There was no grief evident in the placid blue face that looked down at the body. Once again, the alien lifted the metal box and forced the doctor's attention on the diamond-shaped screen.
The picture was that of Woodward's house.
"You want to come home with me?" Woodward said. Then he gasped as he saw himself on the screen, entering the house, alone. Then he realized that the scene typified a request—or a command. The man from space wanted the doctor to return home.
"All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll go home, my friend. But I can tell you right now—don't expect me to keep all this a secret."
He turned, and limped through the woods.
Woodward had just entered the house when the woods burst with light, one incredible split-second of white fire that lit the world for miles. It was the alien's funeral pyre.
Then the alien came back. When the doctor answered the door, he strode into the room purposefully, and placed his strange visual aid on a table top. He looked squarely at Woodward, and then placed a finger in the center of his smooth blue forehead.
"Borsu," he said.
The doctor hesitated. Was the alien identifying himself by name? Indicating himself by the most vital organ, his brain?
The doctor pointed to his own forehead.