The Stars Are Waiting

On a certain street in Washington, there is a certain building which makes the Pentagon, by comparison, look like Open House. I'm not going to tell you even what street the building is on. If I did, a certain very secret division of the FBI would be breathing down my neck before you could say "Security." So; on this certain street, in this certain building, is a certain room, and I sleep in that room.
My name is David Rohrer, and I am an M.D. with certain other qualifications. If you're getting bored with these equivocations, read on; I'll be specific enough in a minute or two.
It was on a Tuesday night in 1964; that's close enough to the actual date. If you're curious, it was six months to the day after India closed all her frontiers. Of course, you didn't read about that in the newspapers, but if you were a tourist or a missionary going to India, you found out about it the hard way.
As I say, on a Tuesday night in 1964, about eleven-thirty the phone in my room suddenly rang. I swore, sat up, grabbed the thing and put it to my ear. I knew it would be important; there are no outside lines in the building except a specially sealed off and scrambled wire which goes to the White House, and another one to a room on the top floor of the Pentagon. The room telephones are all inside communication, easier, and more private than a public address system.
"Rohrer," I said curtly.
I recognized the voice that answered. You would too; you've hear it often enough, telecast from the floor of the Senate. "Get down here, Doc, right away. Flanders is back!"