A blurred, but unmistakably human voice was coming from the radio, mingling with the cracklings of code. And then music, faint and scratchy, but unmistakably a violin. Playing Handel’s Largo.
Only suddenly it climbed in pitch as though modulating from key to key until it became so horribly shrill that it hurt the ear. And kept on going past the high limit of audibility until they could hear it no more.
Somebody said, “Shut that God damn thing off.” Somebody did, and this time nobody turned it back on.
Pete said, “I didn’t really believe it myself. And there’s another thing against it, George. Those signals affect TV too, and radio waves are the wrong length to do that.”
He shook his head slowly. “There must be some other explanation, George. The more I think about it now the more I think I’m wrong.”
He was right: he was wrong.
“Preposterous,” said Mr. Ogilvie. He took off his glasses, frowned fiercely, and put them back on again. He looked through them at the several sheets of copy paper in his hand and tossed them contemptuously to the top of his desk. They slid to rest against the triangular name plate that read:
B. R. Ogilvie Editor-in-Chief
“Preposterous,” he said again.
Casey Blair, his best reporter, blew a smoke ring and poked his index finger through it. “Why?” he asked.