Using the microfilm reader, I read though the old newspaper accounts of the Westervelt family. It was like a wonderful walk down memory lane as I read...about my former life. I wept uncontrollably when I read the accounts of my son Peter's death in the skies over France, and I again relived the agony of that day when I had received the telegram informing me. Peter had been my youngest, my baby, and I had been so very proud of him. I received quite a few strange stares from other people in the. His dark skin bespoke of his African heritage, he onlything of any color was his teeth and eyes."And who wants to ask the questions? You?" He knew that we wereconditioned to never reveal our secrets, so even if he tortured us, hewould get nothing for his efforts.Shaking his head, he let out an evil chuckle, "No Bludd, not me. It'sthe President that wants to ask." You mean as in the Leader of the Free World?" asked Jesse, my AssistantResearch Chief. She as second only to me in the Sciences."Yes,. More

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