Ιστορία φαντασίας με
την ατομική βόμβα
“Deadline”
by Cleve
Cartmill
Astounding
Science Fiction magazine
March
1944
ΠΕΖΟΓΡΑΦΙΑ
ΚΟΙΝΩΝΙΚΗ ΣΚΕΨΗ
Atomic
bomb story
Deadline
by
Cleve Cartmill
H έναρξη της ιστορίας
Ο μυστικός πράκτορας Ybor των Seilla προσγειώνεται στην περιοχή των
εχθρών Sixa
με στόχο να βρει τον
επιστήμονα Dr.
Sitruc
να τον σκοτώσει και να
εξουδετερώσει το υπερόπλο, την ατομική βόμβα, που κατασκεύαζε ο dr. Sitruc για τους Sixa. Με αυτή την ατομικό βόμβα οι Sixa θα κέρδιζαν τον πόλεμο.
Heavy flak burst above and
below the flight of bombers as they flashed across the night sky of the planet Cathor. Ybor Sebrof grinned as he nosed
his glider at a steep angle away from the fireworks. The bombers had
accomplished their mission: they had dropped him near Nilreq, had simulated a
raid.
He had cut
loose before search-lights slatted the sky with lean, white arms. They hadn’t
touched the glider, marked with their own insignia. Their own glider, in fact,
captured when Seilla advance colunns
had caught the Namo garrison asleep. He would leave it where he landed, and let
Sixa intelligence try to figure out how it got there.
Provided, of
course, that he landed unseen.
Sixa
intelligence officers would have another job, too. That was to explain the
apparent bombing raid that dropped no bombs. None of the Seilla planes had been
hit, and the Sixa crowd couldn't know that the bombers were empty: no bombs, no
crews, just speed.
He could see
tomorrow's papers, hear tomorrow's newscasts. “Raiders driven off. Craven
Democracy pilots cringe from Nilreq ack-ack.” But the big bugs would worry. The
Seilla planes could have dropped bombs, if they’d had any bombs. They had
flitted across the great industrial city with impunity. They could have laid
their eggs. The big bugs would wonder about that. Why? they would ask each
other profoundly. What was the reason ?
Ybor grinned.
He was the reason. He'd make them wish there had been bombs instead of him.
Possibility of failure never entered his mind. All he had to do was to
penetrate into the stronghold of the enemy, find Dr. Sitruc, kill him, and
destroy the most devastating weapon of history. That was all.
He caught a
sharp breath as a farmhouse loomed some distance ahead, and veered over against
the dark edge of a wood. The greengray plane would be invisible against that
background, unless keen eyes caught its shadow under a fugitive moon.
He glided
silently now, on a little wind that gossiped with treetops. Only the wind and
the trees remarked on his passing. They could keep the secret.
He landed in
a field of grain that whispered fierce protest as the glider whished through
its heavy-laden plumes. These waved above the level of the motorless ship, and
Ybor decided that it would not be seen before harvesting machines gathered the
grain.
The air was
another problem. He did not want the glider discovered just yet, particularly
if he should be intercepted on his journey into the enemy capital. Elementary
intelligence would connect him with this abandoned ship if he were stopped in
this vicinity for any reason, and if the ship should be discovered on the
morrow.
He took a
long knife from its built-in sheath in the glider and laid about him with it
until he had cut several armloads of grain. He scattered these haphazardly — not
in any pattern — over parts of the ship. It wouldn't look like a glider now,
even from the air.
He pushed
through the shoulder-high growth to the edge of the wood.
He moved
stealthily here. It was almost a certainty that big guns were hidden here, and
he must avoid discovery. He slipped along the soft carpet of vegetation like a
nocturnal cat, running on all fours under low branches, erect when possible.
Ο μυστικός πράκτορας Ybor εκκαθαρίζει μέσα στο δάσος μία περίπολο Sixa
και
προχωρά.
When he had penetrated to
the far edge of the wood, dawn had splashed pale color beyond Nilreq, pulling
jumbled buildings into dark silhouette. There lay his area of operations.
There, perhaps, lay his destiny, and the destiny of the whole race.
This latter
thought was not born of rhetorical hyperbole. It was cold, hard fact. It had
nothing to do with patriotism, nor was it concerned with politico-economic
philosophy. It was concerned with a scientific fact only: if the weapon, which was somewhere in the enemy capital, were
used, the entire race might very well perish down to the last man.
[
Ο Ybor
και
η νεαρή κοπέλλα που τον παρακολουθεί ]
Now began the difficult part
of Ybor’s task. He started to step out of the wood. A slight sound from behind
froze him for the fraction of a second while he identified it. Then, in one
incredibly swift motion, he whirled and flung himself at its source.
He knew he
was fighting a woman after the first instant of contact. He was startled to
some small extent, but not enough to impair his efficiency. A chopping blow,
and she lay unconscious at his feet. He stood over her with narrowed eyes,
unable to see what she looked like in the leafy gloom.
Then dawn
burst like a salvo in the east, and he saw that she was young. Not immature, by
any means, but young. When a spear of sunlight stabbed into the shadow, he saw
that she was lovely.
Ybor pulled
out his combat knife. She was an enemy, and must be destroyed. He raised his
arm for the coup de grace, and held
it there. He could not drive the blade into her. She seemed only to sleep, in
her unconsciousness, with parted ripe lips and limp hands. You could kill a man while he slept, but Nature had planted a
deep aversion in your instincts to killing a helpless female.
She began to
moan softly. Presently she opened her wide brown eyes, soft as a captive
fawn’s.
“You hit me.”
She whispered the accusation.
Ybor said
nothing.
“You hit me’
she repeated.
“What did you
expect?” he asked harshly. “Candy and flowers? What are you doing here?”
“Following you,”
she answered. “May I get up?”
“Yes. Why
were you following?”
“When I saw
you land in our field, I wondered why. I ran out to see you cover your ship and
slip into the woods. I followed.”
Ybor was
incredulous. “You followed me through those woods?”
“I could have
touched you,” she said. “Any time.”
“You lie!”
“Don’t feel
chagrined,” she said. She flowed to her feet in a liquid movement. Her eyes
were almost on a level with his. Her smile showed small, white teeth. “I’m very
good at that sort of thing,” she said. “Better than almost anybody, though I
admit you’re no slouch.”
“Thanks,” he
said shortly. “All right, let’s hear the story. Most likely it’ll be the last
you’ll ever tell. What’s your game?
“You speak
Ynamren like a native,” the girl said.
Ybor’s eyes
glinted. “I am a native.”
She smiled
her disbelief. “And you kill your own soldiers? I think not. I saw you wipe out
that gun crew. There was too much objectivity about you. One of us would do it
with hatred. For you, it was a tactical maneuver.”
“You’re
cutting your own throat,” Ybor warned. “I can’t let you go. You’re too
observing.”
She repeated,
“I think not.” After a pause, she said, “You’ll need help, whatever your
mission. I can offer it.”
He was
contemptuous. “You offer my head a lion’s mouth. I can hide it there? I need no
help. Especially from anybody clumsy enough to be caught. And I’ve caught you,
my pretty.”
She flushed.
“You were about to storm a rampart. I saw it in your odd face as you stared toward
Nilreq. I caught my breath with hope that you could. That’s what you heard. If
I’d thought you were my enemy, you’d have heard nothing. Except, maybe, the
song of my knife blade as it reached your heart.”
“What’s odd
about my face?” he demanded. “It’d pass in a crowd without notice.”
“Women would
notice it,” she said. “It’s lopsided.”
He shrugged
aside the personal issue. He took her throat in his hands. “I have to do this,”
he said. “It’s highly important that nobody knows of my presence here. This is
war. I can’t afford to be humane.”
She offered
no resistance. Quietly, she looked up at him and asked, “Have you heard of
Ylas?”
His fingers
did not close on the soft flesh. “Who has not?”
“I am Ylas,”
she said.
“A trick.”
“No trick.
Let me show you.” As his eyes narrowed, “No, I have no papers, of course.
Listen. You know Mulb, Sworb, and Nomos? I got them away.”
Ybor
hesitated. She could be Ylas, but it would be a fantastic stroke of luck to run
into the fabulous director of Ynamre’s underground so soon. It was almost
beyond belief. Yet, there was a chance she was telling the truth. He couldn’t
overlook that chance.
“Names,” he
said. “You could have heard them anywhere.”
“Nomos has a
new-moon scar on his wrist,” she said. “Sworb is tall, almost as tall as you,
and his shoulders droop slightly. He talks so fast you can hardly follow. Mulb
is a dope. He gets by on his pontifical manner.”
These, Ybor
reflected, were crisp thumbnail sketches.
She pressed
her advantage. “Would I have stood by while you killed that gun crew if I were
a loyal member of the Sixa Alliance? Wouldn’t I have cried a warning when you
killed the first guard and took his helmet and gun?”
There was
logic in this, Ybor thought.
“Wasn’t it obvious
to me,” she went on, “that you were a Seilla agent from the moment that you
landed in my grain field? I could have telephoned the authorities.”
Ybor took his
hands from her throat. “I want to see Dr. Sitruc,” he said.
She frowned
off toward Nilreq, at towers golden in morning sunlight. Ybor noted
indifferently that she made a colorful picture with her face to the sun. A dark
flower, opening toward the dawn. Not that it mattered. He had no time for her.
He had little time for anything.
“That will
take some doing,” she said.
He turned
away. “Then I’ll do it myself. Time is short.”
“Wait!” Her
voice had a quality which caused him to turn. He smiled sourly at the gun in
her hand.
[
H
αντιστροφή
της κατάστασης:
Ο Ybor
αιχμάλωτος
της κοπέλλας ]
Self-contempt
blackened Ybor’s thoughts. He had had her helpless, but he had thought of her
as a woman, not as an armed enemy. He hadn’t searched her because of callow
sentimentality. He had scaled the heights of stupidity, and now would plunge to
his deserved end. Her gun was steady, and purpose shone darkly in her eyes.
“I'm a
pushover for a fairy tale,” she said. “I thought for a while that you really
were a Seilla agent. How fiendishly clever you are, you and your council! I
should have known when those planes went over. They went too fast.”
Ybor said
nothing. He was trying to absorb this.
“It was a
smart idea,” she went on in her acid, bitter voice. “They towed you over, and
you landed in my field. A coincidence, when you come to think of it. I have
been in that farmhouse only three days. Of all places, you pick it. Not by
accident, not so. You and the other big minds on the Sixa council knew the
planes would bring me to my window, knew my eyes would catch the shadow of your
glider, knew I’d investigate. You even killed six of your own men, to dull my
suspicions. Oh, I was taken in for a while.”
“You talk
like a crazy woman,” Ybor said. “Put away that gun.”
“When you had
a chance to kill me and didn’t,” she said, “my last suspicion died. The more
fool I. No, my bucko, you are not going back to report my whereabouts, to have
your goons wait until my committee meets and catch us all. Not so. You die here
and now.”
Thoughts
raced through Ybor’s head. It would be a waste of energy to appeal to her on
the ground that if she killed him she would in effect destroy her species. That
smacked of oratory. He needed a simple appeal, crisp and startling. But what?
His time was running short; he could see it in her dark eyes.
“Your last
address,” he said, remembering Sworb’s tale of escape, “was 40 Curk Way. You
sold pastries, and Sworb got sick on little cakes. He was sick in your truck,
as it carted him away at eleven minutes past midnight.”
Bull’s eye.
Determination to kill went out of her eyes as she remembered. She was
thoughtful for a moment.
Then her eyes
glinted. “I’ve not heard that he reached Acireb safely. You could have caught
him across the Enarta border and beaten the truth out of him. Still,” she
reflected, “you may be telling the truth ...”
“I am,” Ybor
said quietly. “I am a Seilla agent, here on a highly
important mission. If you can’t aid me directly, you must let me go. At
once.”
“You might
be lying, too, though. I can’t take the chance. You will march ahead of me
around the wood. If you make one overt move, or even a move that I don’t
understand, I’ll kill you.”
“Where are
you taking me?”
“To my house.
Where else? Then we’ll talk.”
[ O Ybor κρατούμενος στο αγροτόσπιτο της
κοπέλλας ]
Ybor’s plan to take her
unawares when they were inside the farmhouse dissolved when he saw the great
hulk who admitted them. This was a lumpish brute with the most powerful body
Ybor had ever seen, towering over his own more than average height. The man’s
arms were as thick as Ybor’s thighs, arid the .yellow' eyes were small and
vicious. Yet, apelike though he was, the giant moved like a mountain cat,
without sound, with deceptive swiftness.
“Guard him,”
the girl commanded, and Ybor knew the yellow eyes would not leave him.
He sank into
a chair, an old chair with a primitive tail slot, and watched the girl as she
busied herself at the mountainous cooking range. This kitchen could accommodate
a score of farmhands, and that multiple-burner stove could turn out hot meals
for all.
“We’d better
eat,” she said. “If you’re not lying, you’ll need strength. If you are, you can
withstand torture long enough to tell us the truth.”
“You’re
making a mistake,” Ybor began hotly, but stopped when the guard made a menacing
gesture.
She had a
meal on the table soon. It was a good meal, and he ate it heartily. “The
condemned man,” he said, and smiled.
For a
camaraderie had sprung up between them. He was male, not too long past his
youth, with clear, dark eyes, and he was put together with an eye to
efficiency; and she was female, at the ripening stage. The homely task of
preparing a meal, of sharing it, lessened the tension between them. She gave
him a fleeting, occasional smile as he tore into his food.
“You're a
good cook,” he said, when they had finished.
Warmth went
out of her. She eyed him steadily. “Now,” she said crisply. “Proof.”
Ybor shrugged
angrily. “Do you think I carry papers identifying me as a Seilla agent? ‘To
whom it may concern, bearer is high in Seilla councils. Any aid you may give
him will be appreciated.’ I have papers showing that I'm a newspaper man from
Eeras. The newspaper offices and building have been destroyed by now, and there
is no means of checking.”
She thought
this over. “I’m going to give you a chance,” she said. “If you’re a top-flight
Seilla agent, one of your Nilreq men can identify you. Name one, and we’ll get
him here.”
“None of them
know me by sight. My face was altered before I came on
this assignment, so that nobody could give me away, even accidentally.”
“You know all
the answers, don’t you?” she scoffed. “Well, we will now take you into the
cellar and get the truth from you. And you won’t die until we do. We’ll keep
you alive, one way or another.”
“Wait a
moment,” Ybor said. “There is one man who will know me. He may not have
arrived. Solraq.”
“He came
yesterday,” she said. “Very well. If he identifies you, that will be good
enough. Sleyg,” she said to the huge guard, “fetch Solraq.”
Sleyg rumbled
deep in his throat, and she made an impatient gesture. “I can take care of
myself. Go!” She reached inside her blouse, took her gun from its shoulder
holster and pointed it across the table at Ybor. “You will sit still.”
Sleyg went
out. Ybor heard a car start, and the sound of its motor faded rapidly.
[ Ο κρατούκενος Ybor και η κοπέλλα μόνοι στο αγροτόσπιτο
]
“May I smoke?” Ybor asked.
“Certainly.”
With her free hand she tossed a pack of cigarettes across the table. He lighted
one, careful to keep his hands in sight, handed it to her, and applied flame to
his own. “So you’re Ylas,” he said conversationally.
She didn’t
bother to reply.
“You’ve done
a good job,” he went on. “Right under their noses. You must have had some close
calls.”
She smiled
tolerantly. “Don’t be devious, chum. On the off chance that you might escape,
I’ll give you no data to use later.”
“There won’t
be any later if I don't get out of here. For you, or anybody.”
“Now you’re
melodramatic. There’ll always be a later, as long as there’s time.”
“Time exists
only in consciousness,” he said. “There won't be any time, unless dust and
rocks are aware of it.”
“That’s quite
a picture of destruction you paint.”
“It will be
quite a destruction. And you’re bringing it nearer every minute. You’re cutting
down the time margin in which it can be averted.”
She grinned.
“Ain’t I nasty?”
“Even if you
let me go this moment—” he began.
“Which I
won’t.”
“—the
catastrophe might not be averted. Our minds can’t conceive the unimaginable
violence which might very well destroy all animate life. It’s a queer picture,”
he mused, “even to think about. Imagine space travelers of the future sighting
this planet empty of life, overgrown with jungles. It wouldn’t even have a
name. Oh, they’d find the name. All traces of civilization wouldn’t be
completely destroyed. They’d poke in the crumbled ruins and find bits of
history. Then they’d go back to their home planet with the mystery of Cathor. Why did all life disappear from Cathor? They’d find skeletons enough to
show our size and shape, and they’d decipher such records as were found. But
nowhere would they find even a hint of the reason our civilization was
destroyed. Nowhere would they find the name of Ylas, the reason.”
She merely
grinned.
“That’s how
serious it is,” Ybor concluded. “Not a bird in the sky, not a pig in a sty.
Perhaps no insects, even. I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “if such explosions
destroyed life in other planets in our system. Lara, for example. It had life, once. Did civilization rise to a
peak there, and end in a war that involved every single person on one side or
another? Did one side, in desperation, try to use an explosive available to
both but uncontrollable, and so lose the world?”
[ o έλεγχος του στρατιωτικού
αποσπάσματος των Ynamre
στο αγροτόσπιτο. Ο Ybor
υποδύεται
τον τρελλό.
]
“Shh!” she commanded. She
was stiff, listening.
He heard it
then, the rhythmic tramp of feet. He flicked a glance through the window toward
the wood. “Ynamre,” he said.
A sergeant
marched a squad of eight soldiers across the field toward the house. Ybor
turned to the girl.
“You’ve got
to hide me! Quick!”
She stared at
him coldly. “I have no place.”
“You must
have. You must take care of refugees. Where is it?”
“Maybe you’ve
caught me,” she said grimly, “but you’ll learn nothing. The Underground will
carry on.”
“You little
fool! I’m with you.”
“That’s what
you say. I haven’t any proof.”
Ybor wasted
no more time. The squad was almost at the door. He leaped over against the wall
and squatted there. He pulled his coat half off, shook black hair over his
eyes, and slacked his face so that it took on the loose, formless expression of
an idiot. He began to play with his fingers, and gurgled.
A pounding
rifle butt took the girl to the door. Ybor did not look up. He twisted his
fingers and gurgled at them.
“Did you hear
anything last night?” the sergeant demanded.
“Anything?”
she echoed. “Some planes, some guns.”
“Did you get
up? Did you look out?”
“I was
afraid,” she answered meekly.
He spat
contemptuously. There was a short silence, disturbed only by Ybor’s gurgling.
“Who’s that?”
the sergeant snapped. He stamped across the room, jerked Ybor’s head up by the
lock of hair. Ybor gave him an insane, slobbering grin. The sergeant’s eyes
were contemptuous. “Dummy!” he snarled. He jerked his hand away. “Why don’t you
kill it?” he asked the girl. “All the more food for you. Sa-a-a-y,” he said, as
if he’d seen her for the first time, “not bad, not bad. I’ll be up to see you,
cookie, one of these nights.”
Ybor didn’t
move until they were out of hearing. He got to his feet then, and looked grimly
at Ylas. “I could have been in Nilreq by now. You’ll have to get me away.
They’ve discovered that gun crew, and will be on the lookout.”
She had the
gun in her hand again. She motioned him toward the chair. “Shall we sit down?”
“After that?
You’re still suspicious? You’re a fool.”
“Ah? I think
not. That could have been a part of the trick, to lull my suspicions. Sit down!”
He sat. He
was through with talking. He thought of the soldiers’ visit. That sergeant
probably wouldn’t recognize him if they should encounter each other. Still, it
was something to keep in mind. One more face to remember, to dodge.
[
η επιστροφή του πίθηκου γίγαντα Sleyg.
O Solraq είναι νεκρός. Σβύνει και η τελευταία ελπίδα ταυτοποίησης
του Ybor. ]
If only that big ape would
get back with Solraq. His ears, as if on cue, caught the sound of an
approaching motor. He was gratified to see that he heard it a full second
before Ylas. Her reflexes weren’t so fast, after all.
It was
Sleyg, and Sleyg alone. He came into the house on his soft, cat feet. “Solraq,”
he reported, “is dead. Killed last night.”
Ylas gave
Ybor a smile. There was deadliness in it.
“How very
convenient,” she said, “for you. Doesn’t it seem odd even to you, Mr. Sixa
Intelligence Officer, that of all the Seilla agents you pick a man who is dead?
I think this has gone far enough. Into the cellar with him, Sleyg. We’ll get
the truth this time. Even,” she added to Ybor, “though it’ll kill you.”
[
O
Ybor
οδηγείται στο κελλάρι για ανάκριση και βασανιστήρια ]
This chair was made like a
strait jacket, with an arrangement of clamps and straps that held him
completely motionless. He could move nothing but his eyeballs.
Ylas
inspected him. She nodded satisfaction. “Go heat your irons,” she said to
Sleyg. “First,” she explained to Ybor, “we’ll burn off your ears, a little at a
time. If that doesn’t wear you down, we’ll get serious.”
Ybor said,
“I’ll tell you the truth now.”
She sneered
at that. “No wonder the enemy is knocking at your gates. You were driven out of
Aissu on the south, and Ytal on the north. Now you are coming into your home
country, because you're cowards.”
“I’m convinced
that you are Ylas,” Ybor went on calmly. “And though my orders were that nobody
should know of my mission, I think I can tell you. I must. I have no choice.
Then listen. I was sent to Ynamre to—”
She cut him
off with a fierce gesture. “The truth!”
“Do you want
to hear this or not ?”
“I don’t want
to hear another fairy tale.”
“You are
going to hear this, whether you like it or not. And you’ll hold off your
gorilla until I’ve finished. Or have the end of the race on your head.”
Her lip curled.
“Go on.”
“Have you
heard of U-235? It’s an isotope of uranium.”
“Who hasn’t?”
“All right.
I’m stating fact, not theory. U-235 has been separated in quantity easily
sufficient for preliminary atomic-power research, and the like. They got it out
of uranium ores by new atomic isotope separation methods; they now have
quantities measured in pounds. By ‘they’, I mean Seilla research scientists.
But they have not brought the whole amount together, or any major portion of
it. Because they are not at all sure that, once started, it would stop before
all of it had been consumed — in something like one micromicrosecond of time.”
Sleyg came
into the cellar. In one hand he carried a portable forge. In the other, a
bundle of metal rods. Ylas motioned him to put them down in a corner. “Go up
and keep watch,” she ordered. “I’ll call you.”
A tiny
exultation flickered in Ybor. He had won a concession. “Now the explosion of a
pound of U-235,” he said, “wouldn’t be too unbearably violent, though it releases
as much energy as a hundred million pounds of TNT. Set off on an island, it
might lay waste the whole island, uprooting trees, killing all animal life, but
even that fifty thousand tons of TNT wouldn’t seriously disturb the really
unimaginable tonnage which even a small island represents.”
“I assume,”
she broke in, “that you’re going to make a point? You’re not just giving me a
lecture on high explosives?”
“Wait. The
trouble is, they’re afraid that that explosion of energy would be so
incomparably violent, its sheer, minute concentration of unbearable energy so
great, that surrounding matter would be set off. If you could imagine
concentrating half a billion of the most violent lightning strokes you ever
saw, compressing ail their fury into a space less than half the size of a pack
of cigarettes — you’d get some idea of the concentrated essence of
hyperviolence that explosion would represent. It’s not simply the amount of
energy; it’s the frightful concentration of intensity in a minute volume.
“The
surrounding matter, unable to maintain a self-supporting atomic explosion
normally, might be hyper-stimulated to atomic explosion under U-235’s forces
and, in the immediate neighborhood, release its energy, too. That is, the
explosion would not involve only one pound of U-235, but also five or fifty or
five thousand tons of other matter. The extent of the explosion is a matter of
conjecture.”
“Get to the
point,” she said impatiently.
“Wait. Let me
give you the main picture. Such an explosion would be serious. It would blow an
island, or a hunk of continent, right off the planet. It would shake planet Cathor from pole to pole, cause
earthquakes violent enough to do serious damage on the other side of the
planet, and utterly destroy everything within at least one thousand miles of
the site of the explosion. And I mean everything.
“So they
haven’t experimented. They could end the war overnight with controlled U-235
bombs. They could end this cycle of civilization with one or two uncontrolled
bombs. And they don’t know which they’d have if they made ’em. So far, they
haven’t worked out any way to control the explosion of U-235.”
“If you’re
stalling for time,” Ylas said, “it won’t do you any good, personally. If we
have callers, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
“Stalling?”
Ybor cried. “I’m trying my damnedest to shorten it. I’m not finished yet.
Please don’t interrupt. I want to give you the rest of the picture. As you
pointed out the Sixa armies are being
pushed back to their original starting point: Ynamre. They started out to
conquer the world, and they came close, at one time. But now they are about to
lose it. We, the Seilla, would not
dare to set off an experimental atomic bomb. This war is a phase, to us; to the
Sixa, it is the whole future. So the Sixa are desperate, and Dr. Sitruc has
made a bomb with not one, but sixteen pounds of U-235 in it. He may have it
finished any day. I must find him and destroy that bomb. If it's used, we are
lost either way. Lost the war, if the experiment is a success; the world, if
not. You, and you alone stand between extinction of the race and continuance.”
She seemed to
pounce. “You're lying! Destroy it, you say. How? Take it out in a vacant lot
and explode it? In a desert? On a high mountain? You wouldn’t dare even to drop
it in the ocean, for fear it might explode. Once you had it, you’d have ten
million tigers by the tail—you wouldn’t dare turn loose.”
“I can
destroy it. Our scientists told me how.”
“Let that
pass for the moment,” she said. “You have several points to explain. First, it
seems odd that you heard of this, and we haven’t. We’re much closer to
developments than you, across three thousand miles of water.”
“Sworb,” Ybor
said, “is a good man, even if he can’t eat sweets. He brought back a drawing of
it. Listen, Ylas, time is precious! If Dr. Sitruc finishes that bomb before I
find him, it may be taken any time and dropped near our headquarters. And even
if it doesn’t set off the explosion I’ve described—though it’s almost certain
that it would—it would wipe out our southern army and equipment, and we’d lose
overnight.”
“Two more
points need explaining,” she went on calmly. “Why my grain field? There were
others to choose from.”
“That was
pure accident.”
“Perhaps.
But isn’t that string of accidents suspiciously long when you consider the
death of Solraq?”
“I don’t know
anything about that. I didn’t know he was dead.”
She was
silent. She strode back and forth across the cellar, brows furrowed, smoking
nervously. Ybor sat quietly. It was all he could do; even his fingers were in
stalls.
“I’m half
inclined to believe you,” she said finally, “but look at my position. We have a
powerful organization here. We’ve risked our lives, and many of us have died,
in building it up. I know how we are hated and feared by the authorities. If
you are a Sixa agent, and I concluded that you were by the way you spoke the
language, you would go to any length, even to carrying out such an elaborate
plot as this might be, to discover our methods and membership. I can’t risk all
that labor and life on nothing but your word.”
“Look at my
position,” Ybor countered. “I might have escaped from you, in the wood and
here, after Sleyg left us. But I didn’t dare take the chance. You see, it’s a
matter of time. There is a definite, though unknown, deadline. Dr. Sitruc may
finish that bomb any time, and screw the fuse in. The bomb may be taken at any
time after that and exploded. If I had tried to escape, and you had shot me — and
I’m sure you would — it would take weeks to replace me. We may have only hours
to work with.”
She was no
longer calm and aloof. Her eyes had a tortured look, and her hands clenched as
if she were squeezing words from her heart: “I can’t afford to take the
chance.”
“You can’t
afford not to,” Ybor said.
Footsteps
suddenly pounded overhead. Ylas went rigid, flung a narrowed glance of
speculation and suspicion at Ybor, and went out of the cellar. He twisted a
smile; she hadn’t shot him, as she had threatened.
[
η επιστροφή του λοχία και η ενδελεχής έρευνα ]
He sat still, but each nerve
was taut, quivering, and raw. What now? Who had arrived? What could it mean for
him? Who belonged to that babble upstairs? Whose feet were heavy? He was soon
to know, for the footsteps moved to the cellar door, and Ylas preceded the
sergeant who had arrived earlier.
“I’ve got
orders to search every place in this vicinity,” the sergeant said, “so shut
up.”
His eyes
widened when they fell on Ybor. “Well, well!” he cried. “If it isn’t the dummy.
Sa-a-ay, you snapped out of it!”
Ybor caught
his breath as an idea hit him.
“I was
drugged,” Ybor said, leaping at the chance for escape. “It’s worn off now.”
Ylas frowned,
searching, he could see, for the meaning in his words. He went on, giving her
her cue: “This girl’s servant, that big oaf upstairs—”
“He ran out,”
the sergeant said. “Well catch him.”
“I see. He attacked me last
night in the grain field out there, brought me here and drugged me.”
“What were
you doing in the grain field?”
“I was on my
way to see Dr. Sitruc. I have information of the most vital nature for' him.”
The sergeant
turned to Ylas. “What d’ya say, girlie?”
She shrugged. “A stranger,
in the middle of the night, what would you have done?”
“Then why
didn’t you say something about it when I was here a while ago?”
“If he turned
out to be a spy, I wanted the credit for capturing him.”
“You
civilians;” the sergeant said in disgust. “Well, maybe this is the guy we’re
lookin’ for. Why did you kill that gun crew?” he snarled at Ybor.
Ybor blinked. “How did you
know? I killed them because they were enemies.”
The sergeant
made a gesture toward his gun. His face grew stormy. “Why, you dirty spy—”
“Wait a minute!” Ybor said.
“What gun crew? You mean the Seilla outpost, of course, in Aissu?”
“I mean our
gun crew, you rat, in the woods out there.”
Ybor blinked
again. “I don’t know anything about a gun crew out there. “Listen, you’ve got
to take me to Dr. Sitruc at once. Here’s the background. I have been in Seilla
territory, and I learned something that Dr. Sitruc must know. The outcome of
the war depends on it. Take me to him at once, or you’ll suffer for it.”
The sergeant
cogitated. “There’s something funny here,” he said. “Why have you got him all
tied up ?”
“For
questioning,” Ylas answered.
Ybor could
see that she had decided to play it his way, but she wasn’t convinced. The
truth was, as he had pointed out, she could not afford to do otherwise.
The sergeant
went into an analytical state which seemed to be almost cataleptic. Presently
he shook his massive head. “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” he said in a
puzzled tone. “Every time I get close, I hit a blank… what am I saying?” He
became crisp, menacing. “What’s your name, you?” he spat at Ybor.
Ybor couldn’t
shrug. He raised his eyebrows. “My papers will say that I am Yenraq Ekor, a
newspaper man. Don’t let them fool you. I’ll give my real name to Dr. Sitruc.
He knows it well. You’re wasting time, man!” he burst out. "Take me to him
at once. You’re worse than this stupid female!”
The sergeant
turned to Ylas. “Did he tell you why he wanted to see Dr. Sitruc?”
She shrugged
again, still with speculative eyes on Ybor. “He just said he had to.”
“Well, then,”
the sergeant demanded of Ybor, “why do you want to see him?”
Ybor decided
to gamble. This goof might keep him here all day with aimless questioning. He
told the story of the bomb, much as he had told it to Ylas. He watched the
sergeant’s face, and saw that his remarks were completely unintelligible. Good!
The soldier, like so, many people, knew nothing of U-235. Ybor went into the
imaginative and gibberish phase of his talk.
“And so, if
it's uncontrolled,” he said, “it might destroy the planet, blow it instantly
into dust. But what I learned was a method of control, and the Seilla have a bomb almost completed.
They’ll use it to destroy Ynamre. But if we can use ours first, we’ll destroy
them. You see, it’s a neutron shield that I discovered while I was a spy in the
Seilla camps. It will stop the neutrons, released by the explosion, from
rocketing about space and splitting mountains. Did you know that one free
neutron can crack this planet in half ? This shield will confine them to a
limited area, and the war is ours. So hurry! Our time may be measured in
minutes!”
The sergeant
took it all in. He didn’t dare not believe, for the picture of destruction
which Ybor painted was on such a vast scale that sixteen generations of men
like the sergeant would be required to comprehend it.
The sergeant
made up his mind. “Hey!” he yelled toward the cellar door, and three soldiers
came in. “Get him out of that. Well take him to the captain. Take the girl
along, too. Maybe the captain will want to ask her some questions.”
“But I
haven’t done anything,” Ylas protested.
“Then you got
nothing to be afraid of, beautiful. If they let you go, I’ll take personal
charge of you.”
The sergeant
had a wonderful leer.
[
Ο πράκτορας Ybor
συναντά τον dr.
Sitruc ]
Yo u might as
well be fatalistic, Ybor thought as he waited in Dr. Sitruc’s anteroom. Certain
death could easily await him here, but even so, it was worth the gamble. If he
were to be a pawn in a greater game, the greatest game, in fact, so be it.
So far, he
had succeeded. And it came to him as he eyed his two guards that final success
would result in his own death. He couldn’t hope to destroy that bomb and get
out of this fortress alive. Those guarded exits spelled finis, if he could even
get far enough from this laboratory to reach one of them.
He hadn’t
really expected to get out alive, he reflected. It was
a suicide mission from the start. That knowledge, he knew now, had given
plausibility to his otherwise thin story. The captain, even as the sergeant,
had not dared to disbelieve his tale. He had imparted verisimilitude to his
story of destruction because of his deep and flaming determination to prevent
it.
Not that he
had talked wildly about neutron shields to the captain. The captain was
intelligent, compared to his sergeant. And so Ybor had talked matter-of-factly
about heat control, and had made it convincing enough to be brought here by
guards who grew more timid with each turn of the lorry’s wheels.
Apparently,
the story of the bomb was known here at the government experimental
laboratories; for all the guards had a haunted look, as if they knew’ that they
would never hear the explosion if something went wrong. All the better, then.
If he could take advantage of that fact, somehow, as he had taken advantage of
events to date, he might—might—.
[
η συνάντηση του Dr.
Sitruc
με τον Ybor
]
He shrugged away
speculation. The guards had sprung to attention as the inner door opened, and a
man eyed Ybor.
This was a
slender man with snapping dark eyes, an odd-shaped face, and a commanding air.
He wore a smock, and from its sleeves extended competent-looking hands.
“So you are
the end result,” he said dryly to Ybor. “Come in.”
Ybor followed
him into the laboratory. Dr. Sitruc waved him to a straight, uncomfortable
chair, using the gun which was suddenly in his hand as an indicator. Ybor sat,
and looked steadily at the other.
“What do you
mean, end result?” he asked.
“Isn't it
rather obvious?” the doctor asked pleasantly. “Those planes which passed over
last night were empty; they went too fast, otherwise. I have been speculating
all day on their purpose. Now I see. They dropped you.”
“I heard
something about planes,” Ybor said, “but I didn't see 'em.”
Dr. Sitruc
raised polite eyebrows. “I'm afraid I do not believe you. My interpretation of
events is this: those Seilla planes had one objective, to land an agent here who was
commissioned to destroy the uranium bomb. I have known for some time
that the Seilla command have known of its existence, and I have wondered what
steps they would take to destroy it.”
Ybor could
see no point in remaining on the defensive. “They are making their own bomb,”
he said. “But they have a control. I’m here to tell you about it, so that you
can use it on our bomb. We have time.”
Dr. Sitruc
said: “I have heard the reports on you this morning. You made some wild and
meaningless statements. My personal opinion is that you are a layman, with only
scant knowledge of the subject on which you have been so glib. I propose to
find out—before I kill you. Oh, yes,” he said, smiling, “you will die in any
case. In my present position, knowledge is power. If I find that you actually
have knowledge which I do not, I propose that I alone will retain it. You see
my point?”
“You're like a god here. That's clear enough from the
attitude of the guards.”
“Exactly. I have control of the greatest explosive force in
world history, and my whims are obeyed as iron commands. If I choose, I
may give orders to the High Command. They have no choice but to obey. Now, you —
your name doesn't matter; it's assumed, no doubt — tell me what you know.”
“Why should
I? If I'm going to die, anyway, my attitude is to hell with you. I do know
something that you don't, and you haven't time to get it from anybody but me.
By the time one of your spies could work his way up high enough to learn what I
did, the Sixa would be defeated. But I see no reason to give you the information.
I'll sell it to you — for my life.”
Ybor looked
ardund the small, shining laboratory while he spoke, and he saw it. It wasn’t
particularly large; its size did not account for the stab of terror that struck
his heart. It was the fact that the bomb was finished. It was suspended in a
shock-proof cradle. Even a bombing raid would not shake it loose. It would be
exploded when and where the doctor chose.
“You may well
turn white as a sheet,” Dr. Sitruc chuckled. “There it
is, the most destructive weapon the world has ever known.”
Ybor
swallowed convulsively. Yes, there it was. Literally the means to an end — the
end of the world. He thought wryly that those
religionists who still contended that this war would be ended miraculously by
divine intervention would never live to call the bomb a miracle. What a
shot in the doctrine the explosion would give them if only they could come
through it unscathed!
“I turned
white,” he answered Dr. Sitruc, “because I see it as a blind, uncontrolled
force. I see it as the end of a cycle, when all life dies. It will be millennia
before another civilization can reach our present stage.”
“It is true
that the element of chance is involved. If the bomb sets off surrounding matter
for any considerable radius, it is quite possible that all animate life will be
destroyed in the twinkling of an eye. However, if it does not set off
surrounding matter, we shall have won the world. I alone — and now you — know
this. The High Command sees only victory in that weapon. But enough of
chitchat. You would bargain your life for information on how to control the
explosion. If you convince me that you have such knowledge, I’ll set you free.
What is it?”
“That throws
us into a deadlock,” Ybor objected. “I won’t tell you until I’m free, and you
won’t free me until I tell.”
Dr. Sitruc
pursed thin lips. “True,” he said. “Well, then, how’s this? I shall give the
guards outside a note, ordering that you be allowed to leave unmolested after
you come through the laboratory door.”
“And what’s
to prevent your kill¬ ing me in here, once I have told you?”
“I give you
my word.”
“It isn’t
enough.”
“What other
choice have you?”
Ybor thought
this over, and conceded the point. Somewhere along the line, either he or Dr.
Sitruc would have to trust the other. Since this was the doctor’s domain, and
since he held Ybor prisoner, it was easy to see who would take the other on
trust. Well, it would give him a breathing spell. Time was what he wanted now.
“Write the
note,” he said.
Dr. Sitruc
went to his desk and began to write. He shot glances at Ybor which excluded the
possibility of successful attack. Even the quickest spring would be fatal, for
the doctor was far enough away to have time to raise his gun and fire. Ybor had
a hunch that Dr. Sitruc was an excellent shot. He waited.
Dr. Sitruc
summoned a guard, gave him the note, and directed that Ybor be allowed to read
it. Ybor did, nodded. The guard went out.
“Now,” Dr.
Sitruc began, but broke off to answer his telephone. He listened, nodded, shot
a slitted glance at Ybor, and hung up. ‘‘Would it interest you to know,” he
asked, “that the girl who captured you was taken away from guards by members of
the Underground ?”
‘"Not
particularly,” Ybor said. “Except that . . . yes,” he cried, “it does interest
me. It proves my authenticity. You know how widespread the Underground is, how
powerful. It's clear what happened; they knew I was coming, knew my route, and
caught me. They were going to torture me in their cellar. I told that sergeant
the truth. Now they will try to steal the bomb. If they had it, they could
dictate terms.”
It sounded a
trifle illogical, may be. but Ybor put all of the earnestness he could into his
voice. Dr. Sitruc looked thoughtful.
“Let them
try. Now, let’s have it.”
The tangled
web of lies he had woven had caught him now. He knew of no method to control
the bomb. Dr. Sitruc was not aware of this fact, and would not shoot until he
was. Ybor must stall, and wratch for an opportunity to do what he must do. He
had gained a point: if he got through that door, he would be free. He must,
then, get through the door — with the bomb. And Dr. Sitruc’s gun was in his
hand.
“Let's trace
the reaction,” Ybor began.
“The
control!” Dr. Sitruc snapped.
Ybor’s face
hardened. “Don’t get tough. My life depends on this. I’ve got to convince you
that I know what I’m talking about, and I can do that by describing the method
from the first. If you interrupt, then to hell with you.”
Dr. Sitruc’s
odd face flamed with anger. This subsided after a moment, and he nodded. “Go
on.”
“Oxygen and
nitrogen do not burn — if they did, the first fire would have blown this
planet’s atmosphere off in one stupendous explosion. Oxygen and nitrogen will
burn if heated to about three thousand degrees Centigrade, and they’ll give off
energy in the process. But they don’t give off sufficient energy to maintain
that temperature — so they rapidly cool, and the fire goes out. If you maintain
that temperature artificially — well, you’re no doubt familiar with that
process of obtaining nitric oxide.”
“No doubt,”
Dr. Sitruc said acidly.
“All right.
Now U-235 can raise the temperature of local matter to where it will, till,
‘burn’, and give off energy. So let’s say we set off a little pinch of U-235.
Surrounding matter also explodes, as it is raised to an almost inconceivable
temperature. It cools rapidly; within perhaps one-hundred-millionth of a second,
it is down below the point of ignition. Then may be a full millionth of a second
passes before it's down to one million degress hot, and a minute or so may
elapse before it is visible in the normal sense. Now that visible radiation
will represent no more than one-hundred-thousandth of the total radiation at
one million degrees — but even so, it would be several hundred times more
brilliant than the sun. Right ?"
Dr. Sitruc
nodded. Ybor thought there was a touch of deference in his nod.
“That's
pretty much the temperature cycle of a U-235 plus surrounding matter explosion,
Dr. Sitruc. I'm oversimplifying, I guess, but we don't need to go into detail.
Now that radiation pressure is the stuff that's potent. The sheer momentum,
physical pressure of light from the stuff at one million degrees, would amount
to tons and tons and tons of pressure. It would blow down buildings like a
titanic wind if it weren't for the fact that absorption of such appalling
energy would volatilize the buildings before they could move out of the way.
Right?"
Dr. Sitruc
nodded again. He almost smiled.
“All
right," Ybor went on. He now entered the phase of this contest where he
was guessing, and he’d get no second guess. “What we need is a damper,
something to hold the temperature of surrounding matter down. In that way, we
can limit the effect of the explosion to desired areas, and prevent it from
destroying cities on the opposite side of Cathor.
The method of applying the damper depends on the exact mechanical structure of
the bomb itself."
Ybor got to
his feet easily, and walked across the laboratory to the cradle which held the
bomb. He didn't even glance at Dr. Sitruc; he didn’t dare. Would he be allowed
to reach the bomb? Would an unheard, unfelt bullet reach his brain before he
took another step?
When he was
halfway across the room, he felt as if he had already walked a thousand miles.
Each step seemed to be slow motion, leagues in length. And still the bomb was
miles away. He held his steady pace, fighting with every atom of will his
desire to sprint to his goal, snatch it and flee.
He stopped
before the bomb, looked down at it. He nodded, ponderously. “I see," he
said, remembering Sworb's drawings and the careful explanations he had received.
“Two cast-iron hemispheres, clamped over the orange segments of cadmium alloy.
And the fuse — I see it is in — a tiny can of cadmium alloy containing a speck
of radium in a beryllium holder and a small explosive powerful enough to shatter
the cadmium walls. Then — correct me if I'm wrong, will you? — the powdered
uranium oxide runs together in the central cavity. The radium shoots neutrons
into this mass — and the U-235 takes over from there. Right?"
Dr. Sitruc
had come up behind Ybor, stood at his shoulder. “Just how do you know so much
about that bomb?" he asked with overtones of suspicion.
Ybor threw a
careless smile over his shoulder. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Cadmium stops
neutrons, and it’s cheap and effective. So you separate the radium and U-235 by
thin cadmium walls, brittle so the light explosion will shatter them, yet
strong enough to be handled with reasonable care.”
The doctor
chuckled, “Why, you are telling the truth.”
[
O
Ybor
ακινητοποιεί
τον dr.
Sitruc ]
Dr. Sitruc relaxed, and Ybor
moved. He whipped his short, prehensile tail around the barrel of Dr. Sitruc’s
gun, yanked the weapon down at the same time his fist cracked the scientist’s
chin. His free hand wrenched the gun out of Dr. Sitruc’s hand.
He didn’t
give the doctor a chance to fall from the blow of his fist. He chopped down
with the gun butt and Dr. Sitruc was instantly unconscious. Ybor stared down at
the sprawled figure with narrowed eyes. Dared he risk a shot? No, for the
guards would not let him go, despite the doctor’s note, without investigation.
Well—
He chopped
the gun butt down again. Dr. Sitruc would be no menace for some time, anyway.
And all Ybor needed was a little time. First, he had to get out of here.
That meant
taking the fuse out of the bomb. He went over to the cradle, examined the fuse.
He tried to unscrew it. It was too tight. He looked around for a wrench. He saw
none. He stood half panic-stricken. Could he afford a search for the wrench
which would remove the fuse? If anyone came in, he was done for. No, he’d have
to get out while he could.
And if anybody took a shot at him, and hit the bomb,
it was goodbv Cathor and all that’s in it. But he didn’t dare wait here. And he
must stop sweating ice water, stop this trembling.
[
H
απόδραση
του Ybor
με
την ατομική βόμβα ]
He picked up the cradle and
walked carefully to the door. Outside, in the anteroom, the guards who had
brought him here turned white. Blood drained out of their faces like air from a
punctured balloon. They stood motionless, except for a slight trembling of
their knees, and watched Ybor go out into the corridor.
Unmolested,
Dr. Sitruc had said. He was not only unmolested, he was avoided. Word seemed to
spread through the building like poison gas on a stiff breeze. Doors popped
open, figures hurried out — and ran away from Ybor and his cargo. Guards,
scientists, men in uniform, girls with pretty legs, barekneed boys — all ran.
To where?
Ybor asked with his heart in his mouth. There was no safe place in all the
world. Run how they might, as far as they could, and it would catch them if he
fell or if the bomb were accidentally exploded.
He wanted a
plane. But how to get one, if everybody ran? He could walk to the airport, if
he knew where it was. Still, once he was away from these laboratories, any
policeman, ignorant of the bomb, could stop him, confiscate the weapon, and
perhaps explode it.
He had to
retain possession.
The problem
was partly solved for him. As he emerged from the building, to see people
scattering in all directions, a huge form came out from behind a pillar and
took him by the arm. Sleyg Ybor almost cried with terror which be¬ came relief.
“Come,” Sleyg said. “Ylas
want you.”
“Get me to a
plane!” Ybor said. He thought he’d said it quietv, but Sleyg’s yellow eyes
flickered curiously at him.
The big man
nodded, crooked a finger, and led the way. He didn’t seem curious about the
bomb. Ybor followed to where a small car was parked at the curb. They climbed
in, and Sleyg pulled out into traffic.
So Ylas
wanted him, eh? Why? He gave up speculation to watch the road ahead, cradling
the bomb in his arms against rough spots.
He heard a
plane, and searched for it anxiously. All he needed at this stage was a bombing
raid, and a direct hit on this car. They had promised him that no raids would
be attempted until they were certain of his success or failure, but brass hats
were a funny lot. You never knew what they’d do next, like countermanding
orders given only a few minutes before.
Still, no
alarm sirens went off, so the plane must be Sixa. Ybor sighed with relief.
They drove
on, and Ybor speculated on the huge, silent figure beside him. How had Sleyg
known hat he would come out of that building? How had he known he was there?
Did the Underground have a pipeline even into Dr. Sitruc’s office?
These
speculations were useless, too, and he shrugged them away as Sleyg drove out of
the city through fields of grain. The Sixa, apparently, were going to feed
their armies mush, for he saw no other produce.
Sleyg cut off
the main road into a bumpy lane, and Ybor clasped the bomb firmly.
“Take it
easy,” he warned.
Sleyg slowed
obediently, and Ybor wondered again at the man’s attitude. Ybor did not seem to
be a prisoner, yet he was not in command here completely. It was a sort of
combination of the two, and it was uncomfortable.
They came to
a bare, level stretch of land where a plane stood, props turning idly. Sleyg
headed toward it. He brought the car to a halt, motioned Ybor out. He then indicated
that Ybor should enter the big plane.
“Give me your
tool kit” Ybor said, and the big man got it.
The plane
bore Sixa insignia, but Ybor was committed now. If he used the bomb as a
threat, he could make anybody do what he liked. Still, he felt a niggling
worry.
Just before
he stepped on the wing ramp, a shot came from the plane. Ybor ducked
instinctively, but it was Sleyg who fell — with a neat hole between his eyes.
Ybor tensed himself, stood still.
The fuselage
door slid back, and a face looked out.
“Solraq!” Ybor
cried. “I thought you were dead !”
“You were
meant to think it, Ybor. Come on in.”
“Wait till I
get these tools.” Ybor handed the cradle up to the dark man who grinned down at
him. “Hold baby,” Ybor said. “Don't drop him. If he cries, you’ll never hear
him.”
He picked up
the tool kit, climbed into the plane. Solraq waved a command to the pilot, and
the plane took off. Ybor went to work gingerly on the fuse while Solraq talked.
“Sleyg was a
cutie,” he said. “We thought he was an ignorant ape. He was playing a big game,
and was about ready to wind it up. But, when you named me for identification,
he knew that he’d have to turn in his report, because we could have sent you
directly to Dr. Sitruc, and helped you. Sleyg wasn’t ready yet, so he reported
me dead. Then he had the soldiers come and search the house, knowing you’d be
found and arrested. He got into trouble when that skirt-chasing sergeant
decided to take Ylas along. He had to report that to others of the Underground,
because he had to have one more big meeting held before he could get his final
dope.
“You see,
he’d never turned in a report,” Solraq went on. “He was watched, and afraid to
take a chance. When Ylas and I got together, we compared notes, searched his
belongings, and found the evidence. Then we arranged this rendevouz — if you
got away. She told Sleyg where you were, and to bring you here. I didn’t think
you’d get away, but she insisted you were too ingenious to get caught. Well,
you did it, and that’s all to the good. Not that it would have mattered much.
If you’d failed, we’d have got hold of the bomb somehow, or exploded it in Dr.
Sitruc’s laboratory.”
Ybor didn’t
bother to tell him that it didn’t matter where the bomb was exploded. He was
too busy trying to prevent it’s exploding here. At last he had the fuse out. He
motioned Solraq to open the bomb bay. When the folding doors dropped open, he
let the fuse fall between them.
“Got it’s
teeth pulled,” he said, “and we’ll soon empty the thing.”
He released
the clamps and pulled the hemispheres apart. He took a chisel from the tool kit
and punched a hole in each of the cadmium cans in succession, letting the
powder drift out. It would fall, spread, and never be noticed by those who
would now go on living.
They would
live because the war would end before Dr. Sitruc could construct another bomb.
Ybor lifted eyes that were moist.
“I guess
that’s it,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“We’ll
parachute out and let this plane crash when we sight our ship some fifty miles
at sea. We’ll report for orders now. This mission’s
accomplished.”
To παρόν διήγημα “Deadline” του Cleve Cartmill δημοσιεύθηκε στο περιοδικό Astounding Science Fiction, vol. XXXIII, No. 1, March 1944, σελ. 154-178.
Πέραν του ότι είναι προδρομικό-προφητικό για
την ατομική βόμβα, το FBI
ανέκρινε τον συγγραφέα
του γιατί θεωρούσε πως το απόρρητο μυστικό του σχεδίου Manhattan είχε διαρρεύσει.
Ύλη περιεχομένων του
τεύχους
ΕΛΕΥΘΕΡΟΓΡΑΦΟΣ
[ ανάρτηση 15 Ιανουαρίου 2025 :
Ιστορία
φαντασίας με την ατομική βόμβα
“Deadline” by Cleve
Cartmill
Astounding Science Fiction
magazine
March 1944
ΠΕΖΟΓΡΑΦΙΑ
ΚΟΙΝΩΝΙΚΗ
ΣΚΕΨΗ
]
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