The Isle of Doubt

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“BURBANK speaking.”

The words were uttered by a man who was seated at a table in a tiny, gloomy room. A shaded lamp in the corner provided the sole illumination, and the dim light showed only the speaker’s back. The man at the table was listening intently through a pair of ear phones which were attached to his head.

“Await reply.” Burbank spoke in a quiet tone, after receiving the message over the wire. His hands stretched to the wall and manipulated the plugs of a small switchboard. A click in the ear phones; Burbank again quietly announced his identity, and listened for acknowledgment of his call. After receiving it, Burbank spoke.

“Report from Marsland,” he droned. “Baxton and his mob are at the meeting place. Ready to leave at eleven o’clock.”

Orders came over the wire. The ear phones carried a sinister click as they vibrated to the uncanny tones of the voice that sounded within them.

“Instructions received,” said Burbank.

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