I was frowning when I left. A reserve officer who served in Military Intelligence on the Manhattan Project, I sensed something ominous in the visit. The Korean situation already had me in an uneasy mood.
My spirits picked up, however, when I entered the office and recognized the tall dignified figure, with grizzled hair, standing by the window.
"Jim Armstrong, you old blood-hound."
"Hello, Arnold," and my hand was lost in his big fist.
Armstrong is a powerfully built man. He played a bone-crushing left end in his college days. You used to need a convoy of light tanks to make a sweep around him. I know; I played against him when I was a blocking back on the Princeton varsity. A former F.B.I. agent, he had one of the toughest and finest minds in Intelligence. Once he picked up a trail, he followed it doggedly. Like the time during the war when he went after government-contract profiteers. Despite faked invoices, bribed witnesses, and strong pressure from higher-ups, he tracked his men down and landed them in jail.
"Now, Jim, what's on your mind?" I said after we were both comfortably seated.
He put his hand in his tunic and brought out a letter which he handed me.
"I want you to read that, Arnold. Yesterday every member of the United Nations received a similar note. No one takes it seriously, regarding it as the work of a peace crank. I'd like to hear what you think about it."
I put on my glasses and opened the letter.
Dear Sirs: