I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

     Professor Nichols was a wisp of a man, who peered at them through small,

bright eyes nearly hidden in fleshy folds. Although his body was about

the shortest Brice had ever seen on a man, the brain beneath his crop of

white hair had made him a giant. A linguist all his life, Professor

Nichols spoke a dozen languages fluently, in addition to reading and

writing them. Brice knew him by reputation and grinned at him as he came

into the empty Dean's office.

     "Gentlemen?" He favored them with a smile. "I'm Nichols. Doctor Bendtolz

said you wanted to speak with me."

     Brice introduced himself and the Federal men and, after a round of

handshaking, Cartwell handed the chunk of metal to the professor.

"We'd like to know about the writing, Professor," Sam put in.

     Nichols examined the etching on the metal for some time before he looked

up. His small eyes searched their faces in turn, and then he smiled thinly

as though witnessing a very bad gag.

"Are you gentlemen playing some sort of joke?" he asked.

     "The Government doesn't pay us to play jokes," Cartwell informed him

cryptically. "Do you know the language?"

     Professor Nichols shook his head. "I know every spoken language in the

world and I know many of the dead languages at least by sight. I don't

know this one."

"You're serious?"

     The old man nodded. "This must be some sort of jest on me. There is no

language on Earth, dead or alive, that matches this."

"We aren't joking, Professor," Callum said seriously.

     "Then, my friend, someone must be playing a joke on you. No linguist can

identify this language. I'll stake my reputation on that. Where did you

get this?"

     Cartwell smiled. "I'm sorry; professor, but we cannot disclose that

information. We'll also have to ask you to forget about it. Government

business, you know."

"Yes, of course. Is there anything else? I have a class in three

minutes..."

"No, that's all. Thank you, Professor Nichols."

"You're welcome. Good day, gentlemen."

      As the door closed behind him, a thick silence fell over the three men.

Cartwell looked out the window and pulled at his lower lip with a blunt

thumb and forefinger; Callum sat on the edge of a desk, looking at the

strange writing as an ethnologist might stare at the bones of the

missing link.

     "What now?" Sam asked, softly. "Call in a Martian to get his opinion?"

"It's not funny, Sam."