I’m glad you called us. Perhaps you can give my assistant a hand?”

Creighton gestured to the patrolman. “Help the professor’s assistant, Wilson.”

Wilson nodded and scurried over to the passenger-side door just as it opened. Wilson came to a sudden stop as two long, elegant legs swung out of the wagon.

A petite brunette emerged, her hair tied back severely, her almond-shaped eyes almost hidden behind black tortoise-shell glasses. She wore a matching white lab coat and carried a small black doctor’s bag.

“This way,” she said to Wilson as she walked to the back of the wagon, oblivious to her effect on the young patrolman. She opened the wagon’s back door and began unloading boxes and equipment into his arms until he began to stagger under the load.

“Put those over there, would you please?” she said, pointing to the abandoned cars. “Careful not to step on anything important.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said from behind the gear as he shuffled unsteadily to where she had pointed. The assistant closed the door and joined Professor Abbot, who was deep in conversation with Chief Creighton.

“My daughter Claudine,” Abbot said. Creighton doffed his cap as he shook the young woman’s hand. “She’s my assistant for the summer while she completes her doctorate in atomic physics. She’s an expert in radiation effects on living organisms.”

“Radiation?” Creighton gasped.

“From your description of the scene of the event,” Abbot said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some residual atomic emissions.”

The trio moved to the closest of the burn marks in the road. Claudine opened a box and took out what looked like a portable radio with a microphone attached to it with a thick curly cord. She threw a switch, adjusted the large dial on the top, and swung the “microphone” over the charred spot. As it came closer, a speaker on the box began emitting a clicking sound that grew in intensity as Claudine moved the device closer to the fused glass chunks in the center of the burn.

“What does that sound mean?” Creighton asked.

“Exactly as I suspected,” Professor Abbot said. “Chief Creighton, this is a Geiger counter. It measures radiation intensity. This mark has been subjected to a high bombardment of radiation.”

“Radiation? From where?”

Claudine looked up at the canopy of trees overhead, and pointed to a branch several dozen feet overhead. “That branch is scorched,” she said. “In a similar pattern to this mark.” Everyone looked up at the spot.

“I would venture to conclude,” said Professor Abbot, “that the beam of high-intensity radiation came from an object in the sky.”

Creighton and Wilson looked at each other in alarm, and then back to the branch — and to the sky beyond.

* * *

Stay tuned for Part Three, coming next Saturday to this station . . .

Categorised as: The Terror from the Other Dimension!

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