The Sword

There were but three days in which to decipher the most cryptic message ever delivered to earth.
George Harrison noticed the flashing red light on the instrument panel as he turned onto the bridge to Balboa Island. Just over the bridge, he pulled the car to the curb and flipped the switch with violence. Harrison, he muttered.
How's the water, fella? asked the voice of Bob Mills, his assistant.
There was a beautiful moon over the island. The surf lapped at the tiers of the picturesque bridge. Soft music was playing somewhere. There was a tinkle of young laughter on the light sea breeze.
Harrison was vacationing and he viewed the emergency contact from Intersolar Spaceport with annoyance.
What do you want, Bob?
Sorry, George, Bob Mills said more seriously. I guess you got to come back.
Listen— protested Harrison.
Orders, George—orders from upstairs.
Harrison took a long look at the pleasant island street stretching out before him. Sea-corroded street lamps lit the short, island thoroughfare. People in light blue jeans, bronzed youths in skipper caps, deep-tanned girls in terry-cloth.
What the hell is it?
Don't know, but it's big. Better hurry. He clicked off.