They worked on asteroid deflection missions. Nuclear weapons components. Plasma fusion that could change the world's energy supply. Anti-gravity propulsion. And one by one, since 2022, they have vanished or turned up dead — leaving behind phones, wallets, glasses, and more questions than anyone in Washington wants to answer. As of April 2026, at least 11 individuals connected to America's most sensitive nuclear and aerospace programs are dead or missing. The FBI has now confirmed it is leading a coordinated investigation. The House Oversight Committee has demanded briefings from NASA, the Department of Energy, the Pentagon, and the FBI by April 27. President Trump called it "pretty serious stuff." Here is every confirmed case, what each person was working on, and why the pattern — particularly in New Mexico — is so difficult to explain away. The New Mexico Cluster: Four People, One State, One Year The detail that alarms investigators most isn't the deaths. It...
Stephen Fry announced on his Twitter account that will be missing from his account for about three months. He is doing this in order to concentrate on writing his Biography. In a mini-blog farewell note. He says some people can write with distractions but he cannot and needs quietness and peace. He will be back in a while once he is done writing.
Accept my apologies for what must be and believe me, no one yearns more keenly for the day when I will be able to be back amongst you all.
Well now, this is a sort of farewell. An au revoir more than an adieu but a valediction all the same. This morning I switch off most of my connections with the outside world, for I have work to do. I must deliver a book to my publishers by the end of April or my soul and testicles will be forfeit.
Some people can write with ease in whatever circumstances they find themselves. Up a tree, on a bus, in a log cabin, a steamy-windowed café or a tropical beach. Some don’t mind noise, distraction or a broken up day. I, unhappily, am not made of this material. I need peace, absolute peace, an empty diary and zero distraction. I enter a kind of writing purdah, an eremitical seclusion in which there is just me, a keyboard and abundant cups of coffee, all in a room whose curtains have been drawn against the light. I would have added tobacco as a constant and necessary companion, but I stopped smoking some two and half years ago, so no longer will there be the pleasure of having a pipe clamped between the teeth as I grope for the Flaubertian mot juste.
Accept my apologies for what must be and believe me, no one yearns more keenly for the day when I will be able to be back amongst you all.
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