The storm that night was recorded by meteorologists and hydrologists as a hundred-year cloudburst—the kind that happens only once every hundred years on the average. It swept away our camp, equipment, and the camera with the recording of the encounter. At the foot of Dry Creek, the university stores piles of gravel and trash. The raging waters went surging through those piles and scattered several tons of detritus down a half mile of desolate, rugged creek bed. Somewhere in that soaking mess my recording is rotting into oblivion, but not Bergen’s body, or the steel disks.
Without the disks or the recording, I am left in the unenviable position of every prophet since Moses—without tangible evidence of a visitation.
Without Bergen I have neither witness nor understanding friend. But visited I was, and I have talked about it. And that is why I am here at this institute now.
But I don’t intend to stay long, because, as I can now say with utter confidence, miracles can happen!
Please give my regards to Mrs. Havasin and the rest of the family. Tell them that her husband has departed from this world, quite literally, and that I’m testifying to that. But I’m afraid I will be unable to show anyone the path to his body’s current location, except through parable.
Sincerely yours,
Horace B. Williams, prophet
The End