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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32889-h.zip b/32889-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc72992 --- /dev/null +++ b/32889-h.zip diff --git a/32889-h/32889-h.htm b/32889-h/32889-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..403f535 --- /dev/null +++ b/32889-h/32889-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4113 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cue For Quiet, by T. L. Sherred + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.img1 {border:solid 1px; } + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.p1 {letter-spacing: 0.5em; } + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cue for Quiet, by Thomas L. Sherred + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cue for Quiet + +Author: Thomas L. Sherred + +Illustrator: Orban + +Release Date: June 19, 2010 [EBook #32889] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUE FOR QUIET *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May and July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img class="imag1" src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="588" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="400" height="607" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> + +<h1>CUE FOR QUIET</h1> +<p> </p> + +<h2>BY T. L. SHERRED</h2> +<p> </p> + +<h3>ILLUSTRATED BY ORBAN</h3> +<p> </p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>After too many years, T. L. Sherred returns with a story +that gets our SPACE SPECIAL rating. It's the story of a man +with a headache—who found a cure for it! And the cure gave +him more power than any man could dream of.</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_002.jpg" width="400" height="587" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>So I had a headache. The grandfather of all headaches. You try working +on the roof line sometime, with the presses grinding and the overhead +cranes wailing and the mechanical arms clacking and grabbing at your +inner skull while you snap a shiny sheet of steel like an armored +pillowcase and shove it into the maw of a hungry greasy ogre. Noise. +Hammering, pounding, shrieking, gobbling, yammering, incessant noise. +And I had a headache.</p> + +<p>This headache had all the signs of permanency. It stayed with me when +I slid my timecard into an empty slot that clanged back at me, when I +skittered across a jammed street of blowing horns and impatient buses +with brakedrums worn to the rivets, when I got off at my corner and +stood in the precarious safety of a painted island in a whirring storm +of hurtling hornets. It got even worse when I ate dinner and tried to +read my paper through the shrill juvenile squeals of the housing +project where I live surrounded by muddy moppets and, apparently, +faithless wives and quarrelsome spouses. The walls of my Quonset are +no thicker than usual.</p> + +<p>When Helen—that's my wife—dropped the casserole we got for a wedding +present from her aunt and just stood there by the kitchen sink crying +her eyes out in frustration I knew she finally had more of a mess to +clean up than just the shattered remains of a brittle bowl. I didn't +say a word. I couldn't. I shoved the chair across the room and watched +it tilt the lamp her mother bought us. Before the lamp hit the floor +my hat was on my head and I was out the door. Behind me I heard at +least one pane of the storm door die in a fatal crash. I didn't look +around to see if it were the one I'd put in last Sunday.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Art was glad to see me. He had the beer drawn and was evening the foam +before the heavy front door had shut us off from the street. "Been a +while, Pete. What's new?"</p> + +<p>I was glad to see him, too. It was quiet in there. That's why I go +eight blocks out of my way for my beer. No noise, no loud talking or +you end up on the curb; quiet. Quiet and dark and comfortable and you +mind your own business, usually. "Got any more of those little boxes +of aspirin?"</p> + +<p>He had some aspirin and was sympathetic. "Headache again? Maybe you +need a new pair of glasses."</p> + +<p>I washed down the pills and asked for a refill on the beer. "Maybe, +Art. What do you know that's new?"</p> + +<p>Nothing. We both knew that. We talked for a while; nothing important, +nothing more than the half-spoken, half-grunted short disjointed +phrases we always repeated. Art would drift away and lean on the other +end of the bar and then drift back to me and at the end of each trip +there would be clean ashtrays and the dark plastic along the bar would +gleam and there would be no dregs of dead drinks and the rows of fresh +glasses would align themselves in empty rows on the stainless steel of +the lower counter. Art's a good bartender when he wants to be. I held +up my empty glass.</p> + +<p>"One more, Art. Got the radio section of the paper?"</p> + +<p>He handed it to me. "Might be something on the television."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We both laughed. We both feel the same way about television, but he +has to have a set in his business for week-end football or baseball +games. A big set he has, too, with an extra speaker for the far end of +the bar for the short beer trade. I found the program I wanted and +showed Art the listing.</p> + +<p>He looked at it. "Strauss ... that's that waltz music," and I nodded +and he went over to the radio and found the station. These small +stations can't sell every minute of their time for commercials, +although they try, and every once in a while they run through a solid +hour of Strauss or Bing Crosby or Benny Goodman. I like Strauss.</p> + +<p>And there I sat drinking beer and eating stale popcorn when I should +have been home with Helen, listening to quiet violins and muted +brasses when I should have been doing something noisy and instructive. +In my glass I could see whatever I wanted, wherever I would. I made +circular patterns on the bar and drew them into a grotesque mass with +fingers wet with the silver condensation of bubbles drawn magically +through impervious crystal. Then Art turned off the radio.</p> + +<p>He was apologetic, but he still turned off the radio. In answer to my +unspoken question he shrugged and indicated Freddie. Freddie likes +television. He likes dog acts and circus bands and bouncing clowns. He +watches the commercials with an innocent unjaundiced eye. Sometimes he +sings along with the animated bakers and cooks and gas stations at the +top of his boyish beery baritone. He sings loud, and he likes his +television the same way.</p> + +<p>Art flipped up the lid of the television and stood there long enough +to make sure the picture, whatever it was, would be in focus. Then he +came back to me and poured another. Hesitating, he added another +smaller glass. I can't afford that stuff on what I make. Where I made +my mistake was taking it. We each had another. And another. The +headache got worse.</p> + +<p>Ivan and Jack came in, and, when they heard the blast of sound, came +down to my end of the bar where, although the extra speaker is +overhead, you don't have to look at the source of the noise. Art +handed us a deck of cards and a piece of chalk to keep score and we +started to play euchre. You don't have to think to play euchre, which +is good. It's about the only game you can play with sign language, the +only game for a noisy bar. So we played euchre, and at ten-thirty Ivan +and Jack left me alone to face the music. The little cords at the nape +of my neck were tight as wires, the temple areas near my eyes were +soft and tender and sore to the touch, and my head was one big snare +drum.</p> + +<p>That was when Freddie half-shouted to Art to get the Roller Derby on +Channel Seven and—so help me!—to turn it up a little louder. The +cards fell out of my hand and onto the table. I took out a cigarette +and my lighter slipped out of my tight fingers and fell on the floor +and I bent over to pick it up. My head swelled to twice its size, my +glasses slid down a little on my sweaty nose, and the tiny red veins +in my eyes grew from a thread to a rope to a flag to a tapestry of +crimson rage and the noise abruptly stopped. And Art began to bellow. +I stood up. The television set was smoking.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Well, it was fast while it lasted. Art didn't really need the fire +department. There wasn't any flame to speak of. Someone pulled the +plug from the wall and rolled the set out and used the hand +extinguisher on the burnt innards of the set and with the rear exhaust +fan going the last of the bitter smoke was drifting out before the +sirens pulled up in front. The firemen were relieved, not angry, as +they always are, and Art in his misery was thoughtful enough to slip a +square bottle in the pocket of the lieutenant in charge. It was cold +outside, at that. Freddie said so, when he left; there was no reason +to stay at Art's any more when most other bars would have the Roller +Derby. I watched him go, and mentally cursed the bearings in his new +car. Well, fairly new. I went home. Helen was in bed when I got there, +probably asleep. She was still probably asleep when I left for work in +the morning. She gets like that.</p> + +<p>The next day at Art's there was a big space lighter in color than the +surrounding wall where the television set had stood. I asked Art +about it.</p> + +<p>He didn't know. The serviceman had come out and collected it, clucking +in dismay at the mess the extinguisher had left. No, no idea what +caused it. Short circuit wouldn't make it that bad; fuses should have +blown first. They'd find it, though. Art hoped it wouldn't be the +picture tube; that wasn't covered in his service policy, and those +tubes in that size cost money. Anything else was covered. At that, he +was better off than Freddie.</p> + +<p>I looked up. "What's the matter with Freddie?"</p> + +<p>He told me. Freddie had ruined his motor on the way home last night. +What hadn't blown out the exhaust pipe had gone out the hood, and +right after his ninety-day guarantee had expired.</p> + +<p>I remembered what I had thought of last night. "How did he do that?"</p> + +<p>Art didn't know. He had been driving along and—that was it. The car +was in the garage with nothing left between the radiator and the +firewall and Freddie was trying to get something out of the insurance +company. Fat chance, too, with that bunch of pirates. We'd all had +experience with that sort of thing, hadn't we? Why—someone at the +other end of the bar wanted some service and Art left. I sat back and +began to add two and two. I got five.</p> + +<p>Art came back and grinned at me. "You're not going to like this, +Pete."</p> + +<p>"What won't I like?"</p> + +<p>"This," and a man in coveralls shouldered me aside and set a cobra on +the bar in front of me, a snake with a twelve inch tube. Art went on +to explain: "They're giving me a loaner until my own set gets back and +they don't want to plug it in the usual place until they get a chance +to completely check the wiring. Okay?"</p> + +<p>It had to be okay. It wasn't my place of business. I moved down a bit +and watched the serviceman plug it in. He tried the channels for +clarity and without warning flipped the volume control all the way +over and the whole building shook. I shook, too, like a bewildered +Labrador throwing off an unwanted splash of icy water. The top of my +head lifted from its moorings and shifted just enough for me to name +that infernal serviceman and all his issue. He just sat there and +grinned, making no attempt to tone down the set. Then I said what I +thought about his television, and the set went quiet. Like that.</p> + +<p>It began to smoke and the serviceman began to shuck tools from his +box. Art opened his mouth to yell and I walked out the front door. +The High Hat, right across the street, would serve to keep me warm +until the smoke and profanity was cleared and Art had the repairman +under control.</p> + +<p>I knew it! They had a jukebox inside the door with the same twenty top +tunes of the week, the same gaudy front with the same swirling lights +and the same tonsillectomied tenors. I shuddered as I eased by, and I +murmured a heartfelt wish over my shoulder, something about the best +place for that machine. I ordered a beer, a short one. The barkeep, a +pleasant enough fellow, but with none of Art's innate joviality, rang +up the dime.</p> + +<p>"You didn't happen to pull the cord out when you walked by, did you?"</p> + +<p>"Pull the cord out of what?"</p> + +<p>He didn't bother to answer, and went over to the machine. That was the +first I realized the music had stilled. He clicked the switch on and +off a few times with no result, and went to the telephone, detouring +by way of the cash register to pick up a coin. Thoughtfully sipping my +beer I heard him dial and report a jukebox out of order. Then a relay +clicked in the back of my head.</p> + +<p>Could all this be a coincidence? Could be.... Couldn't be! The beer +grew warm in my hand as I remembered. Every time I'd wished, really +really wished, something had happened. Now that I had time to think it +over I remembered that red rotor spinning madly past my eyes, that +horrible hatred and afterward, that sated sense of fulfillment.... +Better have another beer and forget it, Pete. Better make it two +beers. Maybe three.</p> + +<p>The High Hat sold me a lot more than two beers, or three. When I left +there, although I was walking a mental chalkline I had a little +trouble lighting a cigarette in the chill breeze. I didn't bother +going back to Art's. Art was all right, and there was no sense in +making trouble for a pal. Harry, now. He was a stinker. Go put the +needle in Harry, two blocks away.</p> + +<p>While Harry was drawing the beer I walked string straight to the +jukebox, clicked in a quarter, and stalked back to the barstool. Turn +your back, Pete, just as though you didn't know perfectly well what +was going to happen. Now take a tasty sip of your beer, wait for the +noise to start.... Take a deep breath, now; Pete Miller, saviour of +man's sanity. I closed my eyes and pretended to be covering a yawn.</p> + +<p>"Tubes," I whispered, "do your stuff. Blow that horn, Gabriel—go +ahead and—blow!"</p> + +<p>The jukebox moaned as far as the first eight bars; I got my quarter +back from a puzzled Harry; I listened to Harry call his repairman; I +finished my beer; I got outside and almost around the corner before I +began laughing like a hyena; I got to bed snickering and went to sleep +the same way; and I woke up with a headache.</p> + +<p>Hammering presses the next day I treated with the contempt of long +practice. One single theme kept rolling around like a pea in a +washtub; just what had happened to that television set and those +jukeboxes? And what had made a fairly new eight-cylinder almost +disintegrate, apparently on command? Agreed, that coincidence has a +mighty long arm, but hardly long enough to scratch its own elbow. +Forty years old and a superman? One way to find out. Let's go at this +cold sober. Let's scratch this shiny new rubber band until it snaps.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At three-thirty I was first in line at the timeclock, second out the +gate, and fourth or fifth to line up at the National Bar. "Aspirin and +ginger ale," I ordered, and got a knowing grin from the barkeep. +Laugh, buddy. You may think I feel bad now, but wait and see what +happens to your bangbox. I dare someone to put in a nickel; I +double-dare you. That's it—pick a good number from one to twenty and +go back to your stool and sit down. Take it easy, now, Pete. Don't +strain, don't press, no slugging in the clinches, and break clean. The +place needs a good airing, anyway, and the floor could use a new +broom, too. Bubble, bubble, go for double ... no more music. No more +noise. Smoke, you boiler factory, smoke! Hey, somebody, pull that +plug. Not that one, <i>that</i> one. Pull it out. Pull it out! <i>Pull it +out!</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Finally someone did pull it out, someone chattered excitedly into the +telephone, and I slid out the front door when the fire engines were +wailing blocks away. Coincidence, hey. And cold sober, too. I stood on +the curb and watched the firemen dash in and straggle out. Dirty trick +to break up a pinochle game in weather like this. Four red-eyed +crimson giants snorted and whined their blunt noses back into the +clogged traffic, back to wait another call. Three buses were sentinels +at the safety zone, and one of them took me home to dinner. This was +on a Friday, the night for the Olsens, next door, to have their weekly +sangerbund. When Helen shook me into wakefulness the party was going +strong.</p> + +<p>"Pete, will you wake up? You know perfectly well when you hear me!"</p> + +<p>Yes, I heard her. "What time is it?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind what time it is. You go over there and tell them you're +going to call the police if they don't turn off that radio—"</p> + +<p>I yawned. "After two o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Almost two-thirty. You just get up and—"</p> + +<p>I laughed out loud, as loud as you can laugh at that time of the +morning. "Roll over and go back to sleep," I told her. "They'll shut +it off in a minute."</p> + +<p>I shut my sleepy lids and went through the deep breath routine. The +radio stopped. Then an afterthought; this was Friday, and I wanted to +sleep late on a Saturday unsullied and unwelcomed by soap operas. +Another deep breath, complicated by a yawn, and I went back to sleep.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Over our coffee Helen pulled aside the kitchen curtain.</p> + +<p>"I thought there was some reason I didn't wake up until ten. Look +across the street," and she pointed.</p> + +<p>In front of the Olsen's, a red panel truck, Chuck's Radio Service. +Next door, in front of the Werner's, Harper Radio Parts. In the +Smith's driveway, Rapid Radio Repair.</p> + +<p>"What are you grinning at?"</p> + +<p>"Me? I'm not grinning. Not at this time of the morning."</p> + +<p>"Pete Miller, you were, too. Just like the cat that ate the fish."</p> + +<p>"Canary, you mean."</p> + +<p>"That's what I said. What's so funny?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," I said. "We just got a good night's sleep for a change. I +like my sleep."</p> + +<p>She harrumphed a bit, as suspicious as she usually is, and I went to +the stove for more coffee. Over my shoulder I said, "Want to play a +little cards tonight?"</p> + +<p>She was skeptical about that. "At Art's, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Sure. Saturday night euchre tournaments."</p> + +<p>"That noisy place? Nothing doing."</p> + +<p>I told her the jukebox and the television set were out of commission +and there'd be no noise she didn't make herself. She loved to play +cards, I knew, and she liked Art. It was just the incessant roar that +wore her down. I managed to talk her into it.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At Art's that night I listened with envy to the words that were used +over the telephone when the jukebox gave up its ghost. I heard only +Art's end of the conversation, of course, but I gathered that Art was +being accused at the very least of sabotage. I changed the subject +quick when I caught Helen trying to figure out the look I must have +been wearing. Women get so they're pretty good at that after they've +been married awhile. Art himself drove us home at closing time. Helen +and Art's wife did all the talking, and I'm sure no one noticed I held +my breath before every bar or house and Helen commented, as I fit the +key into the front door, on the fact that the Olsens and the Werners +and the Smiths all picked the same time to turn off their radios. +"Very nice of them," she said, "considering it's Saturday night."</p> + +<p>Now, I use two buses to get to work, transferring from the Harper bus +to the Clairmount line, and it's a forty minute ride. For two days I +fed my ego by holding my breath. I likely looked queer with a bursting +red face, but no one said anything, at least directly to me. I +wouldn't have cared much, anyway, because I didn't care much what +happened; after all, wasn't I a benefactor to practically all the +human race, the thinking part, that is? Wasn't it going to be nice to +live in a world without punctured eardrums and hamstrung nerves? +Wasn't it going to be good to be able to eat a meal in peace, to sip +your ten or sixty-cent drink without having some moron with a nickel +prodding your ulcer? I thought so.</p> + +<p>Thursday, or maybe Friday, my careful searching of the daily papers +found my tiny item buried back of the stock reports, with the labor +news. I read it three times.</p> + +<h4>JUKEBOX WAR SUSPECTED.</h4> +<p class="blockquot"><i>An anonymous tip today told our labor reporter that serious trouble +looms in the canned music industry. R. C. Jones, czar of Local 77, +AFL, has issued orders to individually guard each machine serviced by +his union. Jones had the classic "no comment" for publication, but it +is an open secret that intra-union friction is high in the +Harper-Gratiot area. Jones inferred that deliberate sabotage is +responsible for the wholesale short-circuiting of jukeboxes and +television sets. He named no names, but in an off-the-record statement +threatened to fight fire with fire. "We're not," he snapped, "going to +stand by and watch while goons ruin our livelihood. We will....</i>"</p> + +<p>Now I was in a fix. They had to make a living. I'd forgotten that. A +union man myself, who was I to break another's rice bowl? I could see +no point in writing to this R. C. Jones. He'd think I was as crazy as +they come. And the newspapers—I could imagine the reactions of a +tough city editor. So, wrapped up in my own thoughts, I stepped off +the curb a little ahead of the green, and I jumped just in time. I +swore at the truck that almost got me, and it happened so quickly I +wasn't prepared to hear or to see the motor of the truck throw a +piston right through the rusted hood. White as a sheet the driver got +out of his cab, and I crossed the street against the red light and +lost myself in the crowd. This curve I was putting on the ball, it +came to me then, wasn't limited to jukeboxes and noisy radios and +burnt-out bearings. I had to watch my temper, or I was going to get +someone in trouble. I was in trouble myself, and I had to get out of +it.</p> + +<p>By the time I got home I'd thought it over quite well. This—this +power whatever it might be, was the McCoy. Why should I waste it when +an honest dollar might be turned? A factory job in Detroit is just a +factory job, and I might keep mine for the next forty years if I lived +long enough through the noise and the dirt and the uncertainty and the +model changeover layoffs every Christmas. The Olsens' radio disturbed +my thinking and it took only a second. Either they were going to get +tired of putting new tubes into that gadget, or play it softer, or +move. I didn't care which.</p> + +<p>So I used my wife's portable to type out a letter to Naval Ordnance in +Aberdeen where my brother-in-law used to be stationed, telling them +what I'd done, what I thought I might be able to do, and asking them +for an opportunity to give them a demonstration. In return, I asked +for a steady government job in a warm climate. Until I could arrange a +certain demonstration, I went on, I could understand they might think +me a crank, so I wouldn't at present sign my name. I suggested they +pay close attention through the week of the fifth through the twelfth +to the various press association dispatches, and I would arrange +later, in my next letter, for a more personal show if they wanted to +take it any further.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The fifth fell on a Saturday. Bright and early I was up to ride the +bus downtown, changing to the Woodward line, ending up at Ferndale, +all the time concentrating furiously and holding my breath as much as +I dared. On the way back home I tried to work it a little differently. +Probably no one else on the streetcar beside myself noticed there +wasn't a single passenger car, truck or bus that passed us. Every car, +as we sailed by, stalled and every traffic light we passed either +turned three colors or blinked out completely. Most of the moving cars +made it to the curb on their momentum. The others stayed where they +were. When I got off in front of the City Hall, filthy old hulk that +it is, the streetcar stayed immobile at the safety zone, it was a new +PCC car, and the insulation poured smoke from under the wheels. +Naturally there wasn't any moving traffic in back of it, or in front. +I saw to that. Then I just strolled around Cadillac Square, bollixing +up everything that occurred to me, from trucks to busses to traffic +lights. You never saw such a verminous tangled mess in all your life. +When the patrol wagons began to scream into the Square loaded with +reinforcements for the helpless purple single cop at the Michigan +intersection I let them get as far as the center of the street before +I pinned them down. Even when I saw it later in the newsreels I +couldn't believe it. Even Mack Sennett could have done no better.</p> + +<p>I had to walk all the way out Gratiot to St. Antoine before I could +find transportation home that wasn't walled off by screaming horns and +haggard foot-patrolmen, and when I got off at my corner all Gratiot +and Harper behind me was as clogged as Woodward. I even knocked out +every red neon sign within two blocks of a traffic light. That one +might keep a few pedestrians alive a little longer.</p> + +<p>Helen was over at her mother's helping her hang drapes when I got +home. The icebox gave me a cold Jumbo bottle and I turned on our +little portable set. On every station the spot broadcast crews were +hoarse. I spun the dials and finally concentrated on one +announcer—you know who I mean—with the raspiest, most grating voice +this side of a vixen file. Unfortunately, the housewives seem to like +him, including Helen, and it's the housewives who have the radio on +all day. I knew he was broadcasting from the roof studios of one of +our highest buildings, and I took an enormous and perverted pleasure +in holding my breath and thinking about the elevator system there. On +second thought, I held my breath again and the station left the air in +the middle of a word. I hope he liked the walk downstairs.</p> + +<p>The newspapers next day couldn't make things add, as was natural. They +published silly interviews with all the top engineers in the city and +a good many all over the world, including the Chairman of the Board of +the company where I worked, and his answer was just as asinine as the +rest. All in all, it had been a good show, and I put in another letter +to Naval Ordnance. I knew I had gone much further than I had intended, +and I suggested they get in touch with me, if they wanted, through the +personal columns of one of the Detroit newspapers. I didn't want to +get into trouble with the city police. I didn't sign my name to the +second letter either. And that was a mistake.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Early in the morning of the tenth I felt good. I'd been sleeping well +lately, now that I was rid of the Olsens' radio, not to mention the +Werners', and the Smiths'. I rolled over and squinted at the luminous +hands of the' clock. Beer cheese in the icebox. Half a Dutch apple pie +left over from dinner. Milk. Helen didn't wake as I eased out of bed +and groped for my slippers, and the rustling and shuffling I heard as +I tiptoed down the back stairs I attributed to an overbrave mouse. One +of these days, I thought, I was going to have to get some traps and +catch me a mouse. When I turned on the kitchen light the mouse was +holding a howitzer nine inches away from my head.</p> + +<p>"All right, you," the mouse snarled. "Reach!"</p> + +<p>I reached. Quick.</p> + +<p>The gunman backed to the outside door and flicked it open with one +hand, never taking his eyes from me. Footsteps pounded on the back +porch and hard faces filled the kitchen. One even had one of these +gaspipe Sten guns, and I liked that even less than the howitzer. My +pajama tops might have concealed an arsenal from the care I got when I +was searched. No one said a word, and I didn't dare. Just about that +time Helen got the sandman out of her eyes. Likely the noise had +awakened her appetite, and she had come down to help me eat a snack. +One of the gunmen heard her slippers clattering down the stairs, and a +hard hand slapped over my mouth and a gun rammed viciously against my +spine. Spun around and held as a human shield I had to helplessly +watch her come yawning in the kitchen door. One look she got in at me, +and the drawn guns, and her mouth opened for a scream that got no +further than a muffled yip and a dead faint. They let her fall. The +gunman took his hand from my mouth and swung me around.</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" he snapped, although I hadn't tried to say anything.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_003.jpg" width="400" height="602" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>At the point of his gun he held me there while the rest of the hard +faced crew roamed the house, upstairs and down. None of the faces did +I know, and I began to wonder if behind one of those granite masks +was the revengeful personality of R. C. Jones, President of Local 77, +AFL. I heard footsteps pad on the back porch, and my head tried to +turn in spite of myself. The gun in my back gouged a little harder. +Out of the corner of my eye I could see who pushed open the screen +door I hadn't got around to taking down yet. The gun in my back helped +me stand up.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>J. Edgar Hoover motioned to the gun and the pressure eased a trifle. +His voice was reasonably unexcited, but to my present taste, ominous.</p> + +<p>"All right. Someone go get him some pants." To me, "Your name Miller? +Peter Ambrose Miller? Get that woman off the floor."</p> + +<p>Yes, I was Peter Ambrose Miller. I agreed to that. My mouth was dry as +popcorn, but I managed to ask him what this was all about.</p> + +<p>Hoover looked at me and scratched his nose. "This is about your +fingerprints being all over an anonymous letter received in Aberdeen, +Maryland."</p> + +<p>I gulped. "Oh, that. Why, I can explain—"</p> + +<p>Hoover looked at me with the fond expression of a man who has cracked +open a bad egg. "That," he said, "I doubt," and he turned on his +military heel and walked out the back door. When they got me my pants +I followed him. I had to.</p> + +<p>I ended up at the Federal Building, which is a cavernous morgue, even +during business hours. They gave me what might have been a comfortable +chair if I hadn't had to sit in it. A young fellow was sitting +opposite me with a stenographer's notebook, and I knew that any story +of mine had better not be repeated two different ways. Hoover came in +with a nondescript man with a hat pulled down over his eyes, who +inspected me from all angles and then shook his head, a little +resentfully, I thought. The hat-over-the-eyes left and I shifted +nervously under those grim eyes staring at me.</p> + +<p>"All right," said Hoover; "now we'll hear that explanation. Talk!"</p> + +<p>So I talked.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When I finished my throat was dry and he was nodding as though he +believed every word. He didn't. I asked for a cigarette and for news +of my wife, and they gave me a cigarette. They told me my wife was all +right, or would be, if I behaved.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry," I said. "I'll behave." They just laughed when I said +that.</p> + +<p>"Quite likely," said Hoover. "Now, let's hear that once more. Begin +at the beginning."</p> + +<p>They gave me a room all to myself, finally. For three days, maybe +more, I had that room all for myself and the various people that +walked in at all hours of the day and night to ask me some of the +silliest questions you ever heard just as though they expected +sensible answers. After that first night I didn't see J. Edgar Hoover +at all, which is just as well, because I don't think he liked me one +little bit. They brought me a suit with the lining in the sleeve +ripped and a shirt with the cuffs turned. When I got those I began to +worry all over again about Helen, because I knew she had no part in +picking out the clothes they brought me. I didn't feel too chipper +when they came after me in force again.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The same room, this time more crowded. Older men this time, and a few +of the usual high school boys. Again we went through the same routine, +and once again my voice cracked dusty dry. They were all desperately +sorry for such an incurable psychopathic liar. I hadn't felt so +helpless, so caught-in-a-quicksand since my days in the army.</p> + +<p>"I'm telling you the truth, the truth. Don't you see that I've got to +tell you the truth to get out of here? Don't you believe me?"</p> + +<p>Never such disbelief outside of a courtmartial. In desperation my eyes +jerked around looking for escape. They slid over, and back to, the +ventilation fan purring on the wall. I sucked in a loud gasp. The +blades of the fan slowed to where you could see them as individuals, +and the motor housing began to smoke.</p> + +<p>"See?" I yelled at them. "Believe me now?"</p> + +<p>The blades came to a standstill and the black smoke oozed toward the +ceiling.</p> + +<p>"See?" I yelled again. "Look at that fan!"</p> + +<p>Their eyes showed their astonishment. The smoke began to disappear in +the stillness. "What about that? Now do you believe me?"</p> + +<p>Maybe they did. No one said anything. They took me back to my room. +About an hour or so later they came after me again. The chair felt no +more comfortable than it ever had, though it was beginning to shape +itself to my seat. The same faces were there, but the air was a little +different this time. On the desk, where I had seen sit no one but J. +Edgar Hoover were a half dozen fans, plugged to an extension cord that +snaked away and lost itself in a dark corner. My ears twitched +hopefully. Maybe this was going to get me out of here. One of the +younger men spoke up.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller," he said briskly, "can you stop these fans as you did, +apparently, the other?"</p> + +<p>I started to tell him that "apparently" wasn't the right word. One of +the older men broke in.</p> + +<p>"One moment," he said. "Can you stop any one of these fans, or all of +them? Any particular one, and leave the rest alone?"</p> + +<p>I thought I could. "Which one?" There were five fans whirring silently +away.</p> + +<p>"Well ... the one in the center."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The one in the center. One out of five. Hold your breath, Peter +Ambrose, hold it now or you can hold your breath the rest of your +natural life and no one will ever know, nor ever care. The fan in the +center began to smoke and the blades choked off abruptly.</p> + +<p>I said, "The one on the far left ... the one next to it ... the far +right ... and four makes five." I watched the last blade make its last +swing. "Has anybody got a cigarette?"</p> + +<p>I got a full package. While I tore off the cellophane someone held a +light. I filled my lungs so full they creaked and sat back defiantly.</p> + +<p>"So now what?"</p> + +<p>No one knew just what. Two men slipped out and the others drew +together their chairs for a whispered conference full of dark looks in +my direction. I sat quietly and smoked until even that got on my +nerves. Finally I broke it up with a yell.</p> + +<p>"Can't you fatheads make up your minds? Don't you know what you want? +Do you think I'm going to sit here all night?"</p> + +<p>That was a stupid question; I knew I was going to sit there until they +told me to get up. But at the time I wanted to say it, and I did, and +I said a few other things that were neither polite nor sensible. I was +a little upset, I think. It didn't matter. They paid no attention to +me, so I lit another cigarette and waited. The outer door opened and +one of the two that had left came back in. He came directly to me, +waving the others out as he came. They filed out and he stood in front +of me.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Mr. Miller. This is rather an awkward situation for all of us, +particularly for you, obviously. I want to say this, Mr. Miller; +I—that is, we here in the Bureau are extremely sorry for the turn of +events that brought both of us here. We—"</p> + +<p>At the first decent word I'd heard in days I blew up. "Sorry? What's +being sorry going to do for me? What's being sorry going to do for my +wife? Where is she? What's happened to her? Where is she, and what are +you doing to her? And when am I going to get out of here?"</p> + +<p>He was a polite old man, come to think about it. He let me blow off +all the steam I'd been saving, let me rant and rage, and clucked and +nodded in just the right places. At last I ran down, and he moved a +chair to where he could be confidential. He started like this:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller, I, speaking personally, know exactly how you must feel. +Close custody is as unpleasant for the jailor as it is for the jailee, +if there is such a word, sir."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I snorted at that one. A jail is a jail, and the turnkey can walk out +if he chooses.</p> + +<p>"You must remember that you are and have been dealing with an official +agency of the Government of the United States of America, of which you +are a citizen; an agency that, officially or otherwise, can never be +too careful of any factor that affects, however remotely, the security +or safety of that Government. You understand that quite well, don't +you, Mr. Miller?" He didn't wait to find out if I did. "For that +reason, and for no other, you were brought here with the utmost speed +and secrecy, and kept here."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sure," I said. "I'm going to blow up a tax collector, or +something like that."</p> + +<p>He nodded. "You might."</p> + +<p>"Blah. So you made a mistake. So you're sorry, so my wife is probably +completely out of her head by now, I'm crazy myself, and you want to +talk politics. All I want to know is this—when do I get out of here?"</p> + +<p>He looked at me with an odd, queer smile. "This, Mr. Miller, is where +the shock lies. I think, diametrically opposite to the opinions and, I +might add, to the direct pleadings of some of my colleagues involved +in this rather inexplicable affair, that you are the adaptable +Teutonic type that likes to know exactly the odds against him, the +type of man who likes to know where and when he stands."</p> + +<p>"I know exactly where I stand," I told him. "I want to know just one +thing; when do I get out of this rat trap?"</p> + +<p>He mulled that over, his forehead wrinkled as he searched for the +right words. "I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, very much afraid that you're +going to get out of here very soon. But never out of any place else." +And with that he walked out the door before I could lift a finger to +stop him.</p> + +<p>But when they came after me to put me away I wasn't stunned. It took +four of them, and one more that came in as reinforcement. They weren't +rough deliberately, but they weren't easy. They had a time, too. I +think I've been around long enough to know a few dirty tricks. I used +them all, but I still went back to my room, or cell. I got no sleep at +all for the rest of the night, nor most of the next night. I wondered +if I could ever sleep again. If someone had mentioned "Helen" to me I +likely would cry like a baby. I couldn't get her out of my mind.</p> + +<p>When they came after me again they were all prepared for another +argument. I didn't care, this time. Meekly I went along, back to that +same conference room. Four men; the old man who had given me the spurs +before, one of the high school boys, and a couple of uniforms. The old +man stood up very formally to greet me.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Mr. Miller."</p> + +<p>I snarled at him. "Good for what?"</p> + +<p>One of the uniforms was indignant. "Here, here, my man!"</p> + +<p>I let him have it, too. "In your hat, fatty. My discharge went on the +books in forty-five!" He was shocked stiff, but he shut up.</p> + +<p>The old man kept his face straight. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Miller?" +I sat. I still didn't like the chair. "This is General Hayes, and this +is General Van Dorf." They nodded stiffly, and I ignored them. He +didn't introduce the young man, not that I cared.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller, we'd like to talk to you. Talk seriously."</p> + +<p>"Afraid that I'll get mad and fly out the window?"</p> + +<p>"I said seriously. It won't take long. Let's compress it into one +short sentence without the preliminaries: give these gentlemen a +demonstration like the last one."</p> + +<p>I told him what he could do with his demonstration, and I told him +what he could do with his generals. The high school boy grinned when I +said that. He must have been old enough to have served in the army.</p> + +<p>The generals were crimson. You don't get that kind of talk where they +worked. But the old man was unperturbed. "Let's make that one sentence +a paragraph. Give these gentlemen a demonstration as effective as the +last—and ten minutes after, if you like, you can walk out of here +free as the air."</p> + +<p>I jumped at that. "Is that straight? If I do it again you'll let me +loose?"</p> + +<p>He nodded. "If you really want to."</p> + +<p>I persisted. "Straight, now? On your word of honor?"</p> + +<p>He wasn't lying. "If you want my word you have it."</p> + +<p>I grinned all over like a dog. "Bring on your fans, or whatever you +have cooked up."</p> + +<p>The young man went out and came right back in with a little cartload +of electric fans. Either they had too many for general use, or someone +had very little imagination. Come summer, with Detroit ninety in the +shade, they were going to miss their ventilation. Me, I was going to +be a long way from the Federal Building. He set the fans on the desk, +and the generals craned stork-like to see what was going on. The old +man bowed to them.</p> + +<p>"Name one, gentlemen. Any one you like." They named the middle one +again.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I called my shots again, as free and easy as though I'd been doing it +for years. "The middle one first, you say? No sooner said than done, +gentlemen. Right? Right! Now the far left, and right down the line. +Eeney, meeny, and out goes me." They were all dead, and I stood up and +asked the room, "Which is the express elevator to the main floor?"</p> + +<p>The old man held up his hand. "One moment, Mr. Miller." He read my +mind, which, at that second, wasn't hard to do. "Oh, no. You're free +to go any time you so desire. But I would like to make this +demonstration a little more convincing."</p> + +<p>He meant it. I could go if I liked.</p> + +<p>"You also, Mr. Miller, as I understand it, exhibit somewhat the same +degree of control over internal combustion engines." And well he knew +I did. That traffic tieup I'd engineered had traveled via newsreels +all over the world. "Will you gentlemen step over to the window?" This +was to me and the generals.</p> + +<p>We all crowded over. I looked down and saw we were on the ninth floor, +maybe the eighth or tenth. It's hard to judge distance when you're +looking straight down.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller—"</p> + +<p>"Yeh?"</p> + +<p>"If one of these officers will pick out a car or a truck down on the +street below can you stop it? Stop it dead in its tracks?"</p> + +<p>"Sure. Why not?"</p> + +<p>"All right, then. General Hayes, we'll let you do the honors. Will you +select from all those cars down there any particular item?"</p> + +<p>I broke in. "Or any streetcar." I was feeling cocky.</p> + +<p>"Or any streetcar. I would suggest, General, that you choose a target +for its visibility. One that you cannot mistake."</p> + +<p>The uniforms were suspicious, as they conferred with their noses flat +against the glass. They beckoned to me and pointed.</p> + +<p>"That one there."</p> + +<p>"Which one where?" They had to be more explicit than that.</p> + +<p>"The big truck. The one with the green top and the pipe sticking out."</p> + +<p>I spotted it. It slowed for a red light, and came to a complete stop. +I concentrated. Blow, Gabriel.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The crosstraffic halted, and the truck again got under way. Then +suddenly, as it must have been, although from where we were it seemed +like a leisurely stroll, it veered through the other traffic lane and +smoke burst from its hood. We could see the driver pop from his seat +and race to the corner fire alarm box. Almost instantly traffic both +ways was four deep. I turned away from the window. I don't like +heights, anyway.</p> + +<p>"Now can I go?" Walk, not run to the nearest exit.</p> + +<p>The old man spoke directly to the uniforms, "Well, gentlemen, are you +satisfied?"</p> + +<p>They were satisfied, all right. They were stunned. They were probably +visualizing a stalled tank retriever, a stalled 6x6.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Mr. Miller. Thank you very much." My grin was wide, as I +started for the door.</p> + +<p>"But I think that it is only fair, before you go, for me to tell you +one thing."</p> + +<p>With my hand on the knob, I laughed at him. "You mean that there isn't +any Santa Claus?"</p> + +<p>The corners of his mouth went up. "Not for you, I'm afraid. Are you +insured?"</p> + +<p>"Me? Insured? You mean the extra thirty cents I give the newsboy every +week?"</p> + +<p>"That's it. Insured. Life insurance."</p> + +<p>I shrugged. "Sure. A couple of thousand as long as I take the papers."</p> + +<p>"Suppose your subscription expires, or is cancelled, for certain +reasons that should be obvious?" The generals stopped fidgeting and +looked curiously at the old man.</p> + +<p>I couldn't figure out what he meant, and said so.</p> + +<p>"You can—well, let's say that you can 'interfere' with electrical or +mechanical devices, can't you?"</p> + +<p>Sure I could. At least, all the ones I'd ever tried.</p> + +<p>"So, with that established, you would be in a military sense the +theoretically perfect defense."</p> + +<p>I hadn't thought about it that way. But if it ever came down to it I +should be able to knock down an airplane, gum up the works on a fusing +detonator, maybe even—. No, I didn't like that idea. Not me. Not at +all.</p> + +<p>The old man's voice was hard and soft at the same time. "So you're the +irresistible force, or maybe the immovable object. And if you walk out +of this office right now—and you can, Mr. Miller, that was our +agreement—knowing what you know and being able to do what you have +been doing.... Now, just how long do you think it would take the +intelligence of a dozen different nations to catch up with you? And +how long after that would you stay 'free,' as you put it? Or how long +would you stay alive? There are all types of ways and means, you +know." You bet I knew that.</p> + +<p>My hair tried to stand on end. "Why, you'd be just cutting your own +throat! You'd have to keep an eye on me. You can't back out on me +now!"</p> + +<p>He was sympathetic. "That's just what we're trying to do. We're trying +to protect you and all you want to do is go home."</p> + +<p>I sat down in the old chair. "So that's why you said I could go any +time I wanted to." The old man said nothing. I ran my hands through my +hair and tried to find the right words. "Now what?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>One of the generals started a preparatory cough, but the old man beat +him to it. "I have a suggestion, Mr. Miller. You likely will not +approve. Or, then again, you might."</p> + +<p>"Yeah?"</p> + +<p>"You know by now that this room, or its rough equivalent, is where you +can be safe. This place, or one as well guarded."</p> + +<p>"Yeah. And then what?"</p> + +<p>He tried to make it as easy as he could. "Voluntarily—remember that +word, and what it means—voluntarily put yourself in our charge. Put +yourself under our care and our protection—"</p> + +<p>"And your orders!"</p> + +<p>General Van Dorf couldn't hold in his snort. "Good Heavens, man, +where's your patriotism? Where's your—"</p> + +<p>He got the worst of that exchange, and he didn't like it. "Where's +your brains, man? Whatever patriotism I have left is pretty well worn +after thirty-two months overseas. I'm sick of the Army and Navy; I'm +sick of hurrying up to stand in line; I'm sick of being told what to +do, and being told how and where to do it; I'm sick of being bossed. +As far as I'm concerned there's only one person in this world who can +tell me to do anything—and what's happened to my wife, anyway? Where +is she? And where does she think I am right now?" The old man +hesitated. "She doesn't know where you are. She's in the woman's +division, downstairs. She's been well-treated, of course—"</p> + +<p>"Sure. Well-treated." That was when I got really mad. "Sure. Jerk her +out of bed in the middle of the night and throw her in jail and give +her enough to eat and a place to sleep and that's supposed to be good +treatment!"</p> + +<p>The generals left without excusing themselves. Evidently they knew +what was coming and wanted no part of it. The old Army game of signing +your name and letting the sergeant hear the howls. I think that was +the only thing that kept me there, as furious as I was, to hear what +the old man had to say. He had been handed the dirty end of the stick, +and he had to get rid of it the best way he could. When they were gone +he circled a bit and then got the range.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Boiled down, it was like this. "As of right now, you no longer exist. +There is no more Peter Ambrose Miller, and maybe there never was. This +I would suggest; your wife, being human, could keep quiet no longer +than any other woman—or man. As far as she is concerned you're no +longer alive. You were killed while escaping arrest."</p> + +<p>The sheer brutality, the plain cruelty of that, almost drove me insane +right there on the spot. I don't know what kept my hands off him. Now, +of course, I realize that he was doing that deliberately to focus my +hate on him, to present the bad side of it, to show me what could be +done if I didn't cooperate. But I didn't know that then.</p> + +<p>"So if I've got the name I'll have the game! Does it make any +difference if I get shot in report or in fact? How would <i>your</i> wife +like to know that you'd been shot down like a criminal? What would +Helen say to her friends and my friends and her relatives and all the +people we know?"</p> + +<p>That was just the reaction he'd been waiting for. "I mentioned that +only as a suggestion. That could be easily arranged another way. Let's +say, for example, that you've been working for the Government ever +since your legal discharge, in an undercover assignment, and you died +in line of duty. It should be quite easy to see that your widow was +awarded some sort of posthumous decoration. Would that help?"</p> + +<p>I never thought that I would ever sit quietly and listen to someone +calmly plot the complete obliteration of my whole life, my whole +being. It was like one of these European novels when one sane man +tries to live and find another sane person in a world of madness. A +posthumous decoration. A medal for one that is dead and rotting. A +nightmare with no waking up.</p> + +<p>"And perhaps—oh, certainly!—a pension. You can rest assured your +wife will never want. You see, Mr. Miller, we want to test you, and +your ... ability. Perhaps this unbelievable control you have can be +duplicated, or understood. That we want to find out. We want to turn +inside out all the enormous potential you have. In short we want—we +must—have you in strictest custody and under rigid observation. If +you like, I can see that you have a military or naval commission of +rank commensurate with your importance. And don't think, Mr. Miller, +that you're any less important than I've stated. Right now, from this +side of the fence, it looks to me that you're the most important thing +this side of the invention of the wheel."</p> + +<p>I didn't want a commission. I wanted to lead a normal life, and I +wanted my wife.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"The Marines, perhaps? Or the Air Corps?"</p> + +<p>It wasn't just the Army, or the Navy; it was the system. If I had to +be a Sad Sack I'd be a civilian.</p> + +<p>"As you like. Agreed?"</p> + +<p>I looked at him. "Agreed? What do you want me to say? Agreed. That's a +good word for you to use to me."</p> + +<p>"You can rest assured—" He saw what must have been on my face, and +stopped short. For a long minute we sat there, he thinking his +thoughts, and me thinking mine. Mine weren't pleasant. Then he got up +and came over to me. "Sorry. This is a pretty big meal to digest all +at once. I know how you must feel."</p> + +<p>I stared up at him. "Do you?"</p> + +<p>Then he turned and left. Later, I don't know when, the young fellow +came back alone and took me to my cell. I must have finally gotten to +sleep.</p> + +<p>The young fellow, who turned out to be a fairly good citizen named +Stein, came after me the next day. He wanted me to pack. Pack? All the +clothes I had were on my back.</p> + +<p>"Toothbrush, things like that. Tell me what you want in the line of +clothes and you'll get them. Or anything else, within reason."</p> + +<p>"Anything? Anything at all?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I said anything reasonable." We didn't have to go any further +into that. He knew what I meant.</p> + +<p>When it was dark they took us away, Stein and myself. In the back of a +mail truck, cramped and silent we rode for what seemed hours. Long +before we rattled to a halt I could hear the familiar roars of motors +being warmed. The tailgates swung open and a twenty-foot walk put us +into a military ship. That meant Selfridge Field. Stein and I sat in +the old painful bucket seats, the twin motors blasted and we trundled +down the paved strip, a takeoff to nowhere. So long, Miller; so long +to your wife and your home and your life. So long, Miller; you're dead +and you're gone, and your wife will get a medal.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When I awoke, the cabin was stuffy, and the sun was brassy and hot and +high. Stein, already awake, came up with a thermos of coffee and a +snack. A peep from the ports didn't tell me where I was, not that it +mattered. Somewhere in the west or southwest, on a sandy waste on the +far end of a landing strip away from a cluttered group of shacks, we +walked long enough to get out the kinks. Then a hurried sandwich from +a picnic basket left in the cabin by an invisible steward, and we +transferred to a gray amphibian. The next time I had interest enough +to look out and down we were over water, and toward the rim of the +world we floated for hours. I dozed off again.</p> + +<p>Stein woke me up. Wordlessly he passed me a heavy helmet, and the kind +of goggles that present a mirrored blankness to the outside world. All +this time I had seen none of the crews, even when we had landed. The +two of us had strolled alone in a tiny world of our own. When the +pilot cut his engines for the landing I had the old style helmet on my +head. It was far too big, and hurt my ears. The galloping splash we +made puddled the ports high, and we bobbed awkwardly until Stein got +his signal from the pilot, who popped out an impersonal arm. From the +wing-struts we transferred to a Navy dory, manned by enlisted men +commanded by a blank-faced ensign in dungarees. We were both wearing +the concealing helmets in the stifling heat, and the ensign's "Eyes +Front," did no more than keep the sailors from sneaking curious looks +from the corners of their eyes.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The small boat put us alongside what looked like more of a workship +than a fighter. It might have been an oiler or a repair-ship, or it +might not have even been Navy. But it was Navy clean, and the crew was +Navy. Some gold braid, way out of proportion to the size of the ship, +met us at the top of the ladder, saluted, God knows why, and led Stein +and I to a cabin. Not too big, not too small. I heard the amphibian +rev up and take off again, and the deck tilted a trifle beneath us as +we gathered way. A yank, and the suffocating helmet was off and I +turned to Stein.</p> + +<p>"Navy ship?"</p> + +<p>He hesitated, then nodded.</p> + +<p>"Navy ship."</p> + +<p>"No beer, then."</p> + +<p>I drew a big grin this time. He was human, all right. "No beer."</p> + +<p>Like an oven it was in that cabin. In a shower stall big enough for a +midget I splashed away until I got a mouthful of water. Salt. I +paddled out of there in a hurry and spent the next two hours trying to +get interested in a year-old House and Home. Hours? I spent three +solid days looking at that same issue, and others like it. All the +sailors on the ship must have had hydroponics or its equivalent on the +brain. In between times it cost me thirteen dollars I didn't have to +play gin with Stein. Then—</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I never did find out his real name. Neither his name, nor his job, nor +what his job had to do with me, but he must have been important, from +the salutes and attention he got. Maybe he'd just gotten there, maybe +he'd been there all the time. He told me, when I bluntly asked him his +name and what he did, that his name was Smith, and I still think of +him as Smith. When he tapped on the door and stepped into that airless +cabin I could smell the fans and the generals and the Federal Building +all over again.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Mr. Miller," he smiled. "Nice trip?"</p> + +<p>"Swell trip," I told him. "Join the Navy and see the world through a +piece of plywood nailed over a porthole."</p> + +<p>When he sat down on the edge of the chair he was fussy about the +crease in his pants. "Mr. Miller, whenever you are above decks, day or +night, you will please keep your face concealed with that helmet, or +its equivalent, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. Please."</p> + +<p>"Since when have I been above decks? Since when have I been out of +this two-by-four shack?"</p> + +<p>"The shack," he said, "could be smaller, and the weather could be +hotter. We'll see that while you're aboard you'll have the freedom of +the deck after sunset. And you won't if things go right, be aboard +much longer."</p> + +<p>My ears went up at that. "No?"</p> + +<p>"On the deck, upstairs"—he Was no Navy man, or maybe that was the +impression he wanted to give—"are racks of rockets of various sizes. +You might have noticed them when you came aboard. No? Well, they have +been armed; some with electrical proximity fuses, some with +mechanical timing devices, and some have both. They will be sent +singly, or in pairs, or in salvos, at a target some little distance +away. Your job will be the obvious one. Do you think you can do it?"</p> + +<p>"Suppose I don't?"</p> + +<p>He stood up. "Then that's what we want to know. Ready?"</p> + +<p>I stretched. "As ready as I'll ever be. Let's go and take the air."</p> + +<p>"Forget something?" He pointed at the helmet, hanging back of the +door.</p> + +<p>I didn't like it, but I put it on, and he took me up, up to the rocket +racks on the prow. Even through the dark lenses the sun was oddly +bright. Smith pointed off to port, where a battered old hull without +even a deckhouse or a mast hobbled painfully in the trough of the sea.</p> + +<p>"Target."</p> + +<p>He jerked a thumb at the racks.</p> + +<p>"Rockets."</p> + +<p>I knew what they were. I'd seen enough of them sail over my head.</p> + +<p>"Ready?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Yes, I was ready. He made a careless flick of his hand and an order +was barked behind me. A clatter and a swoosh, and a cylinder arced +gracefully, catching me almost by surprise. I felt that familiar +tightening behind my eyes, that familiar tensing and hunching of my +shoulders. The propellant was taking the rocket almost out of sight +when the fuse fired it. "Wham!"</p> + +<p>Caught that one in midair. Try another. Another "whoosh," and another +"wham."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Then they tried it in pairs. Both of the flying darning-needles blew +together, in an eccentric sweep of flame. Four, maybe five or six +pairs I knocked down short of the target, some so close to us that I +imagined I could feel the concussion. They switched to salvos of a +dozen at a time and they blew almost in unison. They emptied the racks +that way, and I was grimly amused at the queer expression of the +officer in charge as the enlisted men refilled the maws of the gaping +racks. Smith, the old man, nudged me a little harder than necessary.</p> + +<p>"All racks, salvo."</p> + +<p>All at once. I tried for a cool breath in that sweaty helmet. "Ready!"</p> + +<p>I couldn't pick out any individual sounds. The racks vomited lightning +and thunder far too fast for that. The rumble and roar bored itself +into a remote corner of my brain while I watched that barnacled hulk +and concentrated. I couldn't attempt to think of each rocket, or each +shot, individually, so I was forced to try to erect a mental wall and +say to myself, "Nothing gets past that line <i>there</i>."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_004.jpg" width="400" height="587" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>And nothing did. Just like slamming into a stone wall, every rocket +blew up its thrumming roar far short of the target. The racks finally +pumped themselves dry, and through the smoke Smith grasped my arm +tighter than I liked. I couldn't hear what he was saying, deafened as +we all were by the blasts. He steered me back to the cabin and I +flipped off drops of sweat with the helmet. I turned unexpectedly and +caught the old man staring at me.</p> + +<p>"Now what's the matter with you?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He shook his head and sat down heavily. "You know, Miller, or Pete, if +you don't mind, I still don't actually believe what I've just seen."</p> + +<p>I borrowed a light from the ubiquitous Stein. His expression told me +he'd seen the matinee.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it either, and I'm the one that put on the show." I +blew smoke in the air and gave back the lighter. "But that's neither +here nor there. When do I get out of this Black Hole of Calcutta?"</p> + +<p>"Well...." Smith was undecided. "Where would you like to spend some +time when we're through with all this?"</p> + +<p>That I hadn't expected. "You mean I have a choice?"</p> + +<p>Noncommittally, "Up to a point. How about some island somewhere? Or in +the States? Cold or warm? How, for instance, would you feel about Guam +or—"</p> + +<p>"Watched by the whole Mounted Police?" He nodded.</p> + +<p>I didn't care. "Just someplace where no one will bother me; some place +where I can play some records of the Boston Pops or Victor Herbert;" +(and I guess the nervous strain of all that mental effort in all the +noise and smoke was fighting a delaying action) "someplace where I can +get all the beer I want, because it looks like I'm going to need +plenty. Someplace where I can sit around and take things easy and have +someone to—" I cut it short.</p> + +<p>He was one of the understanding Smiths, at that. "Yes," he nodded, "we +can probably arrange that, too. It may not be...." What else could he +say, or what other way was there to say it?</p> + +<p>"One more thing," he went on; "one more ... demonstration. This will +take some little time to prepare." That, to me, meant one thing, and I +liked it not at all. He beat me to the punch.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"This should be what is called the pay-off, the final edition. Come +through on this one, and you'll be better off than the gold in Fort +Knox. Anything you want, anything that money or goodwill can buy, +anything within the resources of a great—and, I assure you, a +grateful—nation. Everything—"</p> + +<p>"—everything," I finished for him, "except the right to go down to +the corner store for a magazine. Everything except what better than +me have called the pursuit of happiness."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He knew that was true. "But which is more important; your happiness, +or the freedom and happiness of a hundred and seventy millions? Peter, +if things political don't change, perhaps the freedom and happiness of +over two billion, which, I believe, is the population of this backward +planet."</p> + +<p>"Yeah." The cigarette was dry, and I stubbed it in an ashtray. "And +all this hangs on one person—me. That's your story." My mouth was +dry, too.</p> + +<p>His smile, I'm afraid, was more than just a little forced. "That's my +story, and we're all stuck with it; you, me, all of us. No, you stay +here, Stein. Let's see if we can get this over once and for all." +Lines came and went on his forehead, as he felt for words.</p> + +<p>"Let's try it this way: for the first time in written history as we +know it one single deadly new weapon can change the course of the +world, perhaps even change the physical course of that world, and the +people who in the future will live in it. Speaking personally, as a +man and as a reasonable facsimile of a technician, I find it extremely +hard, almost impossible, to believe that at the exact psychic moment +an apparent complete nullification of that weapon has appeared."</p> + +<p>I grunted. "Maybe."</p> + +<p>"Maybe. That's what we want to find out. Could you, Peter, if you were +in my place, or you in your own place, get a good night's sleep +tonight or any other night knowing that problem might have an answer +without doing anything about it? Or are you one of these people who +believe that there is no problem, that all things will solve +themselves? Do you believe that, Stein? Do you think that Peter +Ambrose Miller thinks that way?"</p> + +<p>No, Stein didn't think that way, and Miller didn't think that way. We +all knew that.</p> + +<p>"All right," and he rubbed the back of his neck with a tired hand. "We +have that weapon now. We, meaning the United States, and the whole +wide world, from Andorra to Zanzibar. Now means today, in my lexicon. +Tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow, or tomorrow of next year or the year +after that, who will be the one to use that weapon? Do you know, +Peter? Do you know?"</p> + +<p>There was no need for an answer to that.</p> + +<p>"And neither does anyone else. Peter, you're insurance. You're the +cheapest and best insurance I know of. If! There's that big if. I +hate that word. I always have, and I'm going to eliminate 'if,' as far +as Peter Ambrose Miller is concerned. Right?"</p> + +<p>Of course he was right. Hiroshima could just as well have been Memphis +or Moscow or Middletown. And I always had wanted to be rich enough to +carry my own insurance....</p> + +<p>Before Smith left he told me it might be a month or two before he +would see me again.</p> + +<p>"These things aren't arranged overnight, you know."</p> + +<p>I knew that.</p> + +<p>I would be landed, he said, somewhere, someplace, and I'd be my own +boss, up to a point. Stein would be with me, and the secrecy routine +would still be in effect.... His voice trailed off, and I neither saw +nor heard him leave.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Three miserable weeks I spent somewhere in some stinking Southern +Pacific mudhole. Cocker spaniel Stein was never out of reach, or +sight, and gave me the little attention I wanted. From a distance I +occasionally saw Army and Navy. The enlisted men were the ones who +brought me not everything I asked for, but enough to get along. Later +on, I knew, I'd get the moon on ice if I were actually as valuable as +appeared. At that time no one was sure, including some brass who came +poking around when they thought I might be asleep. They stayed far +away from me, evidently under strict orders to do just that, although +they took Stein aside several times and barked importantly at him. I +don't think they made much impression on Stein. I was aching for an +argument at that stage, and it's just as well they dodged contact. +When Smith showed up, with the usual officious body-guard, I was +itching to go.</p> + +<p>Bikini I'd seen in the newsreels, and this wasn't it. The back forty +would have dwarfed it. Just a limp palm or two and an occasional +skinny lump of herbiage. Ships of all naval types and a civilian +freighter or so spotted themselves at anchor like jagged rocks around +the compass. The gray cruiser we were on never once dropped its hook; +it paced nervously back and forth, up and down, and I followed, pacing +the deck. With Stein at my heels, I saw daylight only through the +ports. Only at night did I get to where I could smell the salt breeze +free of the stink of paint and Diesel oil. From what I know about +ships and their complements we must have had at least the captain's +cabin, or pretty close to its mate. We never saw the captain, or at +least he was never around when I was. The buzzing mass of brass and +high civilians I knew were there, the old man told me, were and +berthed on the big flattop carrier that idled off to port. Only Smith +dropped in occasionally to rasp my frayed nerves deeper. With all the +activity seething around us, and with only Stein and myself to keep +each other company, we were getting cabin fever. I told that to Smith, +who soothed me with promises.</p> + +<p>"Tomorrow's the day."</p> + +<p>"It better be. How are we going to work this, anyway?" I was curious, +and I thought I had a right to be. "From what I hear, you better have +your holes already dug."</p> + +<p>"Too true," he agreed. "The bomb itself will be released from a drone +plane, radio-controlled. We will, of course, be far enough from this +island and the target installations you might have noticed going up to +be out of range of radiations—"</p> + +<p>"You hope!"</p> + +<p>"—we hope. Your job will be to keep the bomb from detonating, or if +that cannot be done, to fire it harmlessly, or as much so as possible. +<i>That's</i> what we want to know. Clear?" Of course it was clear. That's +what I wanted to know, too.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The sun came up out of the sea as quickly as it always does, and +although the cruiser deck was almost bare far off we could see the +carrier deck swarming with tiny ants. The odd-angled posts and gadgets +we could see sticking up must have belonged to the technical boys, and +they must have had plenty of it, if we could see it at that distance. +Overhead they must have had at least eight planes of all types, from +B-36's to helicopters to Piper Cubs, all dipping and floating and +racing madly from one air bubble to another. Smith took time to tell +me that, regardless whether the Bomb was fired by Miller or Iron Mike +the explosion data would be immensely valuable.</p> + +<p>"These things cost money," he said, "and this is killing two birds +with one stone." I didn't want to be a bird, and my smile was sickly +strained. Smith went off with a wry grin.</p> + +<p>The helmet itched the back of my neck and the glasses dug into the +bridge of my nose. From the open space I had to work in they must have +thought I was a ferry-boat, until it dawned on me that all those armed +Marines with their backs turned weren't there just for ornament. Peter +Valuable Miller. Very, very, queer, I thought, that all those +technicians swarming on the carrier deck could be trusted enough to +build and fire a Bomb and yet couldn't be allowed to know that there +might be a possible defense to that Bomb. I watched Stein scratch his +back against a projecting steel rib as the Smith strolled absently out +of nowhere. Stein straightened sheepishly, and the old man smiled.</p> + +<p>"Ready?"</p> + +<p>Why not? I gave him the same answer as before. "Ready as I ever will +be."</p> + +<p>He handed me a pair of glasses, 7 x 50. "The drone ship took off ten +minutes ago. Look due north—no, north is that way—and whenever it +comes into whatever you consider your range—"</p> + +<p>"Bingo!"</p> + +<p>"Bingo!" He liked that. "When you fire it—"</p> + +<p>"You mean, <i>if</i> I fire it."</p> + +<p>"If you fire it, just before, you slide the filters over the ends of +your binoculars like so. Or better still, turn your back."</p> + +<p>Turn my back? I wanted to see what was going to happen.</p> + +<p>"All right, but make sure you get those filters down in time." He +cocked an ear as someone shouted something that was carried away in +the freshening breeze. "Must have picked it up with radar. Let's see +if we can find it," and together we set to sweeping the northern +horizon.</p> + +<p>Radar must have been sharp that day, because the drone, a battered +B-24, was right on top of us before we picked it up, a mote in the +sun's brazen eye. A flurry of orders relayed to the control ship sent +it soaring back into the distance, a mile or so high. Just at the +limit of visibility I used the corner of my mouth to Smith.</p> + +<p>"Hold your breath and help me out." Maybe he did, at that. "Motors. +I'll try to get the motors first."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The slapping of the salty waves against the cruiser's armored hull +seemed to pause in midstride. Nothing happened—nothing, until the +waves, with a frustrated sigh, gave in and began again their toppling +roll and hiss. Then slowly, ever so slowly, so faintly that it was +only a speck in the sky, the distant dot tilted and hung suspended on +a wingtip, hung, hung, hung.... A jerk, and a warped spiral. My ears +rang, and the falling leaf, now swooping and sailing in agonized +humpbacked scallops, seemed to double and triple in my tear-swimming +eyes. Then I tried—</p> + +<p>There was no sound. There was no booming roar, no thunder. But I +forgot to yank down those dark filters over the ends of the Zeiss. +They had told me that it would be like looking at the sun. Well, the +sun won't throw you flat on your back, or maybe I fell. Not quite +flat; Smith threw a block as I reeled, and held me upright. I tried to +tell him that I was all right, that it was just the sudden glare that +paralyzed me, and to get his arms off my neck before I strangled. No +attention did I get from him at all in that respect, but plenty of +other unneeded help. Wriggle and swear as I might, with that helmet +scoring a raw groove in my neck, I was toted below and dropped on my +bunk with, I suppose, what whoever carried me would call gentleness.</p> + +<p>The anxious officer in front of me, when the action was over, had the +physician's harried look. He liked my language not one little bit, and +only Smith's authority kept him from calling corpsmen to muzzle me +while he examined my eyes. When my sore eyes had accustomed themselves +to the dim light in the cabin, Smith led the officer to the door of +the hatch or whatever they call it, explaining that the recalcitrant +patient would doubtless be later in a more receptive mood.</p> + +<p>"If you think so," I yelled at his indignant ramrod back, "you must +try sticking in your head and see what happens." I don't like anyone +to poke anything in my eyes anytime.</p> + +<p>Smith shut the door quickly. "Must you bellow like that? He was trying +to help you."</p> + +<p>I knew that, but I was mad. "I don't want any help. I could have made +it down here under my own power, and you know it."</p> + +<p>Smith sat down. "These your cigarettes? Thanks." He lit his own and +puffed furiously. "I don't think you can reasonably expect to be let +alone, Peter. After all, you're a very valuable—"</p> + +<p>"—piece of property. Sure. In the meantime I don't want anyone +fooling around me."</p> + +<p>He smoked in silence, thinking. That meant trouble.</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Well, what?"</p> + +<p>He reached for the ashtray. "Ready to talk now?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," I said. "Talk or listen?"</p> + +<p>"A little of both."</p> + +<p>I talk too much. It would do me no harm to listen. "Shoot."</p> + +<p>"This, then, Peter, is the situation; you, without a doubt, are the +most remarkable person in the whole wide world. Almost an institution +in yourself."</p> + +<p>I grinned. "Like the Maine farmer; a character."</p> + +<p>"Right. As far as I, and anyone else that has had any contact with you +at all, can tell or even guess, you are absolutely and perfectly +unique."</p> + +<p>"You said that before."</p> + +<p>"So I did. You know—" and he held my eye steadily—"you're so +completely unique, and so—dangerous, that more than once I have been +personally tempted to arrange your—elimination. From behind."</p> + +<p>I couldn't put up more than a weak grin for that. I had wondered about +that, myself. A variation, a deadly one, of the old "if you can't lick +'em, join 'em" theme. And I hadn't been too cooperative.</p> + +<p>He went on, slowly. "My personal reactions, for obvious reasons, do +not enter into this. But I think, Peter, that you should consider +those words very seriously before you are tempted to do or say +anything rash."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I agreed that he was probably right, and that it might be better if I +piped a quiet tune. "But that's not the way I operate. As far as I'm +concerned, I'm responsible to myself, and myself alone. If I wanted to +be told what to say and what to think, and when to say it, I would +have stayed in when I got my discharge."</p> + +<p>He shrugged. "It might be better for all concerned if you were under +military discipline, although it might not suit your ego. Take, for +example, the two generals you met in Detroit; Generals Hayes and Van +Dorf. They both are regarded as brilliant; they are both regarded as +too mentally precocious to be risked in physical action. They are two +of the most agile minds on the staff."</p> + +<p>I took his word for it. "They are still generals to me. And I don't +have to stand at attention, and I don't have to take their orders."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," and he reached for the cigarettes again. "It is not going +to do any good by adding more fuel to your mental furnace, but it is +only fair to tell you that the ... elimination thing was more or less +seriously discussed before you left Detroit."</p> + +<p>He didn't give me a chance to blow up, but raced on. "General Hayes +and General Van Dorf are sensible men, dealing in material and +sensible things. You are neither practical or sensible, in many ways, +this being one. They, as well equipped as they are, are not prepared +to cope with such a problem presented with such as you. I might add +here, that neither is anyone else. What are you laughing at?"</p> + +<p>I couldn't help it. "The military mind at its best. First cross up the +world by getting a weapon with no defense. Then when someone comes up +with a defense for any weapon, including the weapon with no defense, +they start turning back flips."</p> + +<p>"Take that idiotic grin off your face." Just the same, he thought it +was rather comic, himself. "Neither of us are in the Armed Forces, so +for the present we can talk and plan freely. If you think, Peter, that +all this can be solved with prejudice and a smart remark, you're very, +very wrong. The worst is yet to come."</p> + +<p>I asked him if I'd had a bed of roses, so far. "I don't think I could +be much worse off than I've been so far. How would you like to be +penned up—"</p> + +<p>"Penned up?" He snorted disgustedly. "You've had yourself a holiday, +and you can't see it. Try to see the military, the legal point of +view. Here is one person, Peter Ambrose Miller, one man and only one +man, with the ability, the power, to cancel at one stroke every +scientific advancement that armament has made in the past three +thousand years."</p> + +<p>"And the big boys don't like it," I mused.</p> + +<p>"The little boys, as you use the word, won't like it, either," he +said. "But, that's not the point. Not the point at all. The stem of +the apple is this—what are we going to do with you?"</p> + +<p>"We?" I asked him.</p> + +<p>"We," he explained carefully, as to a baby, "is a generic term for the +army, the navy, the government, the world in general. As long as you +live, as long as you continue to be able to do the things you can do +now, a gun or an airplane is so much scrap metal. But—only as long as +you live!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>That I didn't like. "You mean that—"</p> + +<p>"Exactly what I said. As long as you're alive a soldier or a sailor +might as well be a Zulu; useful for the length he can throw a spear or +shoot an arrow, but useless as he now stands. There is no army, +apparently, right now that is worth more than its body weight—again, +as long as you live."</p> + +<p>"Do you have to harp on that?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? Do you want to live forever, or do you expect to?"</p> + +<p>He had me there. You bet I wanted to live forever. "Well?"</p> + +<p>He yanked pensively at his upper lip. "Two solutions; one, announce +you to the world with a clang of cymbals and a roll of drums. Two, +bury you someplace. Oh, figuratively speaking," he added hastily as he +saw my face.</p> + +<p>"Solution one sounds good to me," I told him. "I could go home then."</p> + +<p>He made it quite clear that Solution One was only theoretical; he was +firm about that. "Outside of rewriting all the peace treaties in +existence, do you remember how our Congress huddled over the Bomb? Can +you see Congress allowing you, can you see the General Staff agreeing +to share you with, for example, a United Nations Commission? Can you?"</p> + +<p>No, I couldn't.</p> + +<p>"So," with a regretful sigh, "Solution One leaves only Solution Two. +We'll grant that you must be kept under cover."</p> + +<p>I wondered if Stein was somewhere at the earphones of a tape recorder. +For someone with as big a job as the old man likely had, it seemed +that we were talking fairly freely. He went on.</p> + +<p>"And that Solution Two has within itself another unsolved problem; who +watches you, and who watches the watchers?"</p> + +<p>That didn't matter to me, and I said so.</p> + +<p>"I suppose not to you, but it would matter to the army, and it would +matter to the navy, and when J. Edgar Hoover gets around to thinking +about it, it will matter to the FBI."</p> + +<p>"So what? Would I get a choice?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He was curious for a moment. "Would you want one?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe, maybe not. I had a uniform once. The FBI go to college and +take off their hats in the house, but they're still cops, and I don't +like cops. Don't look at me like that; you wouldn't like cops either, +if you made less than a couple of hundred a week. Nobody does. So I'm +prejudiced against everybody, and just what difference does it make?"</p> + +<p>"Not a great deal. I was just curious." He was honest, anyway. "But +you can see the possibilities, or the lack of them."</p> + +<p>"Look," and I got up to take as many steps as the cabin would allow. +"This is where we came in. We could talk all day and get no further. +All I want to know is this—what's going to happen to me, and when, +and where?"</p> + +<p>He followed me with his steady eyes. "Well, at the immediate moment, +I'm afraid that—" He hesitated.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid that, quick like a bunny, you're going to have one solid +headache if we don't quit using the same words over and over again. +Here I am stuck in the middle of all the water in the world, and I'm +tired, and I'm disgusted, and I'm starting to get mad. You're trying +to smother my head in a pillow, I've got nothing but a first-class +run-around from you and everyone I've seen, who has been one man named +Bob Stein. I see nothing, I know less, I get cold shoulders and hot +promises."</p> + +<p>I sailed right on, not giving him a chance to slide in one word. "Why, +there must be ten thousand men and maybe some women right upstairs, +and who knows how many within a few miles from here, and do I get to +even pass the time of day with any of them? Do I? You bet your sweet +life I don't!"</p> + +<p>"There aren't any women within miles of here, except nurses, and maybe +a reporter, and I'm not sure about that."</p> + +<p>"Nurses and reporters are human, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>Had he found a chink in the armor? He frowned. "Is it women you want?"</p> + +<p>"Sure, I want women!" I flared at him. "I want a million of them! I +want Esther Williams and Minnie Mouse and anyone else that looks good +to me. But I don't want them on a silver platter with a gilt chain. I +want them when I want them—my wife and the waitress at Art's, and the +beer I used to drink would taste a lot better than the beer you said +I'd get and never seen!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The Smith stood up and I sat down. "Women and beer. Anything else?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," I snapped at him. "Women and beer and traffic piled up on +Gratiot and the same double feature at all the movies in town—" I got +a look at him. I felt silly. "All right, take out the needle. You +win."</p> + +<p>He was a gentleman. He didn't laugh. "Win? Yes, I suppose I win." +Before I could think of anything else to say, he was gone.</p> +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;"> +<img src="images/image_005.jpg" width="700" height="541" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<h2>PART II</h2> +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img class="img1" src="images/cover_2.jpg" width="400" height="574" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> +<p>Smith knocked early the next morning when Stein was still clearing the +breakfast coffee. For that time of day he was disgustingly happy.</p> + +<p>"The customary greeting, I believe, is good morning, is it not?"</p> + +<p>I gulped the rest of my cup. "Yeah. What's on your mind?"</p> + +<p>He sat down and waved away Stein's wordless offer of a cup. "How would +we like to take a little trip?"</p> + +<p>We. The editorial we. "Why not?"</p> + +<p>"This little trip—how would you like to go back home for awhile?"</p> + +<p>"Home?" I couldn't believe my ears, and I stared at him.</p> + +<p>He'd made a slip, and he was sorry. "I meant, back Stateside."</p> + +<p>I slumped back in my chair. "Then you heard me the first time. What's +the difference?"</p> + +<p>"Quite a bit of difference. No, Stein, you stay here. We're all in +this together."</p> + +<p>"Sure," I said. "Stick around. I'm the last one to find out what's +going on around here."</p> + +<p>He didn't appreciate my sarcasm. "I wouldn't say that, Peter."</p> + +<p>"Forget it. What's the story?"</p> + +<p>"We want you to go back where we can run some tests, this time as +comprehensive as we can arrange."</p> + +<p>I couldn't see why what we'd done wouldn't be enough. "Don't tell me +you have more than the Bomb up your sleeve."</p> + +<p>No, it wasn't like that. "There aren't more than four or six that know +anything but that the Bomb was set off prematurely because of motor +failure on the drone. The general knowledge is that it was just +another test in routine fashion. But, as I said, there are a few that +know the truth. They think it desirable that you be examined +scientifically, and completely."</p> + +<p>"Why?" I felt ornery.</p> + +<p>He knew it, and showed a little impatience. "Use your head, Peter. You +know better than that. We know you're unique. We want to know why, and +perhaps how, perhaps, your ability can be duplicated."</p> + +<p>That appealed to me. "And if you can find out what makes me tick I can +go back to living like myself again?" I took his silence for assent. I +had to. "Good. What do I do, and when?"</p> + +<p>He shrugged. "Nothing, yet. You'll go to ... well, let's call it +college. It shouldn't take too long. A week, maybe, maybe two, or +four, at the most."</p> + +<p>"Then what?"</p> + +<p>He didn't know. We'd talk about that later. Okay with me. If a doctor +could find out how I was whistling chords, all well and good. If +not—could I be any worse off?</p> + +<p>"Then it's settled. We'll leave today, if it can be arranged, and I +feel sure it can. Robert—" to Stein—"if you'll come with me we'll +try to make the necessary arrangements." Stein left, and Smith left, +and I got up and looked into the mirror. I needed a shave again.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>My college didn't have a laboratory worth counting when I went to +school. We'd had a stadium, and a losing football team instead. Now +the balding, bearded physicists sat in the front row when the +appropriations were spooned out. I suppose that's all for the better. +I really wouldn't know. The old fellow that met us at the front door +looked like an airedale, and like an airedale he sniffed all around me +before getting into combat range.</p> + +<p>"So you're Peter Miller!"</p> + +<p>"That's my name," I admitted. I wondered what all the dials and the +gadgets were for. It looked to me like the front end of one of these +computers I used to see in the magazines.</p> + +<p>"I'm Kellner. You must be Stein, right? Never mind your coats. Just +follow me," and off he trotted, and we trailed him into a bare office +with what looked like the equipment of a spendthrift dentist.</p> + +<p>"You sit here," and he waved at a straightbacked chair. I sat down, +Stein shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and in a moment +Kellner came back with a dozen others. He didn't bother to introduce +any of them. They all stood off and gaped at who'd killed Cock Robin.</p> + +<p>Kellner broke the silence. "Physical first?" There was a general nod. +"Physical, psychological, then—we'll come to that later." To Stein: +"Want to come along? Rather wait here? This is going to take some +time, you know."</p> + +<p>Stein knew that. He also wanted to come along. Those were his orders.</p> + +<p>I felt self-conscious taking off my clothes in front of that ghoulish +crew. The sheet they left me kept off no drafts, and I felt like a +corpse ready for the embalmer, and likely appeared one. Stethoscope, a +scale for my weight, a tape for my arm and the blood pressure, lights +that blinked in my eyes and bells that rang in my ear ... when they +were finished with me I felt like a used Tinker-Toy.</p> + +<p>"Do I pass? Will I live?"</p> + +<p>Kellner didn't like juvenile humor. He turned me over to another +group who, so help me, brought out a box of children's blocks to put +together, timing me with a stopwatch. They used the same stopwatch to +time how long it took me to come up with answers to some of the +silliest questions I ever heard outside of a nursery. Now I know why +they label well the patients in an insane asylum. The man with the +watch galloped off and came back with Kellner and they all stood +around muttering. The sheet and I were sticking to the chair.</p> + +<p>"Kellner. Doctor Kellner!" They didn't like me to break up the +kaffeeklatch. "Can I go now? Are you all through?"</p> + +<p>"All through?" The airedale changed to a cackling Rhode Island Red. +"Joseph, you are just beginning."</p> + +<p>"My name isn't Joseph, Dr. Kellner. It's Miller. Peter Ambrose +Miller."</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, Peter," and he cackled again. "Nevertheless, you're going +to be here quite awhile."</p> + +<p>Peter, hey? No more, Mr. Miller. Pete to my wife, Peter to my mother, +and Peter to every school teacher I ever had.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>They conferred awhile longer and the party broke up. Kellner and a +gawkish Great Dane led me sheet and all to what I thought would be the +operating room. It looked like one. I found a chair all by myself this +time, and watched them hook up an electric fan. They were hipped on +fans, I thought.</p> + +<p>Kellner trotted over. "Stop that fan." Not, please stop that fan. +Just, stop that fan.</p> + +<p>I shivered ostentatiously. "I'm cold."</p> + +<p>Kellner was annoyed. "Perfectly comfortable in here." Sure, you old +goat, you got your pants on. "Come, let's not delay. Stop the fan."</p> + +<p>I told him I was still cold, and I looked at the fan. It threw sparks, +and the long cord smoked. I was going to fix those boys.</p> + +<p>The other man yanked the cord from the wall, and from the way he +sucked his fingers, it must have been hot. Kellner was pleased at +that. He ignored the man's sore fingers and snarled at him until he +brought out some dry cells and hooked them in series to a large bell, +almost a gong. He pressed the button and it clanged.</p> + +<p>"All right," and Kellner motioned imperiously to me. "No point in +fooling. We know you can make it stop ringing. Now, go ahead and ring +the bell."</p> + +<p>I looked at him. "Make the bell ring what?"</p> + +<p>"What?" He was genuinely puzzled. "What's this?"</p> + +<p>"I said make the bell ring what?" He stared blankly at me. "And you +heard me the first time!" He shot an astonished glance at Stein. "Oh, +hell!" I got up and started out, trailing my sheet. I almost stumbled +over Stein, who was right at my shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Here, what's this?" Kellner was bouncing with excitement.</p> + +<p>I turned on him. "Listen you; I said I was cold. Not once, but twice I +said I was cold. Now, blast it, I want my clothes, and I want them +now. Right now!" The airedale became a fish out of water. "Do I look +like a ten-year-old in to get his tonsils out? I ask you a civil +question and you smirk at me, you tell me to do this and you tell me +to do that and never a please or a thank you or a kiss my foot. Don't +pull that Doctor write the prescription in Latin on me, because I +don't like it! Catch?" Stein was right on my heel when I headed for +the door.</p> + +<p>Poor Stein was wailing aloud. "Pete, you can't do this! Don't you know +who Doctor Kellner is?"</p> + +<p>"One big healthy pain!" I snapped at him. "Does he know who I am? I'm +Pete Miller, Mister Miller to him or to anyone but my friends. I want +my pants!"</p> + +<p>Stein wrung his hands and slowed me down as much as I would let him. +"You just can't get up and walk out like that!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no?" I came to a full stop and leered at him. "Who's going to +stop me?"</p> + +<p>That's the trouble with the doctors and lawyers and technical boys; +they're so used to talking over people's heads they can't answer a +civil question in less than forty syllables. Keep all the secrets in +the trade. Write it in Latin, keep the patient in the dark, pat his +head and tell him papa knows best.</p> + +<p>When Kellner caught up with us he had help. "Here, here, my man. Where +do you think you are going?"</p> + +<p>I wished he was my age and forty pounds heavier. "Me? I'm getting out +of here. And I'm not your man and I never will be. When you can admit +that, and not act like I'm a set of chalkmarks on a blackboard, send +me a letter and tell me about it. One side, dogface!"</p> + +<p>One big fellow, just the right size, puffed out his cheeks. "Just whom +do you think you are addressing?"</p> + +<p>Whom. I looked him over. I never did like people who wore van Dyke +goatees. I put whom and van Dyke on the floor. It was a good +Donnybrook while it lasted. The last thing I remember was the gong in +the next room clanging steadily while Stein, good old Stein, right in +there beside me was swinging and yelling, "Don't hurt him! Don't hurt +him!"</p> + +<p>I woke up with another headache. When I sat up with a grunt and looked +around I saw Stein and his nose four inches from a mirror, gingerly +trying his tongue against his front teeth. I snickered. He didn't like +that, and turned around.</p> + +<p>"You don't look so hot yourself."</p> + +<p>He was right. I couldn't see much out of my left eye. We grinned at +each other. "Right in there pitching, weren't you?"</p> + +<p>He shrugged. "What did you expect me to do?"</p> + +<p>"Run for help," I told him. "Or stand there and watch me get a going +over."</p> + +<p>"Sure." He looked uncomfortable. "I'm supposed to keep an eye on you."</p> + +<p>"So you did." I thought back. "What happened to Whom when I addressed +him properly?"</p> + +<p>It must have hurt his cheek when he tried to smile. "Still out, at +last report. You know, Pete, you have a fairly good left—and a lousy +temper."</p> + +<p>I knew that. "I just got tired of getting pushed around. Besides, with +no pants I was stuck to that chair."</p> + +<p>"Probably." His tongue pushed gently against his sore lip. "You think +that was the right way to go about making things better?"</p> + +<p>Maybe not. But did he have any better ideas?</p> + +<p>He wasn't sure, but he didn't think a laboratory was just the right +place for a brawl.</p> + +<p>"Just why I started it. Now what?"</p> + +<p>He didn't know that either. "Kellner is having hysterics, and I just +made some phone calls."</p> + +<p>If the Old Man showed up I had some nice words ready to use. "Now we +might get some action."</p> + +<p>Stein gave me a sour look. "Not necessarily the kind you'll like. I'll +be back after I try to talk some sense into Kellner."</p> + +<p>"Hey!" I yelled after him. "Where's my pants?"</p> + +<p>"Back in a few minutes," he tossed over his shoulder; "make yourself +comfortable," and he left.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Comfortable with a cot and a mirror and a washbowl. I washed my face +and lay on the cot with a washrag soaked in cold water on my throbbing +eye. I must have dozed off. When I woke the Old Man was standing over +me. I sat up and the rag fell off my eye.</p> + +<p>"What's cooking, Bossman?"</p> + +<p>I don't think his frown was completely genuine. "You, apparently."</p> + +<p>I swung my legs over the edge of the cot and stretched. "Have a seat +and a cigarette."</p> + +<p>He sat down beside me and reached for his lighter. "Peter, I wish—"</p> + +<p>I cut in on him. "Item one, I want my pants."</p> + +<p>He gestured impatiently. "You'll get them. Now—"</p> + +<p>"I said, I want my pants."</p> + +<p>He began to get annoyed. "I told you—"</p> + +<p>"And I told you I want my pants. I don't want them later or in a +while; I want my pants and I want them now."</p> + +<p>He sat back and looked at me. "What's all this?"</p> + +<p>I let fly. "For the record, I want my pants. I'm certainly no patient +in this morgue, and I'm not going to be treated like one, so whatever +you or anyone else has got to say to me is not going to be while I'm +as bare as a baby. My mind's made up," and I scrunched together +ungracefully on the little space that remained on my end of the cot +and pulled the sheet over my head. Kid stuff, and we both knew it.</p> + +<p>He didn't say anything, although I could feel his eyes boring through +the flimsy sheet, and I lay there until I felt the springs creak as he +got up and I could hear his footsteps retreating. When he came back +with my clothes over his arm I was sitting up. While I was dressing he +tried to talk to me, but I would have none of it.</p> + +<p>When I was dressed I said, "Now, you were saying—?"</p> + +<p>I drew a long speculative stare. "Peter, what's eating you?"</p> + +<p>I told him. "I just got tired of being shoved around. With the +physical exam over with you give me one reason why I should sit around +in my bare hide. Am I a machine? My name's Miller, not the Patient in +Cell Two."</p> + +<p>He thought he was being reasonable. "And you think you get results by +knocking around people that are trying to help you?"</p> + +<p>"With some people, you do. I tried talking, and that didn't work. I +got action my way, didn't I?"</p> + +<p>He sighed. "Action, yes. Do you know what Kellner said?"</p> + +<p>"Not interested. Whatever he's got to say to me is going to have a +please in front and a thank you after."</p> + +<p>Wearily, "Peter, must you always act like a child?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," I blazed at him. "But I'm damn well going to. I'm free, +white and a citizen, and I'm going to be treated like one, and not a +side-show freak!"</p> + +<p>"Now, now," he soothed. "Doctor Kellner is a very famous and a very +busy man. He might not have realized—"</p> + +<p>"Realize your hat! He's so used to living in the clouds he thinks the +world is one big moron. Well, I may be one, but no one is going to +tell me I am!"</p> + +<p>"I see your point," and he stood up. "But you try to be a little more +cooperative. I'll see Kellner now," and he started out.</p> + +<p>"Cooperative?" I bellowed at his back. "What do you think I've been +doing? What do you—"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He must have read the riot act. When they took me in to Kellner and +his crew it was "please, Mr. Miller" and "thank you, Mr. Miller." The +place didn't seem so cold and bare so long as I had my pants. I didn't +see Whom and his van Dyke, but I hoped it was the tile floor and not +me that gave him the concussion.</p> + +<p>The rest of the tests, you can imagine, were almost anticlimactic. I +stopped motors, blew tubes, turned lights off and on, rang bells and +cooked the insulation on yards and yards of wire. My head they kept +connected with taped terminals and every time I blew a fuse or a motor +they would see the dials spin crazily. Then they would stand around +clucking and chattering desperately. They took X-rays by the score, hoping +to find something wrong with the shape of my head, and for all the results +they got, might have been using a Brownie on a cue ball. Then they'd back +off to the corner and sulk. One little bearded rascal, in particular, to +this day is certain that Kellner was risking his life in getting within +ten feet. He never turned his back on me that I recall; he sidled around, +afraid I would set his watch to running backwards. You know, one of the +funniest and yet one of the most pathetic things in the world is the +spectacle of someone who has spent his life in mastering a subject, only +to find that he has built a sled without runners. Long before we were +finished I thought Kellner, for one, was going to eat his tie, stripes and +all. Running around in ever-widening circles they were, like coon dogs +after a scent. They didn't get a smell. The medico who ran the +electro-cardiograph refused to make sense, after the fifth trials, out of +the wiggly marks on his graphs.</p> + +<p>"Kellner," he stated flatly, "I don't know just what your game is, but +these readings are not true."</p> + +<p>Kellner didn't like that. Nor did he like the man who wanted to shave +my head. I wouldn't let them do that. I look bad enough now. I +compromised by letting them soak my head in what smelled like water, +and then tying or pasting strands of tape all over my scalp. A pretty +mess I was, as bad as a woman getting a permanent wave. Worse. One +whole day I stood for that. This specialist, whatever he did, had +Kellner get me to run through my repertoire of bells and fans and +buzzers while he peered nearsightedly at his elaborate tool shop. When +the fuse would blow or the bell would ring, the specialist would wince +as though he were pinched. Kellner stood over his shoulder saying at +intervals, "What do you get? What do you get?" Kellner finally got it. +The specialist stood up, swore in Platt-deutsch, some at Kellner and +some at me and some at his machine, and left in all directions. The +gist of it was that he was too important and too busy to have jokes +played on him. Kellner just wagged his head and walked out.</p> + +<p>The Old Man said, "You're not one bit different from anyone else."</p> + +<p>"Sure," I said. "I could have told you that long ago. It shouldn't +take a doctor."</p> + +<p>"Miller, what in blazes are we going to do with you?"</p> + +<p>I didn't know. I'd done my share. "Where do we go from here?"</p> + +<p>The Old Man looked out the window. The sun was going down. "Someone +wants to see you. He's been waiting for Kellner to finish with you. We +leave tonight."</p> + +<p>"For where?" I didn't like this running around. "Who's 'he'?"</p> + +<p>"For Washington. You'll see who it is."</p> + +<p>Washington, more than just a sleeper jump away. Washington? Oh, oh.... +Well, let's get it over with. We did. We left for the capital that +night.</p> + +<p>We slipped in the back door, or what passed for the back door. Pretty +elaborate layout, the White House. Our footsteps rang as hollow as my +heart on the shiny waxed floors.</p> + +<p>The Old Man did the honors. "Mr. President, this is Mr. Miller."</p> + +<p>He shook hands. He had a good grip.</p> + +<p>"General Hayes, you know. Admiral Lacey, Admiral Jessop, Mr. Hoover +you know, General Buckley. Gentlemen. Mr. Miller."</p> + +<p>We shook hands all around. "Glad to know you." My palms were slippery.</p> + +<p>The President sat, and we followed suit. The guest of honor, I felt +like my head was shaved, and I had a slit pants leg. You don't meet +the President every day.</p> + +<p>The President broke the ice. It was thin to begin with. "You have +within yourself the ability, the power, to do a great deal for your +country, Mr. Miller, or would you prefer to be called Pete?"</p> + +<p>Pete was all right. He was older, and bigger. Bigger all around.</p> + +<p>"A great deal of good, or a great deal of harm."</p> + +<p>No harm. I'm a good citizen.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure of that. But you can understand what I mean, by harm."</p> + +<p>Likely I could, if I really wanted to. But I didn't. Not the place +where you were born.</p> + +<p>"Naturally, Pete, it makes me feel a great deal better, however, to +hear you say and phrase it just like that." The light of the lamp +glittered on his glasses. "Very, very much better, Pete."</p> + +<p>I was glad it was dark beyond the range of the lamp. My face was red. +"Thank you, Mr. President."</p> + +<p>"I like it better, Pete, because from this day on, Pete, you and I and +all of us know that you, and you alone, are going to have a mighty +hard row to hoe." That's right; he was a farmer once. "Hard in this +respect—you understand, I know, that for the rest of your natural +life you must and shall be guarded with all the alert fervor that +national security demands. Does that sound too much like a jail +sentence?"</p> + +<p>It did, but I lied. I said, "Not exactly, Mr. President. Whatever you +say is all right with me."</p> + +<p>He smiled. "Thank you, Pete.... Guarded as well and as closely as—the +question is, where?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I didn't know I'd had a choice. The Old Man had talked to me before on +that.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly, Pete. This is what I mean: General Buckley and General +Hayes feel that you will be safest on the mainland somewhere in the +Continental United States. Admirals Lacey and Jessop, on the other +hand, feel that the everpresent risk of espionage can be controlled +only by isolation, perhaps on some island where the personnel can be +exclusively either military or naval."</p> + +<p>I grinned inwardly. I knew this was going to happen.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Hoover concedes that both possible places have inherent +advantages and disadvantages," the President went on. "He feels, +however, that protection should be provided by a staff specially +trained in law-enforcement and counter-espionage."</p> + +<p>So where did that leave me? I didn't say it quite that way, but I put +across the idea.</p> + +<p>The President frowned a bit at nothing. "I'm informed you haven't been +too ... comfortable."</p> + +<p>I gulped. Might as well be hung for a sheep. If the Boss likes you, +the Help must. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but it isn't much fun being +shifted around pillar and post."</p> + +<p>He nodded slowly. "Quite understandable, under the circumstances. +That, we'll try to eliminate as much as we can. You can see, Pete," +and he flashed that famous wide grin, "it will be in the national +interest to see that you are always in the finest physical and mental +condition. Crudely expressed, perhaps, but the truth, nevertheless."</p> + +<p>I like people to tell me the truth. He could see that. He's like that, +himself. On his job, you have to be like that.</p> + +<p>"Now, Pete; let's get down to cases. Have you any ideas, any +preferences, any suggestions?" He took a gold pencil out of his breast +pocket and it began to twirl.</p> + +<p>I had an idea, all right. "Why not just let me go back home? I'll keep +my mouth shut, I won't blow any fuses or raise any hell, if you'll +excuse the expression."</p> + +<p>Someone coughed. The President turned his head out of the circle of +light. "Yes, Mr. Hoover?"</p> + +<p>J. Edgar Hoover was diffident. "Er ... Mrs. Miller has been informed +of her husband's ... demise. An honorable one," he hastened to add, +"and is receiving a comfortable pension, paid from the Bureau's +special funds."</p> + +<p>"How much?" I wanted to know.</p> + +<p>He shifted uncomfortably. "Well ... a hundred a month."</p> + +<p>I looked at the President. "Bought any butter lately?"</p> + +<p>The President strangled a cough. "Have you, Mr. Hoover, bought any +butter lately?"</p> + +<p>J. Edgar Hoover couldn't say anything. It wasn't his fault.</p> + +<p>I flicked a glance at General Hayes. "How much does it cost the Army +for an antiaircraft gun?" I looked at one of the admirals. "And how +much goes down the drain when you launch a battleship? Or even a PT +boat?"</p> + +<p>The President took over. "Rest assured, Mr. Miller. Your wife's +pension is quadrupled, effective immediately." He swung his chair to +face Hoover; "Cash will be transferred tomorrow to the Bureau from the +State Department's special fund. You'll see to that?" to the Old Man. +So that was what he did for a living. That State Department is a good +lifetime job, I understand.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>That took a load from my mind, but not all. I spoke to Hoover +directly.</p> + +<p>"How is my ... widow?"</p> + +<p>As tense and as bad as I felt just then, I was sorry for him.</p> + +<p>"Quite well, Mr. Miller. Quite well, considering. It came as a blow to +her, naturally—"</p> + +<p>"What about the house?" I asked him. "Is she keeping up the payments?"</p> + +<p>He had to admit that he didn't know. The President told him to finish +the payments, pay for the house. Over and above the pension? Over and +above the pension. And I was to get a regular monthly report on how +she was getting along.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, Mr. President. I'd rather not get a regular monthly +report, or any word at all, unless she—unless anything happens to +her."</p> + +<p>"No report at all, Pete?" That surprised, him, and he eyed me over the +top of his bifocals.</p> + +<p>"She's still young, Mr. President," I said, "and she's just as pretty +as the day we got married. I don't think I'd want to know if ... she +got married again."</p> + +<p>The quiet was thick enough to slice. If they talked about Helen any +more I was going to throw something. The President saw how I felt.</p> + +<p>"Now, Mr. Miller—Pete. Let's get back to business. You were +saying—?"</p> + +<p>Yes, I had an idea. "Put me on an island somewhere, the further away +the better. I wouldn't like being around things without being able to +be in the middle. Better put me where I can't weaken, where I can't +sneak out a window or swim back." Everyone was listening. "Keep the +uniforms away from me, out of sight." The Brass didn't like that, but +they heard me out. "Feed me a case of beer once in a while and a few +magazines and some books and right boys to play euchre. I guess that's +all I want."</p> + +<p>The gold pencil turned over and over. "That isn't very much, Pete."</p> + +<p>"That's all. If I'm going to do the Army's and the Navy's work they +can leave me alone till they need me. If I can't live my life the way +I want, it makes no difference what I do. My own fault is that all my +family lived to be eighty, and so will I. Is that what you wanted to +know?"</p> + +<p>The gold pencil rolled off the table. "Yes, yes, Pete. That's what I +wanted to know."</p> + +<p>I tried once more. "There isn't any way I can just go home?"</p> + +<p>A slow shake of his head, and finality was in his voice. "I'm afraid +there isn't any way." And that was that.</p> + +<p>The President stood up in dismissal, and we all rose nervously. He +held out his hand. "Sorry, Pete. Perhaps some day...."</p> + +<p>I shook his hand limply and the Old Man was at my elbow to steer me +out. Together we paced back through the dark hall, together we stepped +quietly out into the black Washington night. Our footsteps echoed +softly past the buildings of the past and the future. The car was +waiting; Stein, the driver. The heavy door slammed, and the tires +hissed me from the pavement.</p> + +<p>The Old Man's voice was gentle. "You behaved well, Peter."</p> + +<p>"Yeh."</p> + +<p>"I was afraid, for a moment, that you were going to kick over the +traces. The President is a very important man."</p> + +<p>"Yeh."</p> + +<p>"You are, too. Right now, probably the most important man in the +world. You took it very well."</p> + +<p>"Yeh."</p> + +<p>"Is that all you have to say?"</p> + +<p>I looked out the window. "Yeh," and he fell quiet.</p> + +<p>Stein got us to the airport, and there was waiting an Army ship for +the three of us. I might have been able to see the Monument or the +Capitol when we were airborne. I don't know. I didn't look.</p> + +<p>Later I asked Stein where we were going. He didn't know. I prodded the +Old Man out of a doze. I wished I could sleep.</p> + +<p>He hesitated. Then, "West. Far west."</p> + +<p>"West." I thought that over. "How much out of your way would it be to +fly over Detroit?"</p> + +<p>"You couldn't see much."</p> + +<p>I knew that. "How much out of your way?"</p> + +<p>Not too much. He nodded to Stein, who got up and went forward. After +he came back and sat down the plane slipped on one wing and +straightened on its new course. No one said anything more after that.</p> + +<p>We hit Detroit about five thousand feet, the sun just coming up from +Lake Ste. Clair. Smith was right. Although I craned my neck I couldn't +see much. I picked up Gratiot, using the Penobscot Tower for a +landmark, and followed it to Mack, and out Mack. I could just pick +out the dogleg at Connors, and imagined I could see the traffic light +at Chalmers. I had to imagine hard. The way we were flying, the body +and the wing hid where I'd lived, where—the cigarette I had in my +fist tasted dry, and so did my mouth, so I threw it down and closed my +eyes and tried to sleep. Somewhere around Nebraska we landed for fuel.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Maybe it was Kansas. It was flat, and hot, and dry. The Old Man and +Stein and I got out to stretch. There was no shade, no trees, no green +oasis for the traveler. The olive drab tanker that pulled up to pump +gas into our wing tanks was plastered with "No Smoking" tabs, and we +walked away before the hose was fully unreeled. Off to our right was +the only shade, back of the landing strip, a great gray hangar glutted +with shiny-nosed, finny monsters. Out of the acrid half-pleasant reek +of high-octane, we stood smoking idly, watching the denimed air-crews +clamber flylike over the jutting wings. From the post buildings off to +the right jounced a dusty motorcycle. We watched it twist to a jerking +stop at our refueling ship, and the soldier that dismounted bobbed in +salute to the two pilots watching the gassing operation. Two motions +only they used; one to return the salute and another to point us out +in the shadow of the hangar. The soldier shaded his eyes from the sun +to peer in our direction, calculated the distance with his eye, and +then roared his motorcycle almost to our feet.</p> + +<p>"Post Commander's compliments," he barked. "And will the gentlemen +please report at once to the Colonel's office?"</p> + +<p>The Old Man eyed the motorcycle and the empty sidecar. He looked at +Stein.</p> + +<p>"Better stay here," he said thoughtfully. "If I need you, I'll come +back." He climbed awkwardly into the sidecar, and the soldier, after a +hesitant acceptance, kicked the starter. The Old Man gripped the sides +firmly as they bounced away in the baking breeze, and Stein looked +absently at his watch. It was close to noon.</p> + +<p>At twelve-thirty the gas truck rolled ponderously back to its den. At +one, our two pilots struck out across the strip for the post +buildings, shimmering in the heat. At one-thirty, I turned to Stein, +who had been biting his nails for an hour.</p> + +<p>"Enough is enough," I said. "Who finds out what—you or I?"</p> + +<p>He hesitated, and strained his eyes. The Old Man, nor anyone, was not +in sight. The post might have been alone in the Sahara. He chewed his +lip.</p> + +<p>"Me, I guess." He knew better than to argue with me, in my mood. "I'll +be back. Ten minutes," and he started for the post. He got no further +than half the distance when an olive sedan, a big one, raced toward +us. It stopped for Stein, sucked him into the front seat, whirled back +past me to our plane standing patiently, and dumped out our two +pilots. A final abrupt bounding spin brought it to the hangar. The Old +Man leaned out of the back door.</p> + +<p>"In, quick," he snapped.</p> + +<p>I got in, and the soldier driver still had the sedan in second gear +when we got to our ship. One motor was already coughing, and as we +clambered into the cabin the starter caught the second. Both +propellers vanished into a silvered arc, and without a preparatory +warmup we slewed around and slammed back in the bucket seats in a +pounding takeoff. Stein went forward to the pilot's cabin, and I +turned, half-angrily, to the Smith. His face was etched with +bitterness. Something was wrong, something seriously wrong.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" I asked. "What's the big hurry?"</p> + +<p>He flicked a sidelong glance at me, and his brows almost met. He +looked mad, raving mad.</p> + +<p>"Well?" I said. "Cat got your tongue?" I noticed then that he was +fraying and twisting a newspaper. I hadn't seen a newspaper for what +seemed years. Stein came back and sat on the edge of the seat. What in +blazes was the matter?</p> + +<p>Smith said something unprintable. That didn't sound right, coming from +that refined face. I raised my eyebrows.</p> + +<p>"Leak," he ended succinctly. "There's been a leak. The word's out!"</p> + +<p>That was a surprise. A big one.</p> + +<p>"And it's thanks to you!"</p> + +<p>"Me?"</p> + +<p>He flipped the newspaper at me. I caught it in midair, and there it +was, smeared all over the face of the Kansas City <i>Sentinel</i>. Great, +black, tall shrieking streamer heads:</p> + +<h3>AMERICA HAS ATOMIC DEFENSE!</h3> +<p>I scanned the two columns of stumbling enthusiastic prose that trailed +over on to Page Two. Stein came over and leaned over my shoulder and +breathed on my ear as we read. He hadn't seen the sheet, either. It +ran something like this:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>America, it was learned today, has at last an absolute +defense, not only to the atomic bomb, but to every gun, +every airplane, every engine, every weapon capable of being +used by man. Neither admitted nor denied at this early date +by even the highest government officials, it was learned by +our staff late last night that America's latest step +forward....</p></div> + +<p>Column after column of stuff like that. When the reporter got through +burbling, he did have a few facts that were accurate. He did say it +was my doing that set off the last atomic bomb test; he did say that I +was apparently invulnerable to violence powered by electrical or +internal combustion engines; he did say what I could do, and what I +had done, and how often. He didn't say who I was, or what I looked +like, or where I'd come from, or what I did or didn't know.</p> + +<p>Sprinkled through the story—and I followed it back to Page 32 and the +pictures rehashed of the traffic jam in Detroit—were references to T. +Sylvester Colquhoun, the boy who dumped the original plate of beans. +He attested this and swore to that. Whoever he was, wherever he got +his information, he—there was his picture on Page 32, big as life and +twice as obnoxious; Mr. Whom and the van Dyke.</p> + +<p>Guiltily I handed the paper over to Stein, who turned back to the +front page and started again from the beginning. I tried to carry +things off in the nonchalant manner, but I couldn't. I had to watch +the Old Man light a cigarette with fumbling fingers, take a few +snorting puffs, and crush it viciously under his heel. Miller and his +temper.</p> + +<p>Whom—or T. Sylvester Colquhoun—had, quite obviously, a grudge +against the short left that had given him his concussion. According to +the <i>Sentinel</i>, he had babbled a bit when he was released from the +hospital, and an alert newshawk had trailed him to his home and +bluffed him into spilling the whole story. He had sense enough, at +that late stage of the game, to keep my name out of it, if he ever +knew it. The reporter had gone to his editor with the story, who had +laughed incredulously at first, and then checked Kellner at the +laboratory. Kellner had clammed up, and when the now suspicious editor +had tried to check Colquhoun's tale personally, Colquhoun had +vanished. A snooping neighbor had noted the license of the car that +had taken him away. The Highway Department—the editor must have +moved fast and decisively—showed the license plate as issued to a man +the editor knew personally as a special agent of the Kansas City +Branch of the FBI.</p> + +<p>Then hell began to pop. Repeated long-distance calls to Washington ran +him up against a stone wall. The answers he got convinced him that +there was something to Colquhoun's wild tale, something weird and yet +something that had a germ of truth. (Half of this, understand, was in +the <i>Sentinel</i>. The other half I picked up later on, adding two and +two.) As he was sitting mulling things over it was his turn to get a +call from Washington. The State Department was on the line; Morgan, +the Under Secretary.</p> + +<p>Morgan fairly yelled at him. "Where did you get that information? +What's the idea?" and so on. That clinched it for the editor. Then it +was he knew.</p> + +<p>Morgan made his mistake there. He began to threaten, and the editor +hit the ceiling. Hit it hard, because he stretched things a little. He +stretched it more than just a little.</p> + +<p>He said, "Furthermore, that's on the street right now—this is a +newspaper, not a morgue!"</p> + +<p>It wasn't on the street, the editor knew. Perhaps he wanted to throw a +scare into Morgan, perhaps—But Morgan!</p> + +<p>Morgan gasped, "Oh, my God!" and hung up with a bang.</p> + +<p>The editor flipped a mental coin. His circulation was not what it +should be, the boss had been riding him lately, his job might be where +a beat would tilt the balance up or down. The national safety that +Morgan had shouted about—well, if we had the perfect weapon and the +perfect defense, what was there to fear? And this <i>was</i> a newspaper, +not a morgue! They replated, and the first extras hit the street to +wake up half the city. The wire services had the story and extras were +rolling throughout the country, or the world, about the time I was +watching the sun over Lake Ste. Clair.</p> + +<p>Neither the State Department nor the FBI were on their toes that day. +Instead of denying everything, or instead of laughing heartily at the +pipedream of an editor trying to sell an extra edition or two, whoever +was pulling the strings behind the scenes demanded flatly that all +wire services kill and disregard all references to Colquhoun. No one +ever made a newspaperman do what he really didn't want to do. The very +fact that the government was so eager to kill the story made every +newsman worthy of his salt all the more eager to break the paper-thin +shell around the meaty yolk. By noon, the time we landed for fuel, +every Washington correspondent for every news service had a little +different story for his boss, the White House was practically besieged +at the mere rumor that the President was to issue a statement, and the +State Department was going quietly mad.</p> + +<p>"Not so quietly, at that," the Old Man said sourly. "One hour straight +I stayed on that telephone. One hour straight I talked to one bunch of +raving maniacs, and all the common sense I heard would go into your +left eye."</p> + +<p>By that time his temper had cooled below melting, and we were again on +reasonably good terms. I was curious to know just who the Old Man had +talked to.</p> + +<p>He grunted. "Just about everyone in Washington with any authority at +all. No one with any intelligence."</p> + +<p>I could appreciate that. I have a very low opinion of anyone who stays +in Washington any longer than necessary.</p> + +<p>I asked him, "We're apparently heading back there. Why? Where were we +going when they stopped us?"</p> + +<p>He wasn't sure. "I wanted to keep on going," he said, "and get you out +of the country. I still think that would have been best. There was to +be a cruiser waiting at Bremerton for a shakedown cruise. But whoever +is running all this—and I don't think that the President has thought +too much about it—wants us to get back to Washington for another +conference."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Another meeting?" I was disgusted. Washington political rashes +manifest themselves most often by the consistent eruption of +conferences in which nothing is said, nothing decided, nothing done. +"What does who think what?"</p> + +<p>He blinked, and then smiled. "I couldn't say. I've been in this game +only twenty years. At any rate, you can see who's worried."</p> + +<p>I didn't see, exactly.</p> + +<p>"No?" He was amused. "Don't you remember the discussion we had about +who was going to watch the watchers? Now that there's been a leak, the +Army is going to blame the Navy, the Navy is going to blame the FBI, +and I take punishment from all three." He sighed. "My department +seems, invariably, to be in the middle."</p> + +<p>I let it go at that. I didn't have the heart to remind him that a good +portion of the trouble and friction this country has had in its +history has been because the State Department has been sitting on the +water bucket when it should have been playing deep centerfield. No use +worrying about things until the fuse is burnt half its length, I +thought. That might be, for me and all of us, a good policy to adopt, +for the time being. Let the boys at the top fret and worry; let them +wrack their brains and beat their heads against the wall. I'd do what +they told me, if I could. The man that pays the salary worries about +the unemployment tax.</p> + +<p>"Stein," I said, "are there any more of those sandwiches?"</p> + +<p>The Old Man settled back in his seat and began to read the Kansas City +<i>Sentinel</i> all over again. He was still worried when we landed in +Washington.</p> + +<p>He left in a waiting black sedan, and Stein and I stayed in the ship +until it was yanked into a dark hangar by a tiny tractor with great +rubber tires. We slid out the back of the hangar when the wary Stein +thought it was safe, and a taxi rolled us to the Mayflower. There we +registered, I was told, as James Robertson and William Wakefield, +Wisconsin Dells.</p> + +<p>"Milwaukee," I suggested, "has better beer."</p> + +<p>He took the hint, and when the waiter brought our late dinner, the ice +bucket had eight frosty bottles. They practically sizzled when they +went down. Bob Stein, at times, had some earmarks of genius, even if +you had to lay them bare with an axe.</p> + +<p>The first day wasn't bad; we sat around, drank beer and ate huge thick +sirloins on the swindle sheet, and told all the stories we knew. The +radio was blurting either soap operas, hill-billy music, or +lentil-mouthed commentators. The story broken in the <i>Sentinel</i> was +gathering momentum, by what we read and heard, and that was too close +to home. So we made a pact to turn off the radio and keep it that way. +We never missed it.</p> + +<p>The second day the beer tasted as good as ever. The steaks were just +as thick and just as tender, the hotel service just as unobtrusive. +Stein was just as cheerful and as pleasant company. But I spent a lot +of time looking out the window.</p> + +<p>"You know, Bob," I said thoughtfully, "how would you like a big plate +of spaghetti? Or ravioli? Maybe some pizza?"</p> + +<p>He came out of the bathroom wiping his face with a towel, his hair wet +and frizzled.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_006.jpg" width="400" height="600" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"Am I going to have trouble with you?" He was pessimistic. "Aren't +you ever satisfied?"</p> + +<p>I turned away from the window and let the curtain flap in the breeze. +"Who wants to be satisfied? How about some sub-gum war mein, or +chicken cacciatora?"</p> + +<p>He tossed the towel back through the open door. "Now, look here," he +protested.</p> + +<p>I laughed at him. "Okay, but you get the point."</p> + +<p>He did, but he didn't know what he could do about it. "We were +supposed to wait here until—"</p> + +<p>That one I'd heard before. "Until the hotel freezes over, sure. But I +don't want to freeze. Do you?"</p> + +<p>No, nor to rust. You could see that he liked his job of body-guard and +factotum, and yet....</p> + +<p>I pushed him over the edge. "Tell you what to do," I said. "You call +up and say that I'm getting restless. Say that you're afraid I'll ease +out of here when your back is turned. Say anything you like, as long +as you lay it on thick, and I'll back you up. Okay?"</p> + +<p>He weighed it awhile. He liked inaction, no matter how sybaritic as +much as I. Then, "Okay," and he reached for the telephone.</p> + +<p>The number he gave answered the first ring.</p> + +<p>"I'm calling for Mr. Robertson," he said. "This is Mr. William +Wakefield. W. W. Wakefield." He paused. Then, "Ordinarily, I wouldn't, +but Mr. Robertson felt that I should get in touch with you at once."</p> + +<p>The other end squawked, nervously, I thought.</p> + +<p>Stein thought so, too. "That's quite possible. However, Mr. Robertson +feels that his time here in Washington is valuable. So valuable that +he thinks that his business is soon going to call him back to +Wisconsin Dells, if the merger referred to is delayed any longer. I +beg your pardon?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He twisted to throw me a wink over his shoulder as the telephone +chattered frantically.</p> + +<p>"That's exactly what I told Mr. Robertson.... Yes, he knows of +that.... Yes, I have assured him that, in these days of business +uncertainty and production difficulties, mergers are not as easily +arranged as—" That Stein had a sense of humor when he wanted to use +it.</p> + +<p>"Is that right? I'm glad to hear it. One moment, while I check with +Mr. Robertson." He held his hand over the mouthpiece and grinned at +me. "They are ready to have a stroke. This man I'm talking to has no +more authority than a jackrabbit, and he knows it. He wants to check +with his boss, and call us back later. All right with you, Mr. +Robertson?"</p> + +<p>I laughed out loud, and he clamped the mouthpiece tighter. "I think +so, Mr. W. W. Wakefield. As long as he puts the heat on that merger."</p> + +<p>He went back on the telephone. "Mr. Robertson thinks he might be able +to wait a trifle longer. He asked me to warn you, that as he is a very +busy man, every minute of his time can cost a considerable amount of +money and goods.... Yes, I'll tell him that.... I'll be waiting for +your call.... Yes, I will. Thank you, and good-bye." He hung up the +telephone with a flourish.</p> + +<p>"Satisfied, Mr. Robertson?"</p> + +<p>I was satisfied. "Quite, Mr. W. W. Wakefield. Wouldst care for ein +bier?"</p> + +<p>Ein bier haben. He would.</p> + +<p>The telephone rang about an hour later, and I answered it. It was the +Old Man's voice.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Robertson?" he said cautiously.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Robertson speaking," I said. "Yes?"</p> + +<p>"I'm calling," he told me in a voice that said he was annoyed, but +didn't want to show it, "in reference to the Wisconsin Dells merger."</p> + +<p>"Yes?" I gave him no help.</p> + +<p>"You understand, Mr. Robertson, that such an important merger can +hardly be arranged at a moment's notice."</p> + +<p>Yes, I understood that. "But two days notice is more than sufficient, +even allowing for an enormous amount of red tape." I put real regret +into my voice. "It is not that I wouldn't like to let nature take its +course, but other things must be taken into consideration." I hoped I +sounded like the busy executive. "I believe that Mr. Wakefield, Mr. W. +W. Wakefield, has explained that I am a very busy man, and that I can +hardly be expected to wait indefinitely in even such a pleasant +atmosphere."</p> + +<p>The Old Man forced a cheery—and false—heartiness. "There are, or +there might be, Mr. Robertson, other things that might induce you to +stay. Many other things."</p> + +<p>Threaten me, would he? "That, I doubt very much. I'm afraid I must +insist—it's now two-twenty. If a merger, or at least a meeting cannot +be arranged by tomorrow at the very latest, the reason for having a +meeting will, for all practical purposes, have ceased to exist. Do I +make myself clear?"</p> + +<p>I certainly did. With a short-tempered bang, Smith hung up, after +saying that he would call back later. I relayed the conversation to +Bob Stein, and we sent down for lunch.</p> + +<p>The Old Man called back about seven, when I was washing up, and Bob +answered the telephone. By the time I came out he had all the +information we needed, and was calling room service to clear the +dishes.</p> + +<p>"Meeting tonight," he said when he was finished. He was pleased with +himself.</p> + +<p>"Good." It was getting a little tiresome being cramped up. "When? +Where?"</p> + +<p>He shrugged. "Where? I couldn't say. Someone will call for us, +somewhere between nine and ten. And," he added slowly, "it might be a +good idea to wear the best bib and tucker, with Sunday School +manners."</p> + +<p>"Oh?" I said, "that kind of a party? Fine. I'm all ready now. Better +get your hat."</p> + +<p>At ten-thirty, the telephone rang. I answered it.</p> + +<p>"This is the desk," it said. "Mr. Wakefield?"</p> + +<p>"He's here," I said. "Wait a minute," and I passed the phone to Stein.</p> + +<p>"Wakefield," he said. "Yes?"</p> + +<p>The receiver chattered briefly.</p> + +<p>"All right," and he waved at me. "Be right down." He turned. "Car +waiting." It didn't take us long to get downstairs.</p> + +<p>It was a sedan with a neat little drive-yourself tab on the right-hand +door. Before we got near the car, Stein was careful to see who was the +driver. He evidently was someone he knew, so Bob nodded curtly, and we +got in and pulled away from the curb.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I don't know Washington at all, so I can't say where we made port. Not +too far a drive, I imagine, if we had gone there directly. It was a +good forty-five minutes before we ended our erratic turning of corners +and sped up a long tree-bordered driveway.</p> + +<p>"Nice place," I said to Stein as we braked to a stop in front of a +long white-columned Southern portico. "Who lives here?"</p> + +<p>He smiled and shook his head. "That's something I don't know. Does it +matter?"</p> + +<p>It didn't.</p> + +<p>As we strode up the steps the Drive-Yourself pulled away, tires +crackling on the white gravel. We both reached for the knocker at the +same time, but before we had it, the door swung open. Stein recognized +the young fellow who opened it and took our hats. A message passed +between their eyes, and the young man almost imperceptibly shook his +head in negation.</p> + +<p>"Will you come this way, please?" and he led us down the hall.</p> + +<p>The house was smaller than the outside had led me to expect. The +builder had gone whole hog on the giant Greek columns and the wide +sweep of the porch, and the inside of the house showed the results of +the skimping. Not that it wasn't a far bigger and a far more expensive +house than any average man would hope to have, but the limited space +inside didn't go with those sweeping curves of the drive. I wondered +who lived there.</p> + +<p>The room where the doorman left us went with the inside of the house. +So small it reminded me of the times when I tried to sell brushes +during the depression, in Grosse Pointe, I expected every moment to +have an underpaid maid, laundress, and butler come in to tell me that +the lady of the house was out. In keeping with the faded appointments +of the tiny room, a Chinese table held, for those who wait and read, +an ancient collection of "Spur" and "Town and Country." As we sat and +smoked, far off through the thin walls we could hear the soft rumble +of voices. Occasionally a bass would rise above the sound, and a +baritone would slide softly and soothingly across the pained roar. The +front door opened and closed twice during the fifteen minutes or so we +waited, and the footsteps that came in went past our room and pattered +further down the hall. Each time, when the steps were out of reach of +hearing, another door would open, and the distant voices would become +almost distinguishable until the door again was shut. I looked +curiously around the walls. Decorated with prints and pictures they +were, yes, but with that faded permanency that to me spells the +furnished house. The rugs were worn, worn to the shredding point, worn +until the spurious Oriental design seemed an eerie Dali drawing. All +it needed was the faroff smell of secondhand ham and cabbage.</p> + +<p>The doorman slipped in and beckoned to us, a grim conspirator if ever +I saw one. We followed him back to the entrance hall, back, back, to +where the voices grew louder at every step. A double door—golden oak, +or I don't know wood—barred the end of the hall, and the young fellow +preceded us to throw it open with a semi-flourish. We walked in.</p> + +<p>The place was blue with smoke. That was the first thing we saw. Lights +there were in plenty, hanging around, hanging over the great oval +table in the center of the room in a fiery glitter of glassy +brilliants. The room was enormous, and I began to realize why this +house was still in existence. Who cares about rugs if there is just +one single room in the house where a ball or a party could be +comfortably accommodated. Or a conference. I didn't know whose name +appeared on the tax bills, but I would bet that it would be any other +name besides the United States Government.</p> + +<p>No group of men or women could produce that much smoke in a short +time. That meeting had been going on for hours. As we stepped in +through the double doors I tried to pick out anyone I knew, but the +glare flickered in my eyes and I saw no face as more than just a pale +blur against a background of tenuous blue. Tentatively I got inside +the doors and they shut behind me with an abrupt finality. Two steps +forward, three, four, five, and Stein drifted away from my side, away +from the eyes that grew in size as I got closer to the table rim, +toward the vacant chairs I saw slightly pulled away and ready for +occupants. I stumbled over nothing and a reassuring hand touched mine. +I felt callow, self-conscious, awkward. I never thought I'd be so glad +to see Old Man Smith.</p> + +<p>He stood alongside me as I sank gratefully into my ready chair. +"Gentlemen," he announced quietly, "Mr. Peter A. Miller."</p> + +<p>I half-bowed automatically, the proper thing to do, and the Old Man +gave me his moral support by sitting next to me. He leaned over to +say, "I won't introduce you formally. Point out who you want to know +and I'll tell you who he is."</p> + +<p>"Okay," I muttered, and felt in my pockets for cigarettes. I had to do +something with my hands. I blew a cloud into the air and felt better. +Settled back into the chair, I sent my glance around the table. Did I +know anyone there?</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At my right, the Old Man. His suit was wrinkled and his eyes were +red-rimmed and tired. The large paper pad in front of him was covered +with crisscross lines. On his right, a quite old man, bald and +beetle-browed. His collar was open and wrinkled, his vest twisted +under the lapel of his coat. I leaned toward Smith, and indicated his +companion with my eyes.</p> + +<p>"Morgan, Undersecretary of State," he said softly.</p> + +<p>Morgan heard his name spoken, and shot a questioning glance my way. He +realized what had been said and the beetlebrows slid upwards in a +movement meant to be conciliatory. He bobbed his head with a cursory +jerk and went back to staring across the table. I followed his glance.</p> + +<p>The object of his affections seemed to be—yes, it was. Five-Star +General Oliver P. Legree, not so affectionately called Simon by the +men who served under him. I had been one of them. Trim and rigid and +oh, so military he was, the very figure of a modern five-star general. +His poker-stiff back thrust the tiers of ribbons to a sparkling +glitter under the tinkling glare of the massive chandelier overhead. +His face—well, it's been in enough rotogravures worldwide. The cigar +was there, the big black cigar he never lit and never lost. His +trademark was that cigar; his trademark was that and his jutting jaw +that to everyone but his compatriots spelled determination and grit. +To his staff and his men—me—it meant an ill-fitting lower plate.</p> + +<p>That prognathous jaw was tilted, aimed at Morgan, and Morgan knew it. +What had gone on just before I had come in? Just as I started to turn +my glance away, the General threw his famous scowl directly at me. For +one long second our eyes clung, almost glared. Then, without a sign of +emotion or recognition he went back to staring at the Undersecretary +with an intensity almost violent. Shaken back into self-consciousness +by that grim stare I tried to fit together some of the other faces +about the table.</p> + +<p>Admiral Mason-Nason-Lacey—Admiral Lacey. I'd met him just a few days +before, in that ill-fated conference in the White House. What was the +other name? Jessop. He was there, too, alongside Lacey. But where was +the Army, outside of Simon Legree? That was like Simon, at that. Let +the Navy stick together; Legree was the <i>General</i>, and as such was +himself the Army.</p> + +<p>Who were the others? I knew none of them, certainly, although some +trick of memory made me sure that I had seen or heard of them before. +Like faces in an old school album they presented themselves to me, and +for a long fraction of a minute I delved deep, trying to recall. A +voice, that deep barking bass I had heard while waiting, boomed across +the table.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Morgan!" and the table seemed to quiver. "Mr. Morgan!" and the +tenseness seemed to flow back into that huge room like a warm current. +The Old Man leaned over and answered my unspoken question.</p> + +<p>"Senator Suggs, Foreign Affairs Chairman."</p> + +<p>I eyed the redoubtable senator. Short, swarthy skin that belied all +his ranted racial theories, hair that straggled by intent over his +weak green eyes, and a chin that retreated and quivered and joggled in +time with his twitching adolescent eyebrows. Six solid terms in the +Senate; six solid terms of appealing to the highest in theory and the +lowest in fact; six terms of seniority for the chairmanship of +committees far too important for a bigot; six terms of Suggs, Suggs, +Suggs. The bass rumbled on.</p> + +<p>"We're no further ahead, Morgan, than we were two hours ago. This, +definitely cannot go on, if it has to be taken to the people +themselves."</p> + +<p>Morgan pondered well before he answered, and the room stilled.</p> + +<p>"Senator," he said at last; "this is right now in the hands of the +people, if you consider that you are one of the elected +representatives, and the rest of us are chosen, with one exception, by +those same elected representatives. The exception, naturally, is Mr. +Miller."</p> + +<p>Five Star Simon snorted. His nasal voice carried well. "People?" and +that brittle snap was only too familiar to me. "What have the people +to do with it? This is no time for anything but a decision, and a +quick one!"</p> + +<p>Morgan agreed with that. "Correct, General. The question, I believe, +is not that a decision be made, but the wording and definition of that +decision."</p> + +<p>"Bah!" and the cigar jumped to the other side. "Words! Definitions! +Decisions! Words, words, words! Let's decide what's to be done and do +it!"</p> + +<p>The Undersecretary coughed gently behind his palm. "Unfortunately, +General Legree, for the sake of speedy action, and as unfortunately +for the sake of all concerned, words mean one thing to one man, and +another thing to a second."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A fine party this turned out to be. In the dark as to what happened +before I came in, and equally at sea as to what was going on, I leaned +toward the Old Man.</p> + +<p>"What's this?" I whispered.</p> + +<p>He shot a quick retort. "Keep your mouth shut for the time being." He +paused, and then bent in my direction. "You'll get your chance to +talk." He grasped my extended arm tightly. "I'll nudge you when the +time comes. Then talk, and <i>talk</i>! You know what I mean?"</p> + +<p>Did I? I didn't know. He saw my indecision and motioned for quiet. +Evidently he was expecting me to catch the trend if I waited long +enough. I waited, and I watched, and I listened.</p> + +<p>Simon had been right about one thing. Words, words, words. But I began +to get some of the drift. They'd already settled the part of the +problem I thought was supposed to be bothering them. They'd decided +that since the news on me was out, the facts had to be faced—the way +they understand facing them.</p> + +<p>I should have been reading the papers or listening to the radio. It +must have been something to hear when the news that I was a new secret +weapon to end them all was confirmed; but they'd confused the issue by +indicating that I was just one of the men with the new power, and that +the country was now practically blanketed with it.</p> + +<p>It was fine for them. It meant that the people were happy, and that +Army, Navy and all the other departments were being openly and +publicly adulated for the fine thing they had done for everyone.</p> + +<p>The Undersecretary made an answer to one of Simon's remarks. I hadn't +been listening for a few seconds while the scheme sank in, but this +registered.</p> + +<p>"You're right, of course, General. Certain foreign information bureaus +won't be deceived by the confusion we've created. And that still +leaves us with the unfortunate need for speedy action on the case of +Mr. Miller."</p> + +<p>Suggs rolled his bass across the room. It was the only characteristic +he had favorable to eye or ear.</p> + +<p>"Unfortunate, Mr. Undersecretary? Unfortunate is hardly the word to +describe an event so favorable for the fortunes for all."</p> + +<p>Favorable. Me? Was I good or bad? I came in just in the middle of the +picture. Keep your ears and your eyes and your ears open, Miller, and +catch up on the feature attraction.</p> + +<p>Suggs licked his razor-sharp lips and hooked his fingers in his +stained vest.</p> + +<p>"'Unfortunate,' Mr. Undersecretary? Hardly!" He loved to hear his own +voice. "This country, these great United States, these states have +never in their existence been in such a favorable position as +today...."</p> + +<p>I would rather have read the Congressional Record. That, at least, I +could have discarded when I became bored.</p> + +<p>"No, never in such a favorable position; diplomatically, +economically...."</p> + +<p>The Undersecretary coughed politely. It's nice to be tactful and know +how to break in.</p> + +<p>"To use your own words, Senator. 'Hardly!' Diplomatically we are at +the brink of one of the worst imaginable pitfalls."</p> + +<p>The medals on Five Star clinked. "Bosh!"</p> + +<p>Morgan went on. "Where would you like to live, gentlemen?" and his +glance flicked around the table; "in the best liked or most hated +country in the world?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It mattered not to Five Star, nor to Suggs.</p> + +<p>"What difference does it make, Mr. Undersecretary? Speaking for myself +and my constituents, I can truthfully say that the opinion of the +world matters not one good solitary damn. Who cares what some other +country has got to say, if words can't be backed up with action? Right +now, and you know it as well as you're sitting there, Mr. +Undersecretary, right now Uncle Sam is known all over the world as +Uncle Sucker, and Uncle Shylock. Europe and Asia have had what they +wanted over my protests and those of my constituents, and now Europe +and Asia can go hang, for all I care. That's What they want us to do!"</p> + +<p>He gave Morgan no chance to break in. That rolling bass rattled off +the walls and crinkled my ears.</p> + +<p>"Europe and Asia and the rest of the world could never affect us one +way or another, favorable or otherwise, if it weren't for the +ninny-headed mouthings of a few influential morons. Fight, Mr. +Undersecretary, fight and murder and declare war and blow up millions +of people and then run to Uncle Sam to pay the bills. I say, Mr. +Undersecretary, I say what I've said before and what I'll say again; +if Europe and Asia and the rest of the world don't like what we do +here in these United States, let Europe and Asia and the rest of the +world go to hell!"</p> + +<p>Suggs wasn't a bit excited. Those grand, those mellifluous and rotund +phrases rolled out of those skinny lips at a mile-a-minute pace with +never a flicker of emotion but a nervous twitching of the drooping +eyelids. If that was the way he talked when calm, I could see why he +had been sent back and back to the Senate time after time.</p> + +<p>The General deliberately tossed his cigar on the floor and pounded his +fist on the table.</p> + +<p>"Well said, Senator! My sentiments exactly. If Europe and Asia and the +rest of the world don't like what we do here, let 'em all go to hell, +or better yet, let's send them there in a hand-basket."</p> + +<p>Bloodthirsty old bat. I never remembered seeing him any too close to +the jumping-off point. That's what generals are for, they tell me.</p> + +<p>"I say to hell with them all, and the sooner they know about it, the +better for all concerned." His gaudy gold case, the gift of a grateful +staff, was on the table in front of him, and he jerked out a cigar +with a flourish. A light with a gold lighter, and he puffed thick +clouds.</p> + +<p>Morgan coughed politely. "Regardless, Senator, of what has or what is +happening, we're concerned at present with what might happen."</p> + +<p>Suggs opened his mouth like a thirsty carp and closed it again as +Morgan went on.</p> + +<p>"Call it what you like, Senator; General Legree will agree with me +that this perfect defense—if defense is the word—is equally well the +perfect weapon. Right, General?"</p> + +<p>Legree pursed pontifical lips for a reply and was annoyed when Morgan +paused only momentarily.</p> + +<p>"Perfect defense means the nullification of an opposing weapon. +Obviously, a weaponless army is no longer anything but a disciplined +mob. In correlation, Senator, <i>our</i> arms and weapons are still +effective, and—you mentioned the distrust (or dislike, or hatred, or +whatever you will) held for us by Europe and Asia. Now, Senator, think +of yourself and your constituents: is it not far better that Europe +and Asia and the world be solaced and comforted by the announcement +that we would use our ... Iron Curtain only in our own defense? Would +it not be better—how many years, Senator, have there been recorded of +universal peace? How many years?"</p> + +<p>Some men can sit poker-stiff, yet give the impression of teetering +slowly on their heels, slowly counting the horses' teeth. Suggs was a +horse trader from away back.</p> + +<p>He said, "Mr. Morgan, I say I can appreciate your viewpoint. I can +even appreciate the fact that you mean exactly what you say. But—!"</p> + +<p>Sharks must have teeth like that; broken and yellow, and razor-keen. +The smile of the Senator fascinated me.</p> + +<p>"But—! Mr. Undersecretary, who's been doing all the fighting, and +who's been starting all these wars? The United States? No, sir! We +just get in them too late to do anything but pay all the bills!" He +leaned forward and fixed the tabletop with a piscine stare.</p> + +<p>"Look at it this way, the only way. When this whatshisname dies, all +these countries look at the map and start mobilizing the Guards. How +do we know how long he's going to live, or how long he's going to keep +this magic head of his?"</p> + +<p>My magic head itched, and I rubbed it.</p> + +<p>"Now, here's what I've said before, and here's what I say now—we +can't let the world get away with murder—'murder' is what I said, Mr. +Undersecretary, and 'murder' is what I mean. Didn't you say—now, tell +us the truth, now—haven't you always said that it would be just a +question of time until just about anyone has the secret of the atomic +bomb? Didn't you say that?"</p> + +<p>Morgan nodded. "Quite often I've said that, Senator. Too often for +some."</p> + +<p>Suggs was triumphant. "All right, now. You've hung yourself on your +own rope and you don't know it. Answer me this; now, what's to prevent +anyone who has the bomb from coming over here and using it on us? +What's to prevent them?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>They had been all through that before, and Morgan knew it was no use +to answer.</p> + +<p>Suggs was his own echo. "Nothing's to prevent them, not a thing in the +world. How many times have I come right out and said in public that +the only way to keep the world where we want it is to just make sure +that no one else is going to get it? How many times?"</p> + +<p>Morgan rubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and spoke to the table. +"You've said that many times, Senator. That's true, too true. I, on +the other hand, have asked you many times if you've thought that the +only way to make sure no other nation gets the bomb would be to go +right in and make <i>sure</i>. You agreed with me that <i>that</i> would mean +force. Force, meaning war. Right, Senator?"</p> + +<p>And the Senator, champion of Man and Humanity and Right said, "Right, +Mr. Undersecretary. Right. We have the bomb, haven't we?"</p> + +<p>Morgan didn't say much in answer to that. I don't think there was much +he could find to say. Psychologists claim there is hardly anyone, +anyone with a modicum of logic in a brain-pan, who cannot eventually +see the light of reason. Maybe. Maybe calm logic could force Senator +Suggs and his brain-pan off his muddy detour. Maybe humanity and +decency and all the other things that complement the civilized man to +this day lie submerged in that pithecanthropic skull. Maybe, but I +hated his guts then, and I do now.</p> + +<p>I cleared my throat, and it must have been louder than I thought, +because all the eyes swung my way. Well, so what? If I had anything at +all to say about what was going to happen, or if I was ever going to +be more than just a rubber stamp, now was the time to find out. After +all, I'd been asked to bring my harp to the party, and I was going to +play.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>So I said, "Senator. Senator Suggs!"</p> + +<p>He was a little taken aback. Like having the sweeper talk back.</p> + +<p>"Senator," I said, "you talk big. Let's get right down to rock-bottom, +and let's stay there until we're finished. Okay?... All right; in +words of one syllable, you want us to do what amounts to declaring war +on the rest of the world, winning the war and then running things our +way. Right?"</p> + +<p>The Senator teetered on those mental heels again. His lips sucked in +and sharp hollows formed in his cheeks. I could see his mind reach all +the way across the table and throw face-up the cards, one by one.</p> + +<p>"You're Mr. Miller, I presume, although we haven't been formally +introduced." His eager eyes flickered over me. "You haven't said much +so far, and it's just as well that you spoke when you did."</p> + +<p>Legree groped for his cigar case, and Suggs rumbled on.</p> + +<p>"You said I talk big, Mr. Miller, and I'm going to take that as a +compliment. Yes, I do talk big. And you talk plain. I like men who +talk plain. We're going to get along well together." And he paused to +let his thoughts catch up.</p> + +<p>I gave my needle a little push. "You're still talking big, Senator," I +reminded him.</p> + +<p>He resented that, and tried to hide it. "Hardly, Mr. Miller. Hardly. +But you asked a question, and I'll try to talk plain, like you do. If +we have to fight the rest of the world to do things our way, the +American way, then my answer is yes. Yes!"</p> + +<p>Legree grinned his saturnine smile through a blue wreath of smoke and +Morgan sat back in his chair with an almost silent exhalation. The +rest of the group seated around that great table affected me hardly at +all one way or another. Suggs was the spokesman for one faction and +I—well, Morgan was willing to let me talk; the Old Man was sunk in +the dumb obscurity of his chair, and who else was there to speak for +me? Who else?</p> + +<p>All right, Miller. Take it slow and easy. Watch your temper. Say what +you have that's important, and let it go at that. But—say it!</p> + +<p>Now, there's one thing I learned long ago; you get a lot further if +the other loses his temper first, and the best way to pry the lid of a +temper is the use of the unexpected. The man who is handy with his +hands will crack wide open with ridicule, with words used as the +lever. The man who is handy with words is a different nut to crack; +slap him down with insults while his verbal guard is down. If his +temper doesn't snap in the first two minutes, it never will.</p> + +<p>So, because I thought it was the right thing to say, and because I +didn't like the Senator anyway, I said, "Senator Suggs, you talked +plain. That's good. I like men who talk plain. Let's have some more of +that talk. Let's get this right on the record for everyone here to see +and hear.</p> + +<p>"I don't like you, Senator. I like neither you nor your ideas, nor +anything about you or your thoughts. How long has it been, Senator, +since anyone has told you right to your face—not in a newspaper—that +you're a self-convinced liar and a hypocrite, and that you and your +ideas and everything about you stink to high heaven?"</p> + +<p>"Stink" was the word that got him. He'd expected a nice gentlemanly +quarrel with gentlemanly words above the table and rapiers below, and +instead had walked around the corner and taken a barrel-stave across +the mouth. His face flushed in an instant to a livid unhealthy red, +his lips pulled away from his yellow teeth, his eyes seemed to +protrude visibly. A beautiful sight.</p> + +<p>It took him long seconds to throttle his gasping shock. I gave him +just enough time to inhale for a long tirade, just long enough to open +that fish-like mouth for words that might have been anything, then I +let him have it again. And I don't know whether or not I told you, I +was a sergeant before I got busted back to private, first class.</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" I bellowed, and my roar boomed back at me from all those +startled, those stunned faces. Shut up shut up shut up shut up....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I'm certain that those walls had never heard anything above a quiet +murmur before that night. I just shocked Suggs and the rest into a +panicky silence while I ranted. I had to talk fast, because while +volume and violence are a good temporary substitute for brilliance, I +knew I wasn't going to have the floor forever.</p> + +<p>"Let's talk straight, Suggs. Get this once, because I'm not repeating +it, and get that silly look off your face—" I'd heard he was +vain—"you and your constituents and your Army and your Navy can go to +hell, as far as I care for any of them. I'm the man you want to keep +your shirt clean while the rest of the world wallows in filth; I'm the +man that's supposed to let you and your type, God forbid, rule the +world; I'm the man—" I leaned over the table as far as I could, as +far as I dared.</p> + +<p>"Suggs," and I poured venom down his shirtfront, "the only thing that +keeps me from despising the Government of the United States and the +people in it is the fact that I know you're not typical. You're a +freak, a monster!" And I threw in another to keep him off balance. +"You even <i>look</i> like a fish!</p> + +<p>"Remember this, Senator. Remember this one thing; if I ever see, if I +ever hear as much as one word from you about war or bombs, in private +or public, you'll live just long enough for me to hear about it!"</p> + +<p>I threw a disgusted glance at the rest of the table. "One thing you +don't know, Senator, is that I can kill you where you sit. Smith!"</p> + +<p>The Old Man was astonished as the Senator, who sat with gaping piscine +mouth and pop eyes. "Yes, Peter?"</p> + +<p>"Tell him," I snapped. "Tell him how Kellner found out that I can stop +a heart just as fast as I can a truck. And you'd better tell him while +you're at it that Kellner thinks I'm emotionally unstable, subject to +fits of temper. Tell that to the Senator. Tell him what Kellner said +about me."</p> + +<p>Smith coughed. "I think you all agree that Mr. Miller is a trifle upset. +You can form your own opinion as to his temper. As to the other ... well, +Dr. Kellner is the top man in his field. He tested Peter—Mr. Miller—very +thoroughly. I would give very careful consideration to whatever he says +about Peter's capabilities."</p> + +<p>Now you can see what makes a diplomat. When Smith was finished talking +it sounded as though Kellner had actually said that I could murder +someone. And yet Smith hadn't told even a tiny bit of a lie. Lying, as +any married man knows, is knowing what to say and what not to say at +the right time. But to get back to the rest. I dismissed Suggs. I +ignored him for all the rest of the time he was there. Even when I +looked directly at him, and that hurt him. I have hopes, high hopes, +that might have brought on the real heart attack he had the next day.</p> + +<p>"So," I said generally to the rest of the table, "let's just assume +from now on that you're dealing with a homicidal maniac with unlimited +power. Is that the phrase you were thinking of, General?"</p> + +<p>General Legree jumped as though he had seen me pull the pin on a live +grenade.</p> + +<p>"Forget it, General," I told him kindly. "I just read a lot of your +speeches. Now you, Mr. Morgan, you're apparently having a meeting. I +got here a little late. How about telling me the score?"</p> + +<p>The tension seemed to seep out of the room as tangible as a stream of +water. Suggs shrank up in his chair like a little old kobold, the +Generals shifted into easier positions with the old familiar creak of +expensive leather, and the man Smith looked right at me with his right +eye closed. I'd said what he wanted me to say, but now what? Where did +we go from here?</p> + +<p>Undersecretary of State Theodore Morgan was one of the career men to +be found in State Departments throughout the world, if by that you +mean someone who has had the same job for years. The newspapers liked +to tee off on him occasionally, using his pseudo-British mannerisms +and habits for caricature. And the great American public, I suppose, +considered him pretty much as a jerk, as the public is most apt to do +when regarding a man who wore striped pants and a top hat in public +and apparently liked it. But the Old Man, Smith—and I never did find +out if Morgan was Smith's boss or vice versa—set me straight on a lot +of things about Morgan. He had a fairly rough job, as jobs are when +you do something you dislike merely because policy has been set by +higherups. Let's just say he did the best he could, and let it go at +that.</p> + +<p>He was in charge of the meeting, all right. He knew just how to handle +Simon Legree, and without Suggs things went fairly smooth—on the +surface.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller," he said, "you made a rather abrupt entrance into the +conversation. I think it better if we have it understood right now +that we prefer to use reason instead of volume."</p> + +<p>"Call me Pete," I said. I knew, somehow that he hadn't disapproved too +much of what I'd said, and he was cracking down at the outset just to +show the rest that <i>he</i> wasn't intimidated. "Pete is all right with +me, since I'm sure that this is all among friends." I looked around, +and they were all friends. Especially the two generals that had seen +me stop the trucks from the Federal Building window. I don't say they +were actually afraid; just cautious. Just friends.</p> + +<p>I went on. "Maybe I can help break the ice. I suppose you were talking +about what you were going to do about things in general, and in +particular, me. Well, go ahead."</p> + +<p>So they did.</p> + +<p>I won't bother with the details of the rest of the meeting or +conference, or whatever you want to call it, because I don't think the +details are too important. For one thing, when the first flush wore +off, and I began to realize the colossal bluff I'd gotten away with, I +got a little weak in the knees. For another, Morgan and Smith did all +the talking to amount to anything. Legree, who seemed to be the +self-appointed spokesman for the Army, really didn't have much to say +when he knew that the State Department had all the cards, with me the +joker. The Navy played right along when it was tentatively agreed that +it was to be an island where I would be "stationed," as they +euphemistically called it; they knew that islands are surrounded by +water, and who sails on the water? The FBI got in their little piece +when they were made responsible for general security. My contribution +was that I was to be responsible to State, in the person of Smith, and +Smith was to be the boss as far as conditions were concerned. When I +brought that up I knew the Old Man was thinking of all the times I'd +complained about his guardianship, and wrote him a tiny note so he +wouldn't get too pleased with himself.</p> + +<p>"The lesser—or the least—of many evils. Don't get swell-headed." He +just grinned when he read it, and stuck it in his pocket to save for +Morgan, I feel sure.</p> + +<p>Smith and Bob Stein and I were the last to leave, and Morgan's grip +for an old man was firm as we shook hands. "You did an excellent +demolition job on the Senator," he said. "You know, Pete, there is one +of the few people that have made me regret the job I have."</p> + +<p>"Forget it," I told him. "You can get fired. Me, I got seniority in a +lifetime job. As far as that carp is concerned, you can consider me +your chief steward. I'll run ten miles to take up your grievance with +Suggs."</p> + +<p>Morgan smiled politely as he ushered us to the door, but I don't think +he knew what I meant. They don't have unions in State.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The island isn't too bad. I swore, years ago, with the first cold I +ever remember having, that I would never care if I ever saw snow +again. And where I am, there isn't any snow. The beach is yellow as +gold, the sun comes up every day in the east and sets in the west, and +I've got for my personal use the biggest, shiniest bar you ever saw in +all your life. They ship in draft beer for me all the way from La +Crosse, Wisconsin, and Munich, Germany. Every month I get a four-quart +keg from Belfast in Ireland, and I've got all the gadgets I need to +mix anything a barkeep could dream up. The ice I get from what +probably is a six-hundred dollar refrigerator that makes nothing but +ice cubes. I have a subscription to practically every magazine I ever +heard of, and I get daily aerial delivery—that's right. A little +Piper Cub with floats drops the New York <i>Times</i>, the <i>Monitor</i>, and a +couple of others every morning—of the newspapers with the least +amount of junk. I used to get the Detroit papers, but I found out it +took too much mental effort to avoid looking at the Vital Statistics, +where they record the marriages and deaths.</p> + +<p>I finally learned to play bridge. Euchre doesn't seem the same without +a barful of people, and pinochle is not the game that Stein is good +at. Bob Stein, the poor guy—although he never says one word about +it—takes everything in his stride. He spends six weeks out of every +eight here with me and the others that form the crew of this little +island afloat in the Southern Sea. The food is good, and with no limit +to variety and type. We can't be too far from somewhere, because every +once in a while we hear a rattle and banging somewhere out to sea. +Once we heard what sounded like a full scale battle. I pried it out of +Bob Stein that it was just maneuvers, as he called it. I know better. +I see nothing but naval craft, and I suspect that they're not always +just at the horizon for practice.</p> + +<p>National affairs? Well, they're not too bad. The big noise came when +the UN wanted my custody and didn't get it. The Old Man once asked me +why I wasn't in favor of it, and I told him. In theory, yes; in +practice, the UN was too dangerous. Personally, I felt that I could +trust very few, and none that I hadn't known before all this happened. +UN supervision meant that I would serve too many masters, and that I +didn't like. And too, there are too many people in the United States +that don't believe in the UN, and might be tempted to do something +about it if they thought I owed allegiance to someone else besides the +United States. I couldn't stir up anything like that, I told him. Deep +down in my heart, I wanted people to like me, to admire me, to think +that I was their hero, and no other country's. I think I can see +admiration and affection in the eyes of the civilians and sailors that +supply me the food and the other things I ask for. They ask me every +once in a while if I'm all right, if I need women. I tell them I +don't, that I'm reconciled with living like I am. And that's true; I +want no other woman except Helen, and her I can't have, for devious +reasons; my name is just anonymous to the world. Smith talked me into +that—his idea was that if no one knew who I was, I'd be just that +much harder to find. He explained that there are several other islands +set up the same as mine, with almost the same conditions and the same +surroundings. He calls it camouflage on a grand scale, and he's the +boss. I know I'm not very smart; just smart enough to know that the +reports in the <i>Times</i> about other people in other parts of the world +with my capabilities are some of the grand-scale camouflage started by +Smith's agents. I'm all alone, and I know it. But sometimes I wake up +in the middle of the night and go for a walk along the beach and kick +up a little sand with my bare feet like Helen and I did on our +honeymoon. They asked me once if I really had to do that. I told them +I felt like it, and they asked me why. I didn't tell them I was just +lonesome.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p class="center"><i>CONFIDENTIAL MEMO</i></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>FROM:</i> <i>Morgan</i></p> + +<p><i>TO:</i> <i>Smith</i></p> + +<p><i>MESSAGE: I don't care how many plants got hit. Draft +another plant. Draft the <span class="p1"> Times</span> itself. But get those special +editions to Miller and get them there today. Repeat, today! +You're already one day late in getting started on those +hints of probable attack. Better rush the softening up. The +way things are going, all plans are off, and we may need him +in a hurry. And that means we'll need cooperation. You know +Miller. You saw those reports on the Suggs post-mortem. Do I +have to draw diagrams for you? You've got unlimited +authority. Use it. I'm serious about drafting the <span class="p1"> Times</span> if +you have to. <b>But GET THOSE PAPERS PRINTED AND GET THEM TO +HIM TODAY</b>....</i></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cue for Quiet, by Thomas L. 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Sherred + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cue for Quiet + +Author: Thomas L. Sherred + +Illustrator: Orban + +Release Date: June 19, 2010 [EBook #32889] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUE FOR QUIET *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May and July 1953. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + + [Illustration] + + + CUE FOR QUIET + + + BY T. L. SHERRED + + + ILLUSTRATED BY ORBAN + + + After too many years, T. L. Sherred returns with a story + that gets our SPACE SPECIAL rating. It's the story of a man + with a headache--who found a cure for it! And the cure gave + him more power than any man could dream of. + + * * * * * + + + + +[Illustration] + +So I had a headache. The grandfather of all headaches. You try working +on the roof line sometime, with the presses grinding and the overhead +cranes wailing and the mechanical arms clacking and grabbing at your +inner skull while you snap a shiny sheet of steel like an armored +pillowcase and shove it into the maw of a hungry greasy ogre. Noise. +Hammering, pounding, shrieking, gobbling, yammering, incessant noise. +And I had a headache. + +This headache had all the signs of permanency. It stayed with me when +I slid my timecard into an empty slot that clanged back at me, when I +skittered across a jammed street of blowing horns and impatient buses +with brakedrums worn to the rivets, when I got off at my corner and +stood in the precarious safety of a painted island in a whirring storm +of hurtling hornets. It got even worse when I ate dinner and tried to +read my paper through the shrill juvenile squeals of the housing +project where I live surrounded by muddy moppets and, apparently, +faithless wives and quarrelsome spouses. The walls of my Quonset are +no thicker than usual. + +When Helen--that's my wife--dropped the casserole we got for a wedding +present from her aunt and just stood there by the kitchen sink crying +her eyes out in frustration I knew she finally had more of a mess to +clean up than just the shattered remains of a brittle bowl. I didn't +say a word. I couldn't. I shoved the chair across the room and watched +it tilt the lamp her mother bought us. Before the lamp hit the floor +my hat was on my head and I was out the door. Behind me I heard at +least one pane of the storm door die in a fatal crash. I didn't look +around to see if it were the one I'd put in last Sunday. + + * * * * * + +Art was glad to see me. He had the beer drawn and was evening the foam +before the heavy front door had shut us off from the street. "Been a +while, Pete. What's new?" + +I was glad to see him, too. It was quiet in there. That's why I go +eight blocks out of my way for my beer. No noise, no loud talking or +you end up on the curb; quiet. Quiet and dark and comfortable and you +mind your own business, usually. "Got any more of those little boxes +of aspirin?" + +He had some aspirin and was sympathetic. "Headache again? Maybe you +need a new pair of glasses." + +I washed down the pills and asked for a refill on the beer. "Maybe, +Art. What do you know that's new?" + +Nothing. We both knew that. We talked for a while; nothing important, +nothing more than the half-spoken, half-grunted short disjointed +phrases we always repeated. Art would drift away and lean on the other +end of the bar and then drift back to me and at the end of each trip +there would be clean ashtrays and the dark plastic along the bar would +gleam and there would be no dregs of dead drinks and the rows of fresh +glasses would align themselves in empty rows on the stainless steel of +the lower counter. Art's a good bartender when he wants to be. I held +up my empty glass. + +"One more, Art. Got the radio section of the paper?" + +He handed it to me. "Might be something on the television." + + * * * * * + +We both laughed. We both feel the same way about television, but he +has to have a set in his business for week-end football or baseball +games. A big set he has, too, with an extra speaker for the far end of +the bar for the short beer trade. I found the program I wanted and +showed Art the listing. + +He looked at it. "Strauss ... that's that waltz music," and I nodded +and he went over to the radio and found the station. These small +stations can't sell every minute of their time for commercials, +although they try, and every once in a while they run through a solid +hour of Strauss or Bing Crosby or Benny Goodman. I like Strauss. + +And there I sat drinking beer and eating stale popcorn when I should +have been home with Helen, listening to quiet violins and muted +brasses when I should have been doing something noisy and instructive. +In my glass I could see whatever I wanted, wherever I would. I made +circular patterns on the bar and drew them into a grotesque mass with +fingers wet with the silver condensation of bubbles drawn magically +through impervious crystal. Then Art turned off the radio. + +He was apologetic, but he still turned off the radio. In answer to my +unspoken question he shrugged and indicated Freddie. Freddie likes +television. He likes dog acts and circus bands and bouncing clowns. He +watches the commercials with an innocent unjaundiced eye. Sometimes he +sings along with the animated bakers and cooks and gas stations at the +top of his boyish beery baritone. He sings loud, and he likes his +television the same way. + +Art flipped up the lid of the television and stood there long enough +to make sure the picture, whatever it was, would be in focus. Then he +came back to me and poured another. Hesitating, he added another +smaller glass. I can't afford that stuff on what I make. Where I made +my mistake was taking it. We each had another. And another. The +headache got worse. + +Ivan and Jack came in, and, when they heard the blast of sound, came +down to my end of the bar where, although the extra speaker is +overhead, you don't have to look at the source of the noise. Art +handed us a deck of cards and a piece of chalk to keep score and we +started to play euchre. You don't have to think to play euchre, which +is good. It's about the only game you can play with sign language, the +only game for a noisy bar. So we played euchre, and at ten-thirty Ivan +and Jack left me alone to face the music. The little cords at the nape +of my neck were tight as wires, the temple areas near my eyes were +soft and tender and sore to the touch, and my head was one big snare +drum. + +That was when Freddie half-shouted to Art to get the Roller Derby on +Channel Seven and--so help me!--to turn it up a little louder. The +cards fell out of my hand and onto the table. I took out a cigarette +and my lighter slipped out of my tight fingers and fell on the floor +and I bent over to pick it up. My head swelled to twice its size, my +glasses slid down a little on my sweaty nose, and the tiny red veins +in my eyes grew from a thread to a rope to a flag to a tapestry of +crimson rage and the noise abruptly stopped. And Art began to bellow. +I stood up. The television set was smoking. + + * * * * * + +Well, it was fast while it lasted. Art didn't really need the fire +department. There wasn't any flame to speak of. Someone pulled the +plug from the wall and rolled the set out and used the hand +extinguisher on the burnt innards of the set and with the rear exhaust +fan going the last of the bitter smoke was drifting out before the +sirens pulled up in front. The firemen were relieved, not angry, as +they always are, and Art in his misery was thoughtful enough to slip a +square bottle in the pocket of the lieutenant in charge. It was cold +outside, at that. Freddie said so, when he left; there was no reason +to stay at Art's any more when most other bars would have the Roller +Derby. I watched him go, and mentally cursed the bearings in his new +car. Well, fairly new. I went home. Helen was in bed when I got there, +probably asleep. She was still probably asleep when I left for work in +the morning. She gets like that. + +The next day at Art's there was a big space lighter in color than the +surrounding wall where the television set had stood. I asked Art +about it. + +He didn't know. The serviceman had come out and collected it, clucking +in dismay at the mess the extinguisher had left. No, no idea what +caused it. Short circuit wouldn't make it that bad; fuses should have +blown first. They'd find it, though. Art hoped it wouldn't be the +picture tube; that wasn't covered in his service policy, and those +tubes in that size cost money. Anything else was covered. At that, he +was better off than Freddie. + +I looked up. "What's the matter with Freddie?" + +He told me. Freddie had ruined his motor on the way home last night. +What hadn't blown out the exhaust pipe had gone out the hood, and +right after his ninety-day guarantee had expired. + +I remembered what I had thought of last night. "How did he do that?" + +Art didn't know. He had been driving along and--that was it. The car +was in the garage with nothing left between the radiator and the +firewall and Freddie was trying to get something out of the insurance +company. Fat chance, too, with that bunch of pirates. We'd all had +experience with that sort of thing, hadn't we? Why--someone at the +other end of the bar wanted some service and Art left. I sat back and +began to add two and two. I got five. + +Art came back and grinned at me. "You're not going to like this, +Pete." + +"What won't I like?" + +"This," and a man in coveralls shouldered me aside and set a cobra on +the bar in front of me, a snake with a twelve inch tube. Art went on +to explain: "They're giving me a loaner until my own set gets back and +they don't want to plug it in the usual place until they get a chance +to completely check the wiring. Okay?" + +It had to be okay. It wasn't my place of business. I moved down a bit +and watched the serviceman plug it in. He tried the channels for +clarity and without warning flipped the volume control all the way +over and the whole building shook. I shook, too, like a bewildered +Labrador throwing off an unwanted splash of icy water. The top of my +head lifted from its moorings and shifted just enough for me to name +that infernal serviceman and all his issue. He just sat there and +grinned, making no attempt to tone down the set. Then I said what I +thought about his television, and the set went quiet. Like that. + +It began to smoke and the serviceman began to shuck tools from his +box. Art opened his mouth to yell and I walked out the front door. +The High Hat, right across the street, would serve to keep me warm +until the smoke and profanity was cleared and Art had the repairman +under control. + +I knew it! They had a jukebox inside the door with the same twenty top +tunes of the week, the same gaudy front with the same swirling lights +and the same tonsillectomied tenors. I shuddered as I eased by, and I +murmured a heartfelt wish over my shoulder, something about the best +place for that machine. I ordered a beer, a short one. The barkeep, a +pleasant enough fellow, but with none of Art's innate joviality, rang +up the dime. + +"You didn't happen to pull the cord out when you walked by, did you?" + +"Pull the cord out of what?" + +He didn't bother to answer, and went over to the machine. That was the +first I realized the music had stilled. He clicked the switch on and +off a few times with no result, and went to the telephone, detouring +by way of the cash register to pick up a coin. Thoughtfully sipping my +beer I heard him dial and report a jukebox out of order. Then a relay +clicked in the back of my head. + +Could all this be a coincidence? Could be.... Couldn't be! The beer +grew warm in my hand as I remembered. Every time I'd wished, really +really wished, something had happened. Now that I had time to think it +over I remembered that red rotor spinning madly past my eyes, that +horrible hatred and afterward, that sated sense of fulfillment.... +Better have another beer and forget it, Pete. Better make it two +beers. Maybe three. + +The High Hat sold me a lot more than two beers, or three. When I left +there, although I was walking a mental chalkline I had a little +trouble lighting a cigarette in the chill breeze. I didn't bother +going back to Art's. Art was all right, and there was no sense in +making trouble for a pal. Harry, now. He was a stinker. Go put the +needle in Harry, two blocks away. + +While Harry was drawing the beer I walked string straight to the +jukebox, clicked in a quarter, and stalked back to the barstool. Turn +your back, Pete, just as though you didn't know perfectly well what +was going to happen. Now take a tasty sip of your beer, wait for the +noise to start.... Take a deep breath, now; Pete Miller, saviour of +man's sanity. I closed my eyes and pretended to be covering a yawn. + +"Tubes," I whispered, "do your stuff. Blow that horn, Gabriel--go +ahead and--blow!" + +The jukebox moaned as far as the first eight bars; I got my quarter +back from a puzzled Harry; I listened to Harry call his repairman; I +finished my beer; I got outside and almost around the corner before I +began laughing like a hyena; I got to bed snickering and went to sleep +the same way; and I woke up with a headache. + +Hammering presses the next day I treated with the contempt of long +practice. One single theme kept rolling around like a pea in a +washtub; just what had happened to that television set and those +jukeboxes? And what had made a fairly new eight-cylinder almost +disintegrate, apparently on command? Agreed, that coincidence has a +mighty long arm, but hardly long enough to scratch its own elbow. +Forty years old and a superman? One way to find out. Let's go at this +cold sober. Let's scratch this shiny new rubber band until it snaps. + + * * * * * + +At three-thirty I was first in line at the timeclock, second out the +gate, and fourth or fifth to line up at the National Bar. "Aspirin and +ginger ale," I ordered, and got a knowing grin from the barkeep. +Laugh, buddy. You may think I feel bad now, but wait and see what +happens to your bangbox. I dare someone to put in a nickel; I +double-dare you. That's it--pick a good number from one to twenty and +go back to your stool and sit down. Take it easy, now, Pete. Don't +strain, don't press, no slugging in the clinches, and break clean. The +place needs a good airing, anyway, and the floor could use a new +broom, too. Bubble, bubble, go for double ... no more music. No more +noise. Smoke, you boiler factory, smoke! Hey, somebody, pull that +plug. Not that one, _that_ one. Pull it out. Pull it out! _Pull it +out!_ + + * * * * * + +Finally someone did pull it out, someone chattered excitedly into the +telephone, and I slid out the front door when the fire engines were +wailing blocks away. Coincidence, hey. And cold sober, too. I stood on +the curb and watched the firemen dash in and straggle out. Dirty trick +to break up a pinochle game in weather like this. Four red-eyed +crimson giants snorted and whined their blunt noses back into the +clogged traffic, back to wait another call. Three buses were sentinels +at the safety zone, and one of them took me home to dinner. This was +on a Friday, the night for the Olsens, next door, to have their weekly +sangerbund. When Helen shook me into wakefulness the party was going +strong. + +"Pete, will you wake up? You know perfectly well when you hear me!" + +Yes, I heard her. "What time is it?" + +"Never mind what time it is. You go over there and tell them you're +going to call the police if they don't turn off that radio--" + +I yawned. "After two o'clock." + +"Almost two-thirty. You just get up and--" + +I laughed out loud, as loud as you can laugh at that time of the +morning. "Roll over and go back to sleep," I told her. "They'll shut +it off in a minute." + +I shut my sleepy lids and went through the deep breath routine. The +radio stopped. Then an afterthought; this was Friday, and I wanted to +sleep late on a Saturday unsullied and unwelcomed by soap operas. +Another deep breath, complicated by a yawn, and I went back to sleep. + + * * * * * + +Over our coffee Helen pulled aside the kitchen curtain. + +"I thought there was some reason I didn't wake up until ten. Look +across the street," and she pointed. + +In front of the Olsen's, a red panel truck, Chuck's Radio Service. +Next door, in front of the Werner's, Harper Radio Parts. In the +Smith's driveway, Rapid Radio Repair. + +"What are you grinning at?" + +"Me? I'm not grinning. Not at this time of the morning." + +"Pete Miller, you were, too. Just like the cat that ate the fish." + +"Canary, you mean." + +"That's what I said. What's so funny?" + +"Nothing," I said. "We just got a good night's sleep for a change. I +like my sleep." + +She harrumphed a bit, as suspicious as she usually is, and I went to +the stove for more coffee. Over my shoulder I said, "Want to play a +little cards tonight?" + +She was skeptical about that. "At Art's, I suppose." + +"Sure. Saturday night euchre tournaments." + +"That noisy place? Nothing doing." + +I told her the jukebox and the television set were out of commission +and there'd be no noise she didn't make herself. She loved to play +cards, I knew, and she liked Art. It was just the incessant roar that +wore her down. I managed to talk her into it. + + * * * * * + +At Art's that night I listened with envy to the words that were used +over the telephone when the jukebox gave up its ghost. I heard only +Art's end of the conversation, of course, but I gathered that Art was +being accused at the very least of sabotage. I changed the subject +quick when I caught Helen trying to figure out the look I must have +been wearing. Women get so they're pretty good at that after they've +been married awhile. Art himself drove us home at closing time. Helen +and Art's wife did all the talking, and I'm sure no one noticed I held +my breath before every bar or house and Helen commented, as I fit the +key into the front door, on the fact that the Olsens and the Werners +and the Smiths all picked the same time to turn off their radios. +"Very nice of them," she said, "considering it's Saturday night." + +Now, I use two buses to get to work, transferring from the Harper bus +to the Clairmount line, and it's a forty minute ride. For two days I +fed my ego by holding my breath. I likely looked queer with a bursting +red face, but no one said anything, at least directly to me. I +wouldn't have cared much, anyway, because I didn't care much what +happened; after all, wasn't I a benefactor to practically all the +human race, the thinking part, that is? Wasn't it going to be nice to +live in a world without punctured eardrums and hamstrung nerves? +Wasn't it going to be good to be able to eat a meal in peace, to sip +your ten or sixty-cent drink without having some moron with a nickel +prodding your ulcer? I thought so. + +Thursday, or maybe Friday, my careful searching of the daily papers +found my tiny item buried back of the stock reports, with the labor +news. I read it three times. + +JUKEBOX WAR SUSPECTED. + +_An anonymous tip today told our labor reporter that serious trouble +looms in the canned music industry. R. C. Jones, czar of Local 77, +AFL, has issued orders to individually guard each machine serviced by +his union. Jones had the classic "no comment" for publication, but it +is an open secret that intra-union friction is high in the +Harper-Gratiot area. Jones inferred that deliberate sabotage is +responsible for the wholesale short-circuiting of jukeboxes and +television sets. He named no names, but in an off-the-record statement +threatened to fight fire with fire. "We're not," he snapped, "going to +stand by and watch while goons ruin our livelihood. We will...._" + +Now I was in a fix. They had to make a living. I'd forgotten that. A +union man myself, who was I to break another's rice bowl? I could see +no point in writing to this R. C. Jones. He'd think I was as crazy as +they come. And the newspapers--I could imagine the reactions of a +tough city editor. So, wrapped up in my own thoughts, I stepped off +the curb a little ahead of the green, and I jumped just in time. I +swore at the truck that almost got me, and it happened so quickly I +wasn't prepared to hear or to see the motor of the truck throw a +piston right through the rusted hood. White as a sheet the driver got +out of his cab, and I crossed the street against the red light and +lost myself in the crowd. This curve I was putting on the ball, it +came to me then, wasn't limited to jukeboxes and noisy radios and +burnt-out bearings. I had to watch my temper, or I was going to get +someone in trouble. I was in trouble myself, and I had to get out of +it. + +By the time I got home I'd thought it over quite well. This--this +power whatever it might be, was the McCoy. Why should I waste it when +an honest dollar might be turned? A factory job in Detroit is just a +factory job, and I might keep mine for the next forty years if I lived +long enough through the noise and the dirt and the uncertainty and the +model changeover layoffs every Christmas. The Olsens' radio disturbed +my thinking and it took only a second. Either they were going to get +tired of putting new tubes into that gadget, or play it softer, or +move. I didn't care which. + +So I used my wife's portable to type out a letter to Naval Ordnance in +Aberdeen where my brother-in-law used to be stationed, telling them +what I'd done, what I thought I might be able to do, and asking them +for an opportunity to give them a demonstration. In return, I asked +for a steady government job in a warm climate. Until I could arrange a +certain demonstration, I went on, I could understand they might think +me a crank, so I wouldn't at present sign my name. I suggested they +pay close attention through the week of the fifth through the twelfth +to the various press association dispatches, and I would arrange +later, in my next letter, for a more personal show if they wanted to +take it any further. + + * * * * * + +The fifth fell on a Saturday. Bright and early I was up to ride the +bus downtown, changing to the Woodward line, ending up at Ferndale, +all the time concentrating furiously and holding my breath as much as +I dared. On the way back home I tried to work it a little differently. +Probably no one else on the streetcar beside myself noticed there +wasn't a single passenger car, truck or bus that passed us. Every car, +as we sailed by, stalled and every traffic light we passed either +turned three colors or blinked out completely. Most of the moving cars +made it to the curb on their momentum. The others stayed where they +were. When I got off in front of the City Hall, filthy old hulk that +it is, the streetcar stayed immobile at the safety zone, it was a new +PCC car, and the insulation poured smoke from under the wheels. +Naturally there wasn't any moving traffic in back of it, or in front. +I saw to that. Then I just strolled around Cadillac Square, bollixing +up everything that occurred to me, from trucks to busses to traffic +lights. You never saw such a verminous tangled mess in all your life. +When the patrol wagons began to scream into the Square loaded with +reinforcements for the helpless purple single cop at the Michigan +intersection I let them get as far as the center of the street before +I pinned them down. Even when I saw it later in the newsreels I +couldn't believe it. Even Mack Sennett could have done no better. + +I had to walk all the way out Gratiot to St. Antoine before I could +find transportation home that wasn't walled off by screaming horns and +haggard foot-patrolmen, and when I got off at my corner all Gratiot +and Harper behind me was as clogged as Woodward. I even knocked out +every red neon sign within two blocks of a traffic light. That one +might keep a few pedestrians alive a little longer. + +Helen was over at her mother's helping her hang drapes when I got +home. The icebox gave me a cold Jumbo bottle and I turned on our +little portable set. On every station the spot broadcast crews were +hoarse. I spun the dials and finally concentrated on one +announcer--you know who I mean--with the raspiest, most grating voice +this side of a vixen file. Unfortunately, the housewives seem to like +him, including Helen, and it's the housewives who have the radio on +all day. I knew he was broadcasting from the roof studios of one of +our highest buildings, and I took an enormous and perverted pleasure +in holding my breath and thinking about the elevator system there. On +second thought, I held my breath again and the station left the air in +the middle of a word. I hope he liked the walk downstairs. + +The newspapers next day couldn't make things add, as was natural. They +published silly interviews with all the top engineers in the city and +a good many all over the world, including the Chairman of the Board of +the company where I worked, and his answer was just as asinine as the +rest. All in all, it had been a good show, and I put in another letter +to Naval Ordnance. I knew I had gone much further than I had intended, +and I suggested they get in touch with me, if they wanted, through the +personal columns of one of the Detroit newspapers. I didn't want to +get into trouble with the city police. I didn't sign my name to the +second letter either. And that was a mistake. + + * * * * * + +Early in the morning of the tenth I felt good. I'd been sleeping well +lately, now that I was rid of the Olsens' radio, not to mention the +Werners', and the Smiths'. I rolled over and squinted at the luminous +hands of the' clock. Beer cheese in the icebox. Half a Dutch apple pie +left over from dinner. Milk. Helen didn't wake as I eased out of bed +and groped for my slippers, and the rustling and shuffling I heard as +I tiptoed down the back stairs I attributed to an overbrave mouse. One +of these days, I thought, I was going to have to get some traps and +catch me a mouse. When I turned on the kitchen light the mouse was +holding a howitzer nine inches away from my head. + +"All right, you," the mouse snarled. "Reach!" + +I reached. Quick. + +The gunman backed to the outside door and flicked it open with one +hand, never taking his eyes from me. Footsteps pounded on the back +porch and hard faces filled the kitchen. One even had one of these +gaspipe Sten guns, and I liked that even less than the howitzer. My +pajama tops might have concealed an arsenal from the care I got when I +was searched. No one said a word, and I didn't dare. Just about that +time Helen got the sandman out of her eyes. Likely the noise had +awakened her appetite, and she had come down to help me eat a snack. +One of the gunmen heard her slippers clattering down the stairs, and a +hard hand slapped over my mouth and a gun rammed viciously against my +spine. Spun around and held as a human shield I had to helplessly +watch her come yawning in the kitchen door. One look she got in at me, +and the drawn guns, and her mouth opened for a scream that got no +further than a muffled yip and a dead faint. They let her fall. The +gunman took his hand from my mouth and swung me around. + +"Shut up!" he snapped, although I hadn't tried to say anything. + +[Illustration] + +At the point of his gun he held me there while the rest of the hard +faced crew roamed the house, upstairs and down. None of the faces did +I know, and I began to wonder if behind one of those granite masks +was the revengeful personality of R. C. Jones, President of Local 77, +AFL. I heard footsteps pad on the back porch, and my head tried to +turn in spite of myself. The gun in my back gouged a little harder. +Out of the corner of my eye I could see who pushed open the screen +door I hadn't got around to taking down yet. The gun in my back helped +me stand up. + + * * * * * + +J. Edgar Hoover motioned to the gun and the pressure eased a trifle. +His voice was reasonably unexcited, but to my present taste, ominous. + +"All right. Someone go get him some pants." To me, "Your name Miller? +Peter Ambrose Miller? Get that woman off the floor." + +Yes, I was Peter Ambrose Miller. I agreed to that. My mouth was dry as +popcorn, but I managed to ask him what this was all about. + +Hoover looked at me and scratched his nose. "This is about your +fingerprints being all over an anonymous letter received in Aberdeen, +Maryland." + +I gulped. "Oh, that. Why, I can explain--" + +Hoover looked at me with the fond expression of a man who has cracked +open a bad egg. "That," he said, "I doubt," and he turned on his +military heel and walked out the back door. When they got me my pants +I followed him. I had to. + +I ended up at the Federal Building, which is a cavernous morgue, even +during business hours. They gave me what might have been a comfortable +chair if I hadn't had to sit in it. A young fellow was sitting +opposite me with a stenographer's notebook, and I knew that any story +of mine had better not be repeated two different ways. Hoover came in +with a nondescript man with a hat pulled down over his eyes, who +inspected me from all angles and then shook his head, a little +resentfully, I thought. The hat-over-the-eyes left and I shifted +nervously under those grim eyes staring at me. + +"All right," said Hoover; "now we'll hear that explanation. Talk!" + +So I talked. + + * * * * * + +When I finished my throat was dry and he was nodding as though he +believed every word. He didn't. I asked for a cigarette and for news +of my wife, and they gave me a cigarette. They told me my wife was all +right, or would be, if I behaved. + +"Don't worry," I said. "I'll behave." They just laughed when I said +that. + +"Quite likely," said Hoover. "Now, let's hear that once more. Begin +at the beginning." + +They gave me a room all to myself, finally. For three days, maybe +more, I had that room all for myself and the various people that +walked in at all hours of the day and night to ask me some of the +silliest questions you ever heard just as though they expected +sensible answers. After that first night I didn't see J. Edgar Hoover +at all, which is just as well, because I don't think he liked me one +little bit. They brought me a suit with the lining in the sleeve +ripped and a shirt with the cuffs turned. When I got those I began to +worry all over again about Helen, because I knew she had no part in +picking out the clothes they brought me. I didn't feel too chipper +when they came after me in force again. + + * * * * * + +The same room, this time more crowded. Older men this time, and a few +of the usual high school boys. Again we went through the same routine, +and once again my voice cracked dusty dry. They were all desperately +sorry for such an incurable psychopathic liar. I hadn't felt so +helpless, so caught-in-a-quicksand since my days in the army. + +"I'm telling you the truth, the truth. Don't you see that I've got to +tell you the truth to get out of here? Don't you believe me?" + +Never such disbelief outside of a courtmartial. In desperation my eyes +jerked around looking for escape. They slid over, and back to, the +ventilation fan purring on the wall. I sucked in a loud gasp. The +blades of the fan slowed to where you could see them as individuals, +and the motor housing began to smoke. + +"See?" I yelled at them. "Believe me now?" + +The blades came to a standstill and the black smoke oozed toward the +ceiling. + +"See?" I yelled again. "Look at that fan!" + +Their eyes showed their astonishment. The smoke began to disappear in +the stillness. "What about that? Now do you believe me?" + +Maybe they did. No one said anything. They took me back to my room. +About an hour or so later they came after me again. The chair felt no +more comfortable than it ever had, though it was beginning to shape +itself to my seat. The same faces were there, but the air was a little +different this time. On the desk, where I had seen sit no one but J. +Edgar Hoover were a half dozen fans, plugged to an extension cord that +snaked away and lost itself in a dark corner. My ears twitched +hopefully. Maybe this was going to get me out of here. One of the +younger men spoke up. + +"Mr. Miller," he said briskly, "can you stop these fans as you did, +apparently, the other?" + +I started to tell him that "apparently" wasn't the right word. One of +the older men broke in. + +"One moment," he said. "Can you stop any one of these fans, or all of +them? Any particular one, and leave the rest alone?" + +I thought I could. "Which one?" There were five fans whirring silently +away. + +"Well ... the one in the center." + + * * * * * + +The one in the center. One out of five. Hold your breath, Peter +Ambrose, hold it now or you can hold your breath the rest of your +natural life and no one will ever know, nor ever care. The fan in the +center began to smoke and the blades choked off abruptly. + +I said, "The one on the far left ... the one next to it ... the far +right ... and four makes five." I watched the last blade make its last +swing. "Has anybody got a cigarette?" + +I got a full package. While I tore off the cellophane someone held a +light. I filled my lungs so full they creaked and sat back defiantly. + +"So now what?" + +No one knew just what. Two men slipped out and the others drew +together their chairs for a whispered conference full of dark looks in +my direction. I sat quietly and smoked until even that got on my +nerves. Finally I broke it up with a yell. + +"Can't you fatheads make up your minds? Don't you know what you want? +Do you think I'm going to sit here all night?" + +That was a stupid question; I knew I was going to sit there until they +told me to get up. But at the time I wanted to say it, and I did, and +I said a few other things that were neither polite nor sensible. I was +a little upset, I think. It didn't matter. They paid no attention to +me, so I lit another cigarette and waited. The outer door opened and +one of the two that had left came back in. He came directly to me, +waving the others out as he came. They filed out and he stood in front +of me. + + * * * * * + +"Mr. Miller. This is rather an awkward situation for all of us, +particularly for you, obviously. I want to say this, Mr. Miller; +I--that is, we here in the Bureau are extremely sorry for the turn of +events that brought both of us here. We--" + +At the first decent word I'd heard in days I blew up. "Sorry? What's +being sorry going to do for me? What's being sorry going to do for my +wife? Where is she? What's happened to her? Where is she, and what are +you doing to her? And when am I going to get out of here?" + +He was a polite old man, come to think about it. He let me blow off +all the steam I'd been saving, let me rant and rage, and clucked and +nodded in just the right places. At last I ran down, and he moved a +chair to where he could be confidential. He started like this: + +"Mr. Miller, I, speaking personally, know exactly how you must feel. +Close custody is as unpleasant for the jailor as it is for the jailee, +if there is such a word, sir." + + * * * * * + +I snorted at that one. A jail is a jail, and the turnkey can walk out +if he chooses. + +"You must remember that you are and have been dealing with an official +agency of the Government of the United States of America, of which you +are a citizen; an agency that, officially or otherwise, can never be +too careful of any factor that affects, however remotely, the security +or safety of that Government. You understand that quite well, don't +you, Mr. Miller?" He didn't wait to find out if I did. "For that +reason, and for no other, you were brought here with the utmost speed +and secrecy, and kept here." + +"Oh, sure," I said. "I'm going to blow up a tax collector, or +something like that." + +He nodded. "You might." + +"Blah. So you made a mistake. So you're sorry, so my wife is probably +completely out of her head by now, I'm crazy myself, and you want to +talk politics. All I want to know is this--when do I get out of here?" + +He looked at me with an odd, queer smile. "This, Mr. Miller, is where +the shock lies. I think, diametrically opposite to the opinions and, I +might add, to the direct pleadings of some of my colleagues involved +in this rather inexplicable affair, that you are the adaptable +Teutonic type that likes to know exactly the odds against him, the +type of man who likes to know where and when he stands." + +"I know exactly where I stand," I told him. "I want to know just one +thing; when do I get out of this rat trap?" + +He mulled that over, his forehead wrinkled as he searched for the +right words. "I'm afraid, Mr. Miller, very much afraid that you're +going to get out of here very soon. But never out of any place else." +And with that he walked out the door before I could lift a finger to +stop him. + +But when they came after me to put me away I wasn't stunned. It took +four of them, and one more that came in as reinforcement. They weren't +rough deliberately, but they weren't easy. They had a time, too. I +think I've been around long enough to know a few dirty tricks. I used +them all, but I still went back to my room, or cell. I got no sleep at +all for the rest of the night, nor most of the next night. I wondered +if I could ever sleep again. If someone had mentioned "Helen" to me I +likely would cry like a baby. I couldn't get her out of my mind. + +When they came after me again they were all prepared for another +argument. I didn't care, this time. Meekly I went along, back to that +same conference room. Four men; the old man who had given me the spurs +before, one of the high school boys, and a couple of uniforms. The old +man stood up very formally to greet me. + +"Good morning, Mr. Miller." + +I snarled at him. "Good for what?" + +One of the uniforms was indignant. "Here, here, my man!" + +I let him have it, too. "In your hat, fatty. My discharge went on the +books in forty-five!" He was shocked stiff, but he shut up. + +The old man kept his face straight. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Miller?" +I sat. I still didn't like the chair. "This is General Hayes, and this +is General Van Dorf." They nodded stiffly, and I ignored them. He +didn't introduce the young man, not that I cared. + +"Mr. Miller, we'd like to talk to you. Talk seriously." + +"Afraid that I'll get mad and fly out the window?" + +"I said seriously. It won't take long. Let's compress it into one +short sentence without the preliminaries: give these gentlemen a +demonstration like the last one." + +I told him what he could do with his demonstration, and I told him +what he could do with his generals. The high school boy grinned when I +said that. He must have been old enough to have served in the army. + +The generals were crimson. You don't get that kind of talk where they +worked. But the old man was unperturbed. "Let's make that one sentence +a paragraph. Give these gentlemen a demonstration as effective as the +last--and ten minutes after, if you like, you can walk out of here +free as the air." + +I jumped at that. "Is that straight? If I do it again you'll let me +loose?" + +He nodded. "If you really want to." + +I persisted. "Straight, now? On your word of honor?" + +He wasn't lying. "If you want my word you have it." + +I grinned all over like a dog. "Bring on your fans, or whatever you +have cooked up." + +The young man went out and came right back in with a little cartload +of electric fans. Either they had too many for general use, or someone +had very little imagination. Come summer, with Detroit ninety in the +shade, they were going to miss their ventilation. Me, I was going to +be a long way from the Federal Building. He set the fans on the desk, +and the generals craned stork-like to see what was going on. The old +man bowed to them. + +"Name one, gentlemen. Any one you like." They named the middle one +again. + + * * * * * + +I called my shots again, as free and easy as though I'd been doing it +for years. "The middle one first, you say? No sooner said than done, +gentlemen. Right? Right! Now the far left, and right down the line. +Eeney, meeny, and out goes me." They were all dead, and I stood up and +asked the room, "Which is the express elevator to the main floor?" + +The old man held up his hand. "One moment, Mr. Miller." He read my +mind, which, at that second, wasn't hard to do. "Oh, no. You're free +to go any time you so desire. But I would like to make this +demonstration a little more convincing." + +He meant it. I could go if I liked. + +"You also, Mr. Miller, as I understand it, exhibit somewhat the same +degree of control over internal combustion engines." And well he knew +I did. That traffic tieup I'd engineered had traveled via newsreels +all over the world. "Will you gentlemen step over to the window?" This +was to me and the generals. + +We all crowded over. I looked down and saw we were on the ninth floor, +maybe the eighth or tenth. It's hard to judge distance when you're +looking straight down. + +"Mr. Miller--" + +"Yeh?" + +"If one of these officers will pick out a car or a truck down on the +street below can you stop it? Stop it dead in its tracks?" + +"Sure. Why not?" + +"All right, then. General Hayes, we'll let you do the honors. Will you +select from all those cars down there any particular item?" + +I broke in. "Or any streetcar." I was feeling cocky. + +"Or any streetcar. I would suggest, General, that you choose a target +for its visibility. One that you cannot mistake." + +The uniforms were suspicious, as they conferred with their noses flat +against the glass. They beckoned to me and pointed. + +"That one there." + +"Which one where?" They had to be more explicit than that. + +"The big truck. The one with the green top and the pipe sticking out." + +I spotted it. It slowed for a red light, and came to a complete stop. +I concentrated. Blow, Gabriel. + + * * * * * + +The crosstraffic halted, and the truck again got under way. Then +suddenly, as it must have been, although from where we were it seemed +like a leisurely stroll, it veered through the other traffic lane and +smoke burst from its hood. We could see the driver pop from his seat +and race to the corner fire alarm box. Almost instantly traffic both +ways was four deep. I turned away from the window. I don't like +heights, anyway. + +"Now can I go?" Walk, not run to the nearest exit. + +The old man spoke directly to the uniforms, "Well, gentlemen, are you +satisfied?" + +They were satisfied, all right. They were stunned. They were probably +visualizing a stalled tank retriever, a stalled 6x6. + +"Thank you, Mr. Miller. Thank you very much." My grin was wide, as I +started for the door. + +"But I think that it is only fair, before you go, for me to tell you +one thing." + +With my hand on the knob, I laughed at him. "You mean that there isn't +any Santa Claus?" + +The corners of his mouth went up. "Not for you, I'm afraid. Are you +insured?" + +"Me? Insured? You mean the extra thirty cents I give the newsboy every +week?" + +"That's it. Insured. Life insurance." + +I shrugged. "Sure. A couple of thousand as long as I take the papers." + +"Suppose your subscription expires, or is cancelled, for certain +reasons that should be obvious?" The generals stopped fidgeting and +looked curiously at the old man. + +I couldn't figure out what he meant, and said so. + +"You can--well, let's say that you can 'interfere' with electrical or +mechanical devices, can't you?" + +Sure I could. At least, all the ones I'd ever tried. + +"So, with that established, you would be in a military sense the +theoretically perfect defense." + +I hadn't thought about it that way. But if it ever came down to it I +should be able to knock down an airplane, gum up the works on a fusing +detonator, maybe even--. No, I didn't like that idea. Not me. Not at +all. + +The old man's voice was hard and soft at the same time. "So you're the +irresistible force, or maybe the immovable object. And if you walk out +of this office right now--and you can, Mr. Miller, that was our +agreement--knowing what you know and being able to do what you have +been doing.... Now, just how long do you think it would take the +intelligence of a dozen different nations to catch up with you? And +how long after that would you stay 'free,' as you put it? Or how long +would you stay alive? There are all types of ways and means, you +know." You bet I knew that. + +My hair tried to stand on end. "Why, you'd be just cutting your own +throat! You'd have to keep an eye on me. You can't back out on me +now!" + +He was sympathetic. "That's just what we're trying to do. We're trying +to protect you and all you want to do is go home." + +I sat down in the old chair. "So that's why you said I could go any +time I wanted to." The old man said nothing. I ran my hands through my +hair and tried to find the right words. "Now what?" + + * * * * * + +One of the generals started a preparatory cough, but the old man beat +him to it. "I have a suggestion, Mr. Miller. You likely will not +approve. Or, then again, you might." + +"Yeah?" + +"You know by now that this room, or its rough equivalent, is where you +can be safe. This place, or one as well guarded." + +"Yeah. And then what?" + +He tried to make it as easy as he could. "Voluntarily--remember that +word, and what it means--voluntarily put yourself in our charge. Put +yourself under our care and our protection--" + +"And your orders!" + +General Van Dorf couldn't hold in his snort. "Good Heavens, man, +where's your patriotism? Where's your--" + +He got the worst of that exchange, and he didn't like it. "Where's +your brains, man? Whatever patriotism I have left is pretty well worn +after thirty-two months overseas. I'm sick of the Army and Navy; I'm +sick of hurrying up to stand in line; I'm sick of being told what to +do, and being told how and where to do it; I'm sick of being bossed. +As far as I'm concerned there's only one person in this world who can +tell me to do anything--and what's happened to my wife, anyway? Where +is she? And where does she think I am right now?" The old man +hesitated. "She doesn't know where you are. She's in the woman's +division, downstairs. She's been well-treated, of course--" + +"Sure. Well-treated." That was when I got really mad. "Sure. Jerk her +out of bed in the middle of the night and throw her in jail and give +her enough to eat and a place to sleep and that's supposed to be good +treatment!" + +The generals left without excusing themselves. Evidently they knew +what was coming and wanted no part of it. The old Army game of signing +your name and letting the sergeant hear the howls. I think that was +the only thing that kept me there, as furious as I was, to hear what +the old man had to say. He had been handed the dirty end of the stick, +and he had to get rid of it the best way he could. When they were gone +he circled a bit and then got the range. + + * * * * * + +Boiled down, it was like this. "As of right now, you no longer exist. +There is no more Peter Ambrose Miller, and maybe there never was. This +I would suggest; your wife, being human, could keep quiet no longer +than any other woman--or man. As far as she is concerned you're no +longer alive. You were killed while escaping arrest." + +The sheer brutality, the plain cruelty of that, almost drove me insane +right there on the spot. I don't know what kept my hands off him. Now, +of course, I realize that he was doing that deliberately to focus my +hate on him, to present the bad side of it, to show me what could be +done if I didn't cooperate. But I didn't know that then. + +"So if I've got the name I'll have the game! Does it make any +difference if I get shot in report or in fact? How would _your_ wife +like to know that you'd been shot down like a criminal? What would +Helen say to her friends and my friends and her relatives and all the +people we know?" + +That was just the reaction he'd been waiting for. "I mentioned that +only as a suggestion. That could be easily arranged another way. Let's +say, for example, that you've been working for the Government ever +since your legal discharge, in an undercover assignment, and you died +in line of duty. It should be quite easy to see that your widow was +awarded some sort of posthumous decoration. Would that help?" + +I never thought that I would ever sit quietly and listen to someone +calmly plot the complete obliteration of my whole life, my whole +being. It was like one of these European novels when one sane man +tries to live and find another sane person in a world of madness. A +posthumous decoration. A medal for one that is dead and rotting. A +nightmare with no waking up. + +"And perhaps--oh, certainly!--a pension. You can rest assured your +wife will never want. You see, Mr. Miller, we want to test you, and +your ... ability. Perhaps this unbelievable control you have can be +duplicated, or understood. That we want to find out. We want to turn +inside out all the enormous potential you have. In short we want--we +must--have you in strictest custody and under rigid observation. If +you like, I can see that you have a military or naval commission of +rank commensurate with your importance. And don't think, Mr. Miller, +that you're any less important than I've stated. Right now, from this +side of the fence, it looks to me that you're the most important thing +this side of the invention of the wheel." + +I didn't want a commission. I wanted to lead a normal life, and I +wanted my wife. + + * * * * * + +"The Marines, perhaps? Or the Air Corps?" + +It wasn't just the Army, or the Navy; it was the system. If I had to +be a Sad Sack I'd be a civilian. + +"As you like. Agreed?" + +I looked at him. "Agreed? What do you want me to say? Agreed. That's a +good word for you to use to me." + +"You can rest assured--" He saw what must have been on my face, and +stopped short. For a long minute we sat there, he thinking his +thoughts, and me thinking mine. Mine weren't pleasant. Then he got up +and came over to me. "Sorry. This is a pretty big meal to digest all +at once. I know how you must feel." + +I stared up at him. "Do you?" + +Then he turned and left. Later, I don't know when, the young fellow +came back alone and took me to my cell. I must have finally gotten to +sleep. + +The young fellow, who turned out to be a fairly good citizen named +Stein, came after me the next day. He wanted me to pack. Pack? All the +clothes I had were on my back. + +"Toothbrush, things like that. Tell me what you want in the line of +clothes and you'll get them. Or anything else, within reason." + +"Anything? Anything at all?" + +"Well, I said anything reasonable." We didn't have to go any further +into that. He knew what I meant. + +When it was dark they took us away, Stein and myself. In the back of a +mail truck, cramped and silent we rode for what seemed hours. Long +before we rattled to a halt I could hear the familiar roars of motors +being warmed. The tailgates swung open and a twenty-foot walk put us +into a military ship. That meant Selfridge Field. Stein and I sat in +the old painful bucket seats, the twin motors blasted and we trundled +down the paved strip, a takeoff to nowhere. So long, Miller; so long +to your wife and your home and your life. So long, Miller; you're dead +and you're gone, and your wife will get a medal. + + * * * * * + +When I awoke, the cabin was stuffy, and the sun was brassy and hot and +high. Stein, already awake, came up with a thermos of coffee and a +snack. A peep from the ports didn't tell me where I was, not that it +mattered. Somewhere in the west or southwest, on a sandy waste on the +far end of a landing strip away from a cluttered group of shacks, we +walked long enough to get out the kinks. Then a hurried sandwich from +a picnic basket left in the cabin by an invisible steward, and we +transferred to a gray amphibian. The next time I had interest enough +to look out and down we were over water, and toward the rim of the +world we floated for hours. I dozed off again. + +Stein woke me up. Wordlessly he passed me a heavy helmet, and the kind +of goggles that present a mirrored blankness to the outside world. All +this time I had seen none of the crews, even when we had landed. The +two of us had strolled alone in a tiny world of our own. When the +pilot cut his engines for the landing I had the old style helmet on my +head. It was far too big, and hurt my ears. The galloping splash we +made puddled the ports high, and we bobbed awkwardly until Stein got +his signal from the pilot, who popped out an impersonal arm. From the +wing-struts we transferred to a Navy dory, manned by enlisted men +commanded by a blank-faced ensign in dungarees. We were both wearing +the concealing helmets in the stifling heat, and the ensign's "Eyes +Front," did no more than keep the sailors from sneaking curious looks +from the corners of their eyes. + + * * * * * + +The small boat put us alongside what looked like more of a workship +than a fighter. It might have been an oiler or a repair-ship, or it +might not have even been Navy. But it was Navy clean, and the crew was +Navy. Some gold braid, way out of proportion to the size of the ship, +met us at the top of the ladder, saluted, God knows why, and led Stein +and I to a cabin. Not too big, not too small. I heard the amphibian +rev up and take off again, and the deck tilted a trifle beneath us as +we gathered way. A yank, and the suffocating helmet was off and I +turned to Stein. + +"Navy ship?" + +He hesitated, then nodded. + +"Navy ship." + +"No beer, then." + +I drew a big grin this time. He was human, all right. "No beer." + +Like an oven it was in that cabin. In a shower stall big enough for a +midget I splashed away until I got a mouthful of water. Salt. I +paddled out of there in a hurry and spent the next two hours trying to +get interested in a year-old House and Home. Hours? I spent three +solid days looking at that same issue, and others like it. All the +sailors on the ship must have had hydroponics or its equivalent on the +brain. In between times it cost me thirteen dollars I didn't have to +play gin with Stein. Then-- + + * * * * * + +I never did find out his real name. Neither his name, nor his job, nor +what his job had to do with me, but he must have been important, from +the salutes and attention he got. Maybe he'd just gotten there, maybe +he'd been there all the time. He told me, when I bluntly asked him his +name and what he did, that his name was Smith, and I still think of +him as Smith. When he tapped on the door and stepped into that airless +cabin I could smell the fans and the generals and the Federal Building +all over again. + +"Hello, Mr. Miller," he smiled. "Nice trip?" + +"Swell trip," I told him. "Join the Navy and see the world through a +piece of plywood nailed over a porthole." + +When he sat down on the edge of the chair he was fussy about the +crease in his pants. "Mr. Miller, whenever you are above decks, day or +night, you will please keep your face concealed with that helmet, or +its equivalent, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. Please." + +"Since when have I been above decks? Since when have I been out of +this two-by-four shack?" + +"The shack," he said, "could be smaller, and the weather could be +hotter. We'll see that while you're aboard you'll have the freedom of +the deck after sunset. And you won't if things go right, be aboard +much longer." + +My ears went up at that. "No?" + +"On the deck, upstairs"--he Was no Navy man, or maybe that was the +impression he wanted to give--"are racks of rockets of various sizes. +You might have noticed them when you came aboard. No? Well, they have +been armed; some with electrical proximity fuses, some with +mechanical timing devices, and some have both. They will be sent +singly, or in pairs, or in salvos, at a target some little distance +away. Your job will be the obvious one. Do you think you can do it?" + +"Suppose I don't?" + +He stood up. "Then that's what we want to know. Ready?" + +I stretched. "As ready as I'll ever be. Let's go and take the air." + +"Forget something?" He pointed at the helmet, hanging back of the +door. + +I didn't like it, but I put it on, and he took me up, up to the rocket +racks on the prow. Even through the dark lenses the sun was oddly +bright. Smith pointed off to port, where a battered old hull without +even a deckhouse or a mast hobbled painfully in the trough of the sea. + +"Target." + +He jerked a thumb at the racks. + +"Rockets." + +I knew what they were. I'd seen enough of them sail over my head. + +"Ready?" + + * * * * * + +Yes, I was ready. He made a careless flick of his hand and an order +was barked behind me. A clatter and a swoosh, and a cylinder arced +gracefully, catching me almost by surprise. I felt that familiar +tightening behind my eyes, that familiar tensing and hunching of my +shoulders. The propellant was taking the rocket almost out of sight +when the fuse fired it. "Wham!" + +Caught that one in midair. Try another. Another "whoosh," and another +"wham." + + * * * * * + +Then they tried it in pairs. Both of the flying darning-needles blew +together, in an eccentric sweep of flame. Four, maybe five or six +pairs I knocked down short of the target, some so close to us that I +imagined I could feel the concussion. They switched to salvos of a +dozen at a time and they blew almost in unison. They emptied the racks +that way, and I was grimly amused at the queer expression of the +officer in charge as the enlisted men refilled the maws of the gaping +racks. Smith, the old man, nudged me a little harder than necessary. + +"All racks, salvo." + +All at once. I tried for a cool breath in that sweaty helmet. "Ready!" + +I couldn't pick out any individual sounds. The racks vomited lightning +and thunder far too fast for that. The rumble and roar bored itself +into a remote corner of my brain while I watched that barnacled hulk +and concentrated. I couldn't attempt to think of each rocket, or each +shot, individually, so I was forced to try to erect a mental wall and +say to myself, "Nothing gets past that line _there_." + +[Illustration] + +And nothing did. Just like slamming into a stone wall, every rocket +blew up its thrumming roar far short of the target. The racks finally +pumped themselves dry, and through the smoke Smith grasped my arm +tighter than I liked. I couldn't hear what he was saying, deafened as +we all were by the blasts. He steered me back to the cabin and I +flipped off drops of sweat with the helmet. I turned unexpectedly and +caught the old man staring at me. + +"Now what's the matter with you?" + + * * * * * + +He shook his head and sat down heavily. "You know, Miller, or Pete, if +you don't mind, I still don't actually believe what I've just seen." + +I borrowed a light from the ubiquitous Stein. His expression told me +he'd seen the matinee. + +"I don't believe it either, and I'm the one that put on the show." I +blew smoke in the air and gave back the lighter. "But that's neither +here nor there. When do I get out of this Black Hole of Calcutta?" + +"Well...." Smith was undecided. "Where would you like to spend some +time when we're through with all this?" + +That I hadn't expected. "You mean I have a choice?" + +Noncommittally, "Up to a point. How about some island somewhere? Or in +the States? Cold or warm? How, for instance, would you feel about Guam +or--" + +"Watched by the whole Mounted Police?" He nodded. + +I didn't care. "Just someplace where no one will bother me; some place +where I can play some records of the Boston Pops or Victor Herbert;" +(and I guess the nervous strain of all that mental effort in all the +noise and smoke was fighting a delaying action) "someplace where I can +get all the beer I want, because it looks like I'm going to need +plenty. Someplace where I can sit around and take things easy and have +someone to--" I cut it short. + +He was one of the understanding Smiths, at that. "Yes," he nodded, "we +can probably arrange that, too. It may not be...." What else could he +say, or what other way was there to say it? + +"One more thing," he went on; "one more ... demonstration. This will +take some little time to prepare." That, to me, meant one thing, and I +liked it not at all. He beat me to the punch. + + * * * * * + +"This should be what is called the pay-off, the final edition. Come +through on this one, and you'll be better off than the gold in Fort +Knox. Anything you want, anything that money or goodwill can buy, +anything within the resources of a great--and, I assure you, a +grateful--nation. Everything--" + +"--everything," I finished for him, "except the right to go down to +the corner store for a magazine. Everything except what better than +me have called the pursuit of happiness." + + * * * * * + +He knew that was true. "But which is more important; your happiness, +or the freedom and happiness of a hundred and seventy millions? Peter, +if things political don't change, perhaps the freedom and happiness of +over two billion, which, I believe, is the population of this backward +planet." + +"Yeah." The cigarette was dry, and I stubbed it in an ashtray. "And +all this hangs on one person--me. That's your story." My mouth was +dry, too. + +His smile, I'm afraid, was more than just a little forced. "That's my +story, and we're all stuck with it; you, me, all of us. No, you stay +here, Stein. Let's see if we can get this over once and for all." +Lines came and went on his forehead, as he felt for words. + +"Let's try it this way: for the first time in written history as we +know it one single deadly new weapon can change the course of the +world, perhaps even change the physical course of that world, and the +people who in the future will live in it. Speaking personally, as a +man and as a reasonable facsimile of a technician, I find it extremely +hard, almost impossible, to believe that at the exact psychic moment +an apparent complete nullification of that weapon has appeared." + +I grunted. "Maybe." + +"Maybe. That's what we want to find out. Could you, Peter, if you were +in my place, or you in your own place, get a good night's sleep +tonight or any other night knowing that problem might have an answer +without doing anything about it? Or are you one of these people who +believe that there is no problem, that all things will solve +themselves? Do you believe that, Stein? Do you think that Peter +Ambrose Miller thinks that way?" + +No, Stein didn't think that way, and Miller didn't think that way. We +all knew that. + +"All right," and he rubbed the back of his neck with a tired hand. "We +have that weapon now. We, meaning the United States, and the whole +wide world, from Andorra to Zanzibar. Now means today, in my lexicon. +Tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow, or tomorrow of next year or the year +after that, who will be the one to use that weapon? Do you know, +Peter? Do you know?" + +There was no need for an answer to that. + +"And neither does anyone else. Peter, you're insurance. You're the +cheapest and best insurance I know of. If! There's that big if. I +hate that word. I always have, and I'm going to eliminate 'if,' as far +as Peter Ambrose Miller is concerned. Right?" + +Of course he was right. Hiroshima could just as well have been Memphis +or Moscow or Middletown. And I always had wanted to be rich enough to +carry my own insurance.... + +Before Smith left he told me it might be a month or two before he +would see me again. + +"These things aren't arranged overnight, you know." + +I knew that. + +I would be landed, he said, somewhere, someplace, and I'd be my own +boss, up to a point. Stein would be with me, and the secrecy routine +would still be in effect.... His voice trailed off, and I neither saw +nor heard him leave. + + * * * * * + +Three miserable weeks I spent somewhere in some stinking Southern +Pacific mudhole. Cocker spaniel Stein was never out of reach, or +sight, and gave me the little attention I wanted. From a distance I +occasionally saw Army and Navy. The enlisted men were the ones who +brought me not everything I asked for, but enough to get along. Later +on, I knew, I'd get the moon on ice if I were actually as valuable as +appeared. At that time no one was sure, including some brass who came +poking around when they thought I might be asleep. They stayed far +away from me, evidently under strict orders to do just that, although +they took Stein aside several times and barked importantly at him. I +don't think they made much impression on Stein. I was aching for an +argument at that stage, and it's just as well they dodged contact. +When Smith showed up, with the usual officious body-guard, I was +itching to go. + +Bikini I'd seen in the newsreels, and this wasn't it. The back forty +would have dwarfed it. Just a limp palm or two and an occasional +skinny lump of herbiage. Ships of all naval types and a civilian +freighter or so spotted themselves at anchor like jagged rocks around +the compass. The gray cruiser we were on never once dropped its hook; +it paced nervously back and forth, up and down, and I followed, pacing +the deck. With Stein at my heels, I saw daylight only through the +ports. Only at night did I get to where I could smell the salt breeze +free of the stink of paint and Diesel oil. From what I know about +ships and their complements we must have had at least the captain's +cabin, or pretty close to its mate. We never saw the captain, or at +least he was never around when I was. The buzzing mass of brass and +high civilians I knew were there, the old man told me, were and +berthed on the big flattop carrier that idled off to port. Only Smith +dropped in occasionally to rasp my frayed nerves deeper. With all the +activity seething around us, and with only Stein and myself to keep +each other company, we were getting cabin fever. I told that to Smith, +who soothed me with promises. + +"Tomorrow's the day." + +"It better be. How are we going to work this, anyway?" I was curious, +and I thought I had a right to be. "From what I hear, you better have +your holes already dug." + +"Too true," he agreed. "The bomb itself will be released from a drone +plane, radio-controlled. We will, of course, be far enough from this +island and the target installations you might have noticed going up to +be out of range of radiations--" + +"You hope!" + +"--we hope. Your job will be to keep the bomb from detonating, or if +that cannot be done, to fire it harmlessly, or as much so as possible. +_That's_ what we want to know. Clear?" Of course it was clear. That's +what I wanted to know, too. + + * * * * * + +The sun came up out of the sea as quickly as it always does, and +although the cruiser deck was almost bare far off we could see the +carrier deck swarming with tiny ants. The odd-angled posts and gadgets +we could see sticking up must have belonged to the technical boys, and +they must have had plenty of it, if we could see it at that distance. +Overhead they must have had at least eight planes of all types, from +B-36's to helicopters to Piper Cubs, all dipping and floating and +racing madly from one air bubble to another. Smith took time to tell +me that, regardless whether the Bomb was fired by Miller or Iron Mike +the explosion data would be immensely valuable. + +"These things cost money," he said, "and this is killing two birds +with one stone." I didn't want to be a bird, and my smile was sickly +strained. Smith went off with a wry grin. + +The helmet itched the back of my neck and the glasses dug into the +bridge of my nose. From the open space I had to work in they must have +thought I was a ferry-boat, until it dawned on me that all those armed +Marines with their backs turned weren't there just for ornament. Peter +Valuable Miller. Very, very, queer, I thought, that all those +technicians swarming on the carrier deck could be trusted enough to +build and fire a Bomb and yet couldn't be allowed to know that there +might be a possible defense to that Bomb. I watched Stein scratch his +back against a projecting steel rib as the Smith strolled absently out +of nowhere. Stein straightened sheepishly, and the old man smiled. + +"Ready?" + +Why not? I gave him the same answer as before. "Ready as I ever will +be." + +He handed me a pair of glasses, 7 x 50. "The drone ship took off ten +minutes ago. Look due north--no, north is that way--and whenever it +comes into whatever you consider your range--" + +"Bingo!" + +"Bingo!" He liked that. "When you fire it--" + +"You mean, _if_ I fire it." + +"If you fire it, just before, you slide the filters over the ends of +your binoculars like so. Or better still, turn your back." + +Turn my back? I wanted to see what was going to happen. + +"All right, but make sure you get those filters down in time." He +cocked an ear as someone shouted something that was carried away in +the freshening breeze. "Must have picked it up with radar. Let's see +if we can find it," and together we set to sweeping the northern +horizon. + +Radar must have been sharp that day, because the drone, a battered +B-24, was right on top of us before we picked it up, a mote in the +sun's brazen eye. A flurry of orders relayed to the control ship sent +it soaring back into the distance, a mile or so high. Just at the +limit of visibility I used the corner of my mouth to Smith. + +"Hold your breath and help me out." Maybe he did, at that. "Motors. +I'll try to get the motors first." + + * * * * * + +The slapping of the salty waves against the cruiser's armored hull +seemed to pause in midstride. Nothing happened--nothing, until the +waves, with a frustrated sigh, gave in and began again their toppling +roll and hiss. Then slowly, ever so slowly, so faintly that it was +only a speck in the sky, the distant dot tilted and hung suspended on +a wingtip, hung, hung, hung.... A jerk, and a warped spiral. My ears +rang, and the falling leaf, now swooping and sailing in agonized +humpbacked scallops, seemed to double and triple in my tear-swimming +eyes. Then I tried-- + +There was no sound. There was no booming roar, no thunder. But I +forgot to yank down those dark filters over the ends of the Zeiss. +They had told me that it would be like looking at the sun. Well, the +sun won't throw you flat on your back, or maybe I fell. Not quite +flat; Smith threw a block as I reeled, and held me upright. I tried to +tell him that I was all right, that it was just the sudden glare that +paralyzed me, and to get his arms off my neck before I strangled. No +attention did I get from him at all in that respect, but plenty of +other unneeded help. Wriggle and swear as I might, with that helmet +scoring a raw groove in my neck, I was toted below and dropped on my +bunk with, I suppose, what whoever carried me would call gentleness. + +The anxious officer in front of me, when the action was over, had the +physician's harried look. He liked my language not one little bit, and +only Smith's authority kept him from calling corpsmen to muzzle me +while he examined my eyes. When my sore eyes had accustomed themselves +to the dim light in the cabin, Smith led the officer to the door of +the hatch or whatever they call it, explaining that the recalcitrant +patient would doubtless be later in a more receptive mood. + +"If you think so," I yelled at his indignant ramrod back, "you must +try sticking in your head and see what happens." I don't like anyone +to poke anything in my eyes anytime. + +Smith shut the door quickly. "Must you bellow like that? He was trying +to help you." + +I knew that, but I was mad. "I don't want any help. I could have made +it down here under my own power, and you know it." + +Smith sat down. "These your cigarettes? Thanks." He lit his own and +puffed furiously. "I don't think you can reasonably expect to be let +alone, Peter. After all, you're a very valuable--" + +"--piece of property. Sure. In the meantime I don't want anyone +fooling around me." + +He smoked in silence, thinking. That meant trouble. + +"Well?" + +"Well, what?" + +He reached for the ashtray. "Ready to talk now?" + +"Sure," I said. "Talk or listen?" + +"A little of both." + +I talk too much. It would do me no harm to listen. "Shoot." + +"This, then, Peter, is the situation; you, without a doubt, are the +most remarkable person in the whole wide world. Almost an institution +in yourself." + +I grinned. "Like the Maine farmer; a character." + +"Right. As far as I, and anyone else that has had any contact with you +at all, can tell or even guess, you are absolutely and perfectly +unique." + +"You said that before." + +"So I did. You know--" and he held my eye steadily--"you're so +completely unique, and so--dangerous, that more than once I have been +personally tempted to arrange your--elimination. From behind." + +I couldn't put up more than a weak grin for that. I had wondered about +that, myself. A variation, a deadly one, of the old "if you can't lick +'em, join 'em" theme. And I hadn't been too cooperative. + +He went on, slowly. "My personal reactions, for obvious reasons, do +not enter into this. But I think, Peter, that you should consider +those words very seriously before you are tempted to do or say +anything rash." + + * * * * * + +I agreed that he was probably right, and that it might be better if I +piped a quiet tune. "But that's not the way I operate. As far as I'm +concerned, I'm responsible to myself, and myself alone. If I wanted to +be told what to say and what to think, and when to say it, I would +have stayed in when I got my discharge." + +He shrugged. "It might be better for all concerned if you were under +military discipline, although it might not suit your ego. Take, for +example, the two generals you met in Detroit; Generals Hayes and Van +Dorf. They both are regarded as brilliant; they are both regarded as +too mentally precocious to be risked in physical action. They are two +of the most agile minds on the staff." + +I took his word for it. "They are still generals to me. And I don't +have to stand at attention, and I don't have to take their orders." + +"Exactly," and he reached for the cigarettes again. "It is not going +to do any good by adding more fuel to your mental furnace, but it is +only fair to tell you that the ... elimination thing was more or less +seriously discussed before you left Detroit." + +He didn't give me a chance to blow up, but raced on. "General Hayes +and General Van Dorf are sensible men, dealing in material and +sensible things. You are neither practical or sensible, in many ways, +this being one. They, as well equipped as they are, are not prepared +to cope with such a problem presented with such as you. I might add +here, that neither is anyone else. What are you laughing at?" + +I couldn't help it. "The military mind at its best. First cross up the +world by getting a weapon with no defense. Then when someone comes up +with a defense for any weapon, including the weapon with no defense, +they start turning back flips." + +"Take that idiotic grin off your face." Just the same, he thought it +was rather comic, himself. "Neither of us are in the Armed Forces, so +for the present we can talk and plan freely. If you think, Peter, that +all this can be solved with prejudice and a smart remark, you're very, +very wrong. The worst is yet to come." + +I asked him if I'd had a bed of roses, so far. "I don't think I could +be much worse off than I've been so far. How would you like to be +penned up--" + +"Penned up?" He snorted disgustedly. "You've had yourself a holiday, +and you can't see it. Try to see the military, the legal point of +view. Here is one person, Peter Ambrose Miller, one man and only one +man, with the ability, the power, to cancel at one stroke every +scientific advancement that armament has made in the past three +thousand years." + +"And the big boys don't like it," I mused. + +"The little boys, as you use the word, won't like it, either," he +said. "But, that's not the point. Not the point at all. The stem of +the apple is this--what are we going to do with you?" + +"We?" I asked him. + +"We," he explained carefully, as to a baby, "is a generic term for the +army, the navy, the government, the world in general. As long as you +live, as long as you continue to be able to do the things you can do +now, a gun or an airplane is so much scrap metal. But--only as long as +you live!" + + * * * * * + +That I didn't like. "You mean that--" + +"Exactly what I said. As long as you're alive a soldier or a sailor +might as well be a Zulu; useful for the length he can throw a spear or +shoot an arrow, but useless as he now stands. There is no army, +apparently, right now that is worth more than its body weight--again, +as long as you live." + +"Do you have to harp on that?" + +"Why not? Do you want to live forever, or do you expect to?" + +He had me there. You bet I wanted to live forever. "Well?" + +He yanked pensively at his upper lip. "Two solutions; one, announce +you to the world with a clang of cymbals and a roll of drums. Two, +bury you someplace. Oh, figuratively speaking," he added hastily as he +saw my face. + +"Solution one sounds good to me," I told him. "I could go home then." + +He made it quite clear that Solution One was only theoretical; he was +firm about that. "Outside of rewriting all the peace treaties in +existence, do you remember how our Congress huddled over the Bomb? Can +you see Congress allowing you, can you see the General Staff agreeing +to share you with, for example, a United Nations Commission? Can you?" + +No, I couldn't. + +"So," with a regretful sigh, "Solution One leaves only Solution Two. +We'll grant that you must be kept under cover." + +I wondered if Stein was somewhere at the earphones of a tape recorder. +For someone with as big a job as the old man likely had, it seemed +that we were talking fairly freely. He went on. + +"And that Solution Two has within itself another unsolved problem; who +watches you, and who watches the watchers?" + +That didn't matter to me, and I said so. + +"I suppose not to you, but it would matter to the army, and it would +matter to the navy, and when J. Edgar Hoover gets around to thinking +about it, it will matter to the FBI." + +"So what? Would I get a choice?" + + * * * * * + +He was curious for a moment. "Would you want one?" + +"Maybe, maybe not. I had a uniform once. The FBI go to college and +take off their hats in the house, but they're still cops, and I don't +like cops. Don't look at me like that; you wouldn't like cops either, +if you made less than a couple of hundred a week. Nobody does. So I'm +prejudiced against everybody, and just what difference does it make?" + +"Not a great deal. I was just curious." He was honest, anyway. "But +you can see the possibilities, or the lack of them." + +"Look," and I got up to take as many steps as the cabin would allow. +"This is where we came in. We could talk all day and get no further. +All I want to know is this--what's going to happen to me, and when, +and where?" + +He followed me with his steady eyes. "Well, at the immediate moment, +I'm afraid that--" He hesitated. + +"I'm afraid that, quick like a bunny, you're going to have one solid +headache if we don't quit using the same words over and over again. +Here I am stuck in the middle of all the water in the world, and I'm +tired, and I'm disgusted, and I'm starting to get mad. You're trying +to smother my head in a pillow, I've got nothing but a first-class +run-around from you and everyone I've seen, who has been one man named +Bob Stein. I see nothing, I know less, I get cold shoulders and hot +promises." + +I sailed right on, not giving him a chance to slide in one word. "Why, +there must be ten thousand men and maybe some women right upstairs, +and who knows how many within a few miles from here, and do I get to +even pass the time of day with any of them? Do I? You bet your sweet +life I don't!" + +"There aren't any women within miles of here, except nurses, and maybe +a reporter, and I'm not sure about that." + +"Nurses and reporters are human, aren't they?" + +Had he found a chink in the armor? He frowned. "Is it women you want?" + +"Sure, I want women!" I flared at him. "I want a million of them! I +want Esther Williams and Minnie Mouse and anyone else that looks good +to me. But I don't want them on a silver platter with a gilt chain. I +want them when I want them--my wife and the waitress at Art's, and the +beer I used to drink would taste a lot better than the beer you said +I'd get and never seen!" + + * * * * * + +The Smith stood up and I sat down. "Women and beer. Anything else?" + +"Sure," I snapped at him. "Women and beer and traffic piled up on +Gratiot and the same double feature at all the movies in town--" I got +a look at him. I felt silly. "All right, take out the needle. You +win." + +He was a gentleman. He didn't laugh. "Win? Yes, I suppose I win." +Before I could think of anything else to say, he was gone. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +PART II + +Smith knocked early the next morning when Stein was still clearing the +breakfast coffee. For that time of day he was disgustingly happy. + +"The customary greeting, I believe, is good morning, is it not?" + +I gulped the rest of my cup. "Yeah. What's on your mind?" + +He sat down and waved away Stein's wordless offer of a cup. "How would +we like to take a little trip?" + +We. The editorial we. "Why not?" + +"This little trip--how would you like to go back home for awhile?" + +"Home?" I couldn't believe my ears, and I stared at him. + +He'd made a slip, and he was sorry. "I meant, back Stateside." + +I slumped back in my chair. "Then you heard me the first time. What's +the difference?" + +"Quite a bit of difference. No, Stein, you stay here. We're all in +this together." + +"Sure," I said. "Stick around. I'm the last one to find out what's +going on around here." + +He didn't appreciate my sarcasm. "I wouldn't say that, Peter." + +"Forget it. What's the story?" + +"We want you to go back where we can run some tests, this time as +comprehensive as we can arrange." + +I couldn't see why what we'd done wouldn't be enough. "Don't tell me +you have more than the Bomb up your sleeve." + +No, it wasn't like that. "There aren't more than four or six that know +anything but that the Bomb was set off prematurely because of motor +failure on the drone. The general knowledge is that it was just +another test in routine fashion. But, as I said, there are a few that +know the truth. They think it desirable that you be examined +scientifically, and completely." + +"Why?" I felt ornery. + +He knew it, and showed a little impatience. "Use your head, Peter. You +know better than that. We know you're unique. We want to know why, and +perhaps how, perhaps, your ability can be duplicated." + +That appealed to me. "And if you can find out what makes me tick I can +go back to living like myself again?" I took his silence for assent. I +had to. "Good. What do I do, and when?" + +He shrugged. "Nothing, yet. You'll go to ... well, let's call it +college. It shouldn't take too long. A week, maybe, maybe two, or +four, at the most." + +"Then what?" + +He didn't know. We'd talk about that later. Okay with me. If a doctor +could find out how I was whistling chords, all well and good. If +not--could I be any worse off? + +"Then it's settled. We'll leave today, if it can be arranged, and I +feel sure it can. Robert--" to Stein--"if you'll come with me we'll +try to make the necessary arrangements." Stein left, and Smith left, +and I got up and looked into the mirror. I needed a shave again. + + * * * * * + +My college didn't have a laboratory worth counting when I went to +school. We'd had a stadium, and a losing football team instead. Now +the balding, bearded physicists sat in the front row when the +appropriations were spooned out. I suppose that's all for the better. +I really wouldn't know. The old fellow that met us at the front door +looked like an airedale, and like an airedale he sniffed all around me +before getting into combat range. + +"So you're Peter Miller!" + +"That's my name," I admitted. I wondered what all the dials and the +gadgets were for. It looked to me like the front end of one of these +computers I used to see in the magazines. + +"I'm Kellner. You must be Stein, right? Never mind your coats. Just +follow me," and off he trotted, and we trailed him into a bare office +with what looked like the equipment of a spendthrift dentist. + +"You sit here," and he waved at a straightbacked chair. I sat down, +Stein shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and in a moment +Kellner came back with a dozen others. He didn't bother to introduce +any of them. They all stood off and gaped at who'd killed Cock Robin. + +Kellner broke the silence. "Physical first?" There was a general nod. +"Physical, psychological, then--we'll come to that later." To Stein: +"Want to come along? Rather wait here? This is going to take some +time, you know." + +Stein knew that. He also wanted to come along. Those were his orders. + +I felt self-conscious taking off my clothes in front of that ghoulish +crew. The sheet they left me kept off no drafts, and I felt like a +corpse ready for the embalmer, and likely appeared one. Stethoscope, a +scale for my weight, a tape for my arm and the blood pressure, lights +that blinked in my eyes and bells that rang in my ear ... when they +were finished with me I felt like a used Tinker-Toy. + +"Do I pass? Will I live?" + +Kellner didn't like juvenile humor. He turned me over to another +group who, so help me, brought out a box of children's blocks to put +together, timing me with a stopwatch. They used the same stopwatch to +time how long it took me to come up with answers to some of the +silliest questions I ever heard outside of a nursery. Now I know why +they label well the patients in an insane asylum. The man with the +watch galloped off and came back with Kellner and they all stood +around muttering. The sheet and I were sticking to the chair. + +"Kellner. Doctor Kellner!" They didn't like me to break up the +kaffeeklatch. "Can I go now? Are you all through?" + +"All through?" The airedale changed to a cackling Rhode Island Red. +"Joseph, you are just beginning." + +"My name isn't Joseph, Dr. Kellner. It's Miller. Peter Ambrose +Miller." + +"Excuse me, Peter," and he cackled again. "Nevertheless, you're going +to be here quite awhile." + +Peter, hey? No more, Mr. Miller. Pete to my wife, Peter to my mother, +and Peter to every school teacher I ever had. + + * * * * * + +They conferred awhile longer and the party broke up. Kellner and a +gawkish Great Dane led me sheet and all to what I thought would be the +operating room. It looked like one. I found a chair all by myself this +time, and watched them hook up an electric fan. They were hipped on +fans, I thought. + +Kellner trotted over. "Stop that fan." Not, please stop that fan. +Just, stop that fan. + +I shivered ostentatiously. "I'm cold." + +Kellner was annoyed. "Perfectly comfortable in here." Sure, you old +goat, you got your pants on. "Come, let's not delay. Stop the fan." + +I told him I was still cold, and I looked at the fan. It threw sparks, +and the long cord smoked. I was going to fix those boys. + +The other man yanked the cord from the wall, and from the way he +sucked his fingers, it must have been hot. Kellner was pleased at +that. He ignored the man's sore fingers and snarled at him until he +brought out some dry cells and hooked them in series to a large bell, +almost a gong. He pressed the button and it clanged. + +"All right," and Kellner motioned imperiously to me. "No point in +fooling. We know you can make it stop ringing. Now, go ahead and ring +the bell." + +I looked at him. "Make the bell ring what?" + +"What?" He was genuinely puzzled. "What's this?" + +"I said make the bell ring what?" He stared blankly at me. "And you +heard me the first time!" He shot an astonished glance at Stein. "Oh, +hell!" I got up and started out, trailing my sheet. I almost stumbled +over Stein, who was right at my shoulder. + +"Here, what's this?" Kellner was bouncing with excitement. + +I turned on him. "Listen you; I said I was cold. Not once, but twice I +said I was cold. Now, blast it, I want my clothes, and I want them +now. Right now!" The airedale became a fish out of water. "Do I look +like a ten-year-old in to get his tonsils out? I ask you a civil +question and you smirk at me, you tell me to do this and you tell me +to do that and never a please or a thank you or a kiss my foot. Don't +pull that Doctor write the prescription in Latin on me, because I +don't like it! Catch?" Stein was right on my heel when I headed for +the door. + +Poor Stein was wailing aloud. "Pete, you can't do this! Don't you know +who Doctor Kellner is?" + +"One big healthy pain!" I snapped at him. "Does he know who I am? I'm +Pete Miller, Mister Miller to him or to anyone but my friends. I want +my pants!" + +Stein wrung his hands and slowed me down as much as I would let him. +"You just can't get up and walk out like that!" + +"Oh, no?" I came to a full stop and leered at him. "Who's going to +stop me?" + +That's the trouble with the doctors and lawyers and technical boys; +they're so used to talking over people's heads they can't answer a +civil question in less than forty syllables. Keep all the secrets in +the trade. Write it in Latin, keep the patient in the dark, pat his +head and tell him papa knows best. + +When Kellner caught up with us he had help. "Here, here, my man. Where +do you think you are going?" + +I wished he was my age and forty pounds heavier. "Me? I'm getting out +of here. And I'm not your man and I never will be. When you can admit +that, and not act like I'm a set of chalkmarks on a blackboard, send +me a letter and tell me about it. One side, dogface!" + +One big fellow, just the right size, puffed out his cheeks. "Just whom +do you think you are addressing?" + +Whom. I looked him over. I never did like people who wore van Dyke +goatees. I put whom and van Dyke on the floor. It was a good +Donnybrook while it lasted. The last thing I remember was the gong in +the next room clanging steadily while Stein, good old Stein, right in +there beside me was swinging and yelling, "Don't hurt him! Don't hurt +him!" + +I woke up with another headache. When I sat up with a grunt and looked +around I saw Stein and his nose four inches from a mirror, gingerly +trying his tongue against his front teeth. I snickered. He didn't like +that, and turned around. + +"You don't look so hot yourself." + +He was right. I couldn't see much out of my left eye. We grinned at +each other. "Right in there pitching, weren't you?" + +He shrugged. "What did you expect me to do?" + +"Run for help," I told him. "Or stand there and watch me get a going +over." + +"Sure." He looked uncomfortable. "I'm supposed to keep an eye on you." + +"So you did." I thought back. "What happened to Whom when I addressed +him properly?" + +It must have hurt his cheek when he tried to smile. "Still out, at +last report. You know, Pete, you have a fairly good left--and a lousy +temper." + +I knew that. "I just got tired of getting pushed around. Besides, with +no pants I was stuck to that chair." + +"Probably." His tongue pushed gently against his sore lip. "You think +that was the right way to go about making things better?" + +Maybe not. But did he have any better ideas? + +He wasn't sure, but he didn't think a laboratory was just the right +place for a brawl. + +"Just why I started it. Now what?" + +He didn't know that either. "Kellner is having hysterics, and I just +made some phone calls." + +If the Old Man showed up I had some nice words ready to use. "Now we +might get some action." + +Stein gave me a sour look. "Not necessarily the kind you'll like. I'll +be back after I try to talk some sense into Kellner." + +"Hey!" I yelled after him. "Where's my pants?" + +"Back in a few minutes," he tossed over his shoulder; "make yourself +comfortable," and he left. + + * * * * * + +Comfortable with a cot and a mirror and a washbowl. I washed my face +and lay on the cot with a washrag soaked in cold water on my throbbing +eye. I must have dozed off. When I woke the Old Man was standing over +me. I sat up and the rag fell off my eye. + +"What's cooking, Bossman?" + +I don't think his frown was completely genuine. "You, apparently." + +I swung my legs over the edge of the cot and stretched. "Have a seat +and a cigarette." + +He sat down beside me and reached for his lighter. "Peter, I wish--" + +I cut in on him. "Item one, I want my pants." + +He gestured impatiently. "You'll get them. Now--" + +"I said, I want my pants." + +He began to get annoyed. "I told you--" + +"And I told you I want my pants. I don't want them later or in a +while; I want my pants and I want them now." + +He sat back and looked at me. "What's all this?" + +I let fly. "For the record, I want my pants. I'm certainly no patient +in this morgue, and I'm not going to be treated like one, so whatever +you or anyone else has got to say to me is not going to be while I'm +as bare as a baby. My mind's made up," and I scrunched together +ungracefully on the little space that remained on my end of the cot +and pulled the sheet over my head. Kid stuff, and we both knew it. + +He didn't say anything, although I could feel his eyes boring through +the flimsy sheet, and I lay there until I felt the springs creak as he +got up and I could hear his footsteps retreating. When he came back +with my clothes over his arm I was sitting up. While I was dressing he +tried to talk to me, but I would have none of it. + +When I was dressed I said, "Now, you were saying--?" + +I drew a long speculative stare. "Peter, what's eating you?" + +I told him. "I just got tired of being shoved around. With the +physical exam over with you give me one reason why I should sit around +in my bare hide. Am I a machine? My name's Miller, not the Patient in +Cell Two." + +He thought he was being reasonable. "And you think you get results by +knocking around people that are trying to help you?" + +"With some people, you do. I tried talking, and that didn't work. I +got action my way, didn't I?" + +He sighed. "Action, yes. Do you know what Kellner said?" + +"Not interested. Whatever he's got to say to me is going to have a +please in front and a thank you after." + +Wearily, "Peter, must you always act like a child?" + +"No, I don't," I blazed at him. "But I'm damn well going to. I'm free, +white and a citizen, and I'm going to be treated like one, and not a +side-show freak!" + +"Now, now," he soothed. "Doctor Kellner is a very famous and a very +busy man. He might not have realized--" + +"Realize your hat! He's so used to living in the clouds he thinks the +world is one big moron. Well, I may be one, but no one is going to +tell me I am!" + +"I see your point," and he stood up. "But you try to be a little more +cooperative. I'll see Kellner now," and he started out. + +"Cooperative?" I bellowed at his back. "What do you think I've been +doing? What do you--" + + * * * * * + +He must have read the riot act. When they took me in to Kellner and +his crew it was "please, Mr. Miller" and "thank you, Mr. Miller." The +place didn't seem so cold and bare so long as I had my pants. I didn't +see Whom and his van Dyke, but I hoped it was the tile floor and not +me that gave him the concussion. + +The rest of the tests, you can imagine, were almost anticlimactic. I +stopped motors, blew tubes, turned lights off and on, rang bells and +cooked the insulation on yards and yards of wire. My head they kept +connected with taped terminals and every time I blew a fuse or a motor +they would see the dials spin crazily. Then they would stand around +clucking and chattering desperately. They took X-rays by the score, hoping +to find something wrong with the shape of my head, and for all the results +they got, might have been using a Brownie on a cue ball. Then they'd back +off to the corner and sulk. One little bearded rascal, in particular, to +this day is certain that Kellner was risking his life in getting within +ten feet. He never turned his back on me that I recall; he sidled around, +afraid I would set his watch to running backwards. You know, one of the +funniest and yet one of the most pathetic things in the world is the +spectacle of someone who has spent his life in mastering a subject, only +to find that he has built a sled without runners. Long before we were +finished I thought Kellner, for one, was going to eat his tie, stripes and +all. Running around in ever-widening circles they were, like coon dogs +after a scent. They didn't get a smell. The medico who ran the +electro-cardiograph refused to make sense, after the fifth trials, out of +the wiggly marks on his graphs. + +"Kellner," he stated flatly, "I don't know just what your game is, but +these readings are not true." + +Kellner didn't like that. Nor did he like the man who wanted to shave +my head. I wouldn't let them do that. I look bad enough now. I +compromised by letting them soak my head in what smelled like water, +and then tying or pasting strands of tape all over my scalp. A pretty +mess I was, as bad as a woman getting a permanent wave. Worse. One +whole day I stood for that. This specialist, whatever he did, had +Kellner get me to run through my repertoire of bells and fans and +buzzers while he peered nearsightedly at his elaborate tool shop. When +the fuse would blow or the bell would ring, the specialist would wince +as though he were pinched. Kellner stood over his shoulder saying at +intervals, "What do you get? What do you get?" Kellner finally got it. +The specialist stood up, swore in Platt-deutsch, some at Kellner and +some at me and some at his machine, and left in all directions. The +gist of it was that he was too important and too busy to have jokes +played on him. Kellner just wagged his head and walked out. + +The Old Man said, "You're not one bit different from anyone else." + +"Sure," I said. "I could have told you that long ago. It shouldn't +take a doctor." + +"Miller, what in blazes are we going to do with you?" + +I didn't know. I'd done my share. "Where do we go from here?" + +The Old Man looked out the window. The sun was going down. "Someone +wants to see you. He's been waiting for Kellner to finish with you. We +leave tonight." + +"For where?" I didn't like this running around. "Who's 'he'?" + +"For Washington. You'll see who it is." + +Washington, more than just a sleeper jump away. Washington? Oh, oh.... +Well, let's get it over with. We did. We left for the capital that +night. + +We slipped in the back door, or what passed for the back door. Pretty +elaborate layout, the White House. Our footsteps rang as hollow as my +heart on the shiny waxed floors. + +The Old Man did the honors. "Mr. President, this is Mr. Miller." + +He shook hands. He had a good grip. + +"General Hayes, you know. Admiral Lacey, Admiral Jessop, Mr. Hoover +you know, General Buckley. Gentlemen. Mr. Miller." + +We shook hands all around. "Glad to know you." My palms were slippery. + +The President sat, and we followed suit. The guest of honor, I felt +like my head was shaved, and I had a slit pants leg. You don't meet +the President every day. + +The President broke the ice. It was thin to begin with. "You have +within yourself the ability, the power, to do a great deal for your +country, Mr. Miller, or would you prefer to be called Pete?" + +Pete was all right. He was older, and bigger. Bigger all around. + +"A great deal of good, or a great deal of harm." + +No harm. I'm a good citizen. + +"I'm sure of that. But you can understand what I mean, by harm." + +Likely I could, if I really wanted to. But I didn't. Not the place +where you were born. + +"Naturally, Pete, it makes me feel a great deal better, however, to +hear you say and phrase it just like that." The light of the lamp +glittered on his glasses. "Very, very much better, Pete." + +I was glad it was dark beyond the range of the lamp. My face was red. +"Thank you, Mr. President." + +"I like it better, Pete, because from this day on, Pete, you and I and +all of us know that you, and you alone, are going to have a mighty +hard row to hoe." That's right; he was a farmer once. "Hard in this +respect--you understand, I know, that for the rest of your natural +life you must and shall be guarded with all the alert fervor that +national security demands. Does that sound too much like a jail +sentence?" + +It did, but I lied. I said, "Not exactly, Mr. President. Whatever you +say is all right with me." + +He smiled. "Thank you, Pete.... Guarded as well and as closely as--the +question is, where?" + + * * * * * + +I didn't know I'd had a choice. The Old Man had talked to me before on +that. + +"Not exactly, Pete. This is what I mean: General Buckley and General +Hayes feel that you will be safest on the mainland somewhere in the +Continental United States. Admirals Lacey and Jessop, on the other +hand, feel that the everpresent risk of espionage can be controlled +only by isolation, perhaps on some island where the personnel can be +exclusively either military or naval." + +I grinned inwardly. I knew this was going to happen. + +"Mr. Hoover concedes that both possible places have inherent +advantages and disadvantages," the President went on. "He feels, +however, that protection should be provided by a staff specially +trained in law-enforcement and counter-espionage." + +So where did that leave me? I didn't say it quite that way, but I put +across the idea. + +The President frowned a bit at nothing. "I'm informed you haven't been +too ... comfortable." + +I gulped. Might as well be hung for a sheep. If the Boss likes you, +the Help must. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but it isn't much fun being +shifted around pillar and post." + +He nodded slowly. "Quite understandable, under the circumstances. +That, we'll try to eliminate as much as we can. You can see, Pete," +and he flashed that famous wide grin, "it will be in the national +interest to see that you are always in the finest physical and mental +condition. Crudely expressed, perhaps, but the truth, nevertheless." + +I like people to tell me the truth. He could see that. He's like that, +himself. On his job, you have to be like that. + +"Now, Pete; let's get down to cases. Have you any ideas, any +preferences, any suggestions?" He took a gold pencil out of his breast +pocket and it began to twirl. + +I had an idea, all right. "Why not just let me go back home? I'll keep +my mouth shut, I won't blow any fuses or raise any hell, if you'll +excuse the expression." + +Someone coughed. The President turned his head out of the circle of +light. "Yes, Mr. Hoover?" + +J. Edgar Hoover was diffident. "Er ... Mrs. Miller has been informed +of her husband's ... demise. An honorable one," he hastened to add, +"and is receiving a comfortable pension, paid from the Bureau's +special funds." + +"How much?" I wanted to know. + +He shifted uncomfortably. "Well ... a hundred a month." + +I looked at the President. "Bought any butter lately?" + +The President strangled a cough. "Have you, Mr. Hoover, bought any +butter lately?" + +J. Edgar Hoover couldn't say anything. It wasn't his fault. + +I flicked a glance at General Hayes. "How much does it cost the Army +for an antiaircraft gun?" I looked at one of the admirals. "And how +much goes down the drain when you launch a battleship? Or even a PT +boat?" + +The President took over. "Rest assured, Mr. Miller. Your wife's +pension is quadrupled, effective immediately." He swung his chair to +face Hoover; "Cash will be transferred tomorrow to the Bureau from the +State Department's special fund. You'll see to that?" to the Old Man. +So that was what he did for a living. That State Department is a good +lifetime job, I understand. + + * * * * * + +That took a load from my mind, but not all. I spoke to Hoover +directly. + +"How is my ... widow?" + +As tense and as bad as I felt just then, I was sorry for him. + +"Quite well, Mr. Miller. Quite well, considering. It came as a blow to +her, naturally--" + +"What about the house?" I asked him. "Is she keeping up the payments?" + +He had to admit that he didn't know. The President told him to finish +the payments, pay for the house. Over and above the pension? Over and +above the pension. And I was to get a regular monthly report on how +she was getting along. + +"Excuse me, Mr. President. I'd rather not get a regular monthly +report, or any word at all, unless she--unless anything happens to +her." + +"No report at all, Pete?" That surprised, him, and he eyed me over the +top of his bifocals. + +"She's still young, Mr. President," I said, "and she's just as pretty +as the day we got married. I don't think I'd want to know if ... she +got married again." + +The quiet was thick enough to slice. If they talked about Helen any +more I was going to throw something. The President saw how I felt. + +"Now, Mr. Miller--Pete. Let's get back to business. You were +saying--?" + +Yes, I had an idea. "Put me on an island somewhere, the further away +the better. I wouldn't like being around things without being able to +be in the middle. Better put me where I can't weaken, where I can't +sneak out a window or swim back." Everyone was listening. "Keep the +uniforms away from me, out of sight." The Brass didn't like that, but +they heard me out. "Feed me a case of beer once in a while and a few +magazines and some books and right boys to play euchre. I guess that's +all I want." + +The gold pencil turned over and over. "That isn't very much, Pete." + +"That's all. If I'm going to do the Army's and the Navy's work they +can leave me alone till they need me. If I can't live my life the way +I want, it makes no difference what I do. My own fault is that all my +family lived to be eighty, and so will I. Is that what you wanted to +know?" + +The gold pencil rolled off the table. "Yes, yes, Pete. That's what I +wanted to know." + +I tried once more. "There isn't any way I can just go home?" + +A slow shake of his head, and finality was in his voice. "I'm afraid +there isn't any way." And that was that. + +The President stood up in dismissal, and we all rose nervously. He +held out his hand. "Sorry, Pete. Perhaps some day...." + +I shook his hand limply and the Old Man was at my elbow to steer me +out. Together we paced back through the dark hall, together we stepped +quietly out into the black Washington night. Our footsteps echoed +softly past the buildings of the past and the future. The car was +waiting; Stein, the driver. The heavy door slammed, and the tires +hissed me from the pavement. + +The Old Man's voice was gentle. "You behaved well, Peter." + +"Yeh." + +"I was afraid, for a moment, that you were going to kick over the +traces. The President is a very important man." + +"Yeh." + +"You are, too. Right now, probably the most important man in the +world. You took it very well." + +"Yeh." + +"Is that all you have to say?" + +I looked out the window. "Yeh," and he fell quiet. + +Stein got us to the airport, and there was waiting an Army ship for +the three of us. I might have been able to see the Monument or the +Capitol when we were airborne. I don't know. I didn't look. + +Later I asked Stein where we were going. He didn't know. I prodded the +Old Man out of a doze. I wished I could sleep. + +He hesitated. Then, "West. Far west." + +"West." I thought that over. "How much out of your way would it be to +fly over Detroit?" + +"You couldn't see much." + +I knew that. "How much out of your way?" + +Not too much. He nodded to Stein, who got up and went forward. After +he came back and sat down the plane slipped on one wing and +straightened on its new course. No one said anything more after that. + +We hit Detroit about five thousand feet, the sun just coming up from +Lake Ste. Clair. Smith was right. Although I craned my neck I couldn't +see much. I picked up Gratiot, using the Penobscot Tower for a +landmark, and followed it to Mack, and out Mack. I could just pick +out the dogleg at Connors, and imagined I could see the traffic light +at Chalmers. I had to imagine hard. The way we were flying, the body +and the wing hid where I'd lived, where--the cigarette I had in my +fist tasted dry, and so did my mouth, so I threw it down and closed my +eyes and tried to sleep. Somewhere around Nebraska we landed for fuel. + + * * * * * + +Maybe it was Kansas. It was flat, and hot, and dry. The Old Man and +Stein and I got out to stretch. There was no shade, no trees, no green +oasis for the traveler. The olive drab tanker that pulled up to pump +gas into our wing tanks was plastered with "No Smoking" tabs, and we +walked away before the hose was fully unreeled. Off to our right was +the only shade, back of the landing strip, a great gray hangar glutted +with shiny-nosed, finny monsters. Out of the acrid half-pleasant reek +of high-octane, we stood smoking idly, watching the denimed air-crews +clamber flylike over the jutting wings. From the post buildings off to +the right jounced a dusty motorcycle. We watched it twist to a jerking +stop at our refueling ship, and the soldier that dismounted bobbed in +salute to the two pilots watching the gassing operation. Two motions +only they used; one to return the salute and another to point us out +in the shadow of the hangar. The soldier shaded his eyes from the sun +to peer in our direction, calculated the distance with his eye, and +then roared his motorcycle almost to our feet. + +"Post Commander's compliments," he barked. "And will the gentlemen +please report at once to the Colonel's office?" + +The Old Man eyed the motorcycle and the empty sidecar. He looked at +Stein. + +"Better stay here," he said thoughtfully. "If I need you, I'll come +back." He climbed awkwardly into the sidecar, and the soldier, after a +hesitant acceptance, kicked the starter. The Old Man gripped the sides +firmly as they bounced away in the baking breeze, and Stein looked +absently at his watch. It was close to noon. + +At twelve-thirty the gas truck rolled ponderously back to its den. At +one, our two pilots struck out across the strip for the post +buildings, shimmering in the heat. At one-thirty, I turned to Stein, +who had been biting his nails for an hour. + +"Enough is enough," I said. "Who finds out what--you or I?" + +He hesitated, and strained his eyes. The Old Man, nor anyone, was not +in sight. The post might have been alone in the Sahara. He chewed his +lip. + +"Me, I guess." He knew better than to argue with me, in my mood. "I'll +be back. Ten minutes," and he started for the post. He got no further +than half the distance when an olive sedan, a big one, raced toward +us. It stopped for Stein, sucked him into the front seat, whirled back +past me to our plane standing patiently, and dumped out our two +pilots. A final abrupt bounding spin brought it to the hangar. The Old +Man leaned out of the back door. + +"In, quick," he snapped. + +I got in, and the soldier driver still had the sedan in second gear +when we got to our ship. One motor was already coughing, and as we +clambered into the cabin the starter caught the second. Both +propellers vanished into a silvered arc, and without a preparatory +warmup we slewed around and slammed back in the bucket seats in a +pounding takeoff. Stein went forward to the pilot's cabin, and I +turned, half-angrily, to the Smith. His face was etched with +bitterness. Something was wrong, something seriously wrong. + +"What's up?" I asked. "What's the big hurry?" + +He flicked a sidelong glance at me, and his brows almost met. He +looked mad, raving mad. + +"Well?" I said. "Cat got your tongue?" I noticed then that he was +fraying and twisting a newspaper. I hadn't seen a newspaper for what +seemed years. Stein came back and sat on the edge of the seat. What in +blazes was the matter? + +Smith said something unprintable. That didn't sound right, coming from +that refined face. I raised my eyebrows. + +"Leak," he ended succinctly. "There's been a leak. The word's out!" + +That was a surprise. A big one. + +"And it's thanks to you!" + +"Me?" + +He flipped the newspaper at me. I caught it in midair, and there it +was, smeared all over the face of the Kansas City _Sentinel_. Great, +black, tall shrieking streamer heads: + +AMERICA HAS ATOMIC DEFENSE! + +I scanned the two columns of stumbling enthusiastic prose that trailed +over on to Page Two. Stein came over and leaned over my shoulder and +breathed on my ear as we read. He hadn't seen the sheet, either. It +ran something like this: + + America, it was learned today, has at last an absolute + defense, not only to the atomic bomb, but to every gun, + every airplane, every engine, every weapon capable of being + used by man. Neither admitted nor denied at this early date + by even the highest government officials, it was learned by + our staff late last night that America's latest step + forward.... + +Column after column of stuff like that. When the reporter got through +burbling, he did have a few facts that were accurate. He did say it +was my doing that set off the last atomic bomb test; he did say that I +was apparently invulnerable to violence powered by electrical or +internal combustion engines; he did say what I could do, and what I +had done, and how often. He didn't say who I was, or what I looked +like, or where I'd come from, or what I did or didn't know. + +Sprinkled through the story--and I followed it back to Page 32 and the +pictures rehashed of the traffic jam in Detroit--were references to T. +Sylvester Colquhoun, the boy who dumped the original plate of beans. +He attested this and swore to that. Whoever he was, wherever he got +his information, he--there was his picture on Page 32, big as life and +twice as obnoxious; Mr. Whom and the van Dyke. + +Guiltily I handed the paper over to Stein, who turned back to the +front page and started again from the beginning. I tried to carry +things off in the nonchalant manner, but I couldn't. I had to watch +the Old Man light a cigarette with fumbling fingers, take a few +snorting puffs, and crush it viciously under his heel. Miller and his +temper. + +Whom--or T. Sylvester Colquhoun--had, quite obviously, a grudge +against the short left that had given him his concussion. According to +the _Sentinel_, he had babbled a bit when he was released from the +hospital, and an alert newshawk had trailed him to his home and +bluffed him into spilling the whole story. He had sense enough, at +that late stage of the game, to keep my name out of it, if he ever +knew it. The reporter had gone to his editor with the story, who had +laughed incredulously at first, and then checked Kellner at the +laboratory. Kellner had clammed up, and when the now suspicious editor +had tried to check Colquhoun's tale personally, Colquhoun had +vanished. A snooping neighbor had noted the license of the car that +had taken him away. The Highway Department--the editor must have +moved fast and decisively--showed the license plate as issued to a man +the editor knew personally as a special agent of the Kansas City +Branch of the FBI. + +Then hell began to pop. Repeated long-distance calls to Washington ran +him up against a stone wall. The answers he got convinced him that +there was something to Colquhoun's wild tale, something weird and yet +something that had a germ of truth. (Half of this, understand, was in +the _Sentinel_. The other half I picked up later on, adding two and +two.) As he was sitting mulling things over it was his turn to get a +call from Washington. The State Department was on the line; Morgan, +the Under Secretary. + +Morgan fairly yelled at him. "Where did you get that information? +What's the idea?" and so on. That clinched it for the editor. Then it +was he knew. + +Morgan made his mistake there. He began to threaten, and the editor +hit the ceiling. Hit it hard, because he stretched things a little. He +stretched it more than just a little. + +He said, "Furthermore, that's on the street right now--this is a +newspaper, not a morgue!" + +It wasn't on the street, the editor knew. Perhaps he wanted to throw a +scare into Morgan, perhaps--But Morgan! + +Morgan gasped, "Oh, my God!" and hung up with a bang. + +The editor flipped a mental coin. His circulation was not what it +should be, the boss had been riding him lately, his job might be where +a beat would tilt the balance up or down. The national safety that +Morgan had shouted about--well, if we had the perfect weapon and the +perfect defense, what was there to fear? And this _was_ a newspaper, +not a morgue! They replated, and the first extras hit the street to +wake up half the city. The wire services had the story and extras were +rolling throughout the country, or the world, about the time I was +watching the sun over Lake Ste. Clair. + +Neither the State Department nor the FBI were on their toes that day. +Instead of denying everything, or instead of laughing heartily at the +pipedream of an editor trying to sell an extra edition or two, whoever +was pulling the strings behind the scenes demanded flatly that all +wire services kill and disregard all references to Colquhoun. No one +ever made a newspaperman do what he really didn't want to do. The very +fact that the government was so eager to kill the story made every +newsman worthy of his salt all the more eager to break the paper-thin +shell around the meaty yolk. By noon, the time we landed for fuel, +every Washington correspondent for every news service had a little +different story for his boss, the White House was practically besieged +at the mere rumor that the President was to issue a statement, and the +State Department was going quietly mad. + +"Not so quietly, at that," the Old Man said sourly. "One hour straight +I stayed on that telephone. One hour straight I talked to one bunch of +raving maniacs, and all the common sense I heard would go into your +left eye." + +By that time his temper had cooled below melting, and we were again on +reasonably good terms. I was curious to know just who the Old Man had +talked to. + +He grunted. "Just about everyone in Washington with any authority at +all. No one with any intelligence." + +I could appreciate that. I have a very low opinion of anyone who stays +in Washington any longer than necessary. + +I asked him, "We're apparently heading back there. Why? Where were we +going when they stopped us?" + +He wasn't sure. "I wanted to keep on going," he said, "and get you out +of the country. I still think that would have been best. There was to +be a cruiser waiting at Bremerton for a shakedown cruise. But whoever +is running all this--and I don't think that the President has thought +too much about it--wants us to get back to Washington for another +conference." + + * * * * * + +"Another meeting?" I was disgusted. Washington political rashes +manifest themselves most often by the consistent eruption of +conferences in which nothing is said, nothing decided, nothing done. +"What does who think what?" + +He blinked, and then smiled. "I couldn't say. I've been in this game +only twenty years. At any rate, you can see who's worried." + +I didn't see, exactly. + +"No?" He was amused. "Don't you remember the discussion we had about +who was going to watch the watchers? Now that there's been a leak, the +Army is going to blame the Navy, the Navy is going to blame the FBI, +and I take punishment from all three." He sighed. "My department +seems, invariably, to be in the middle." + +I let it go at that. I didn't have the heart to remind him that a good +portion of the trouble and friction this country has had in its +history has been because the State Department has been sitting on the +water bucket when it should have been playing deep centerfield. No use +worrying about things until the fuse is burnt half its length, I +thought. That might be, for me and all of us, a good policy to adopt, +for the time being. Let the boys at the top fret and worry; let them +wrack their brains and beat their heads against the wall. I'd do what +they told me, if I could. The man that pays the salary worries about +the unemployment tax. + +"Stein," I said, "are there any more of those sandwiches?" + +The Old Man settled back in his seat and began to read the Kansas City +_Sentinel_ all over again. He was still worried when we landed in +Washington. + +He left in a waiting black sedan, and Stein and I stayed in the ship +until it was yanked into a dark hangar by a tiny tractor with great +rubber tires. We slid out the back of the hangar when the wary Stein +thought it was safe, and a taxi rolled us to the Mayflower. There we +registered, I was told, as James Robertson and William Wakefield, +Wisconsin Dells. + +"Milwaukee," I suggested, "has better beer." + +He took the hint, and when the waiter brought our late dinner, the ice +bucket had eight frosty bottles. They practically sizzled when they +went down. Bob Stein, at times, had some earmarks of genius, even if +you had to lay them bare with an axe. + +The first day wasn't bad; we sat around, drank beer and ate huge thick +sirloins on the swindle sheet, and told all the stories we knew. The +radio was blurting either soap operas, hill-billy music, or +lentil-mouthed commentators. The story broken in the _Sentinel_ was +gathering momentum, by what we read and heard, and that was too close +to home. So we made a pact to turn off the radio and keep it that way. +We never missed it. + +The second day the beer tasted as good as ever. The steaks were just +as thick and just as tender, the hotel service just as unobtrusive. +Stein was just as cheerful and as pleasant company. But I spent a lot +of time looking out the window. + +"You know, Bob," I said thoughtfully, "how would you like a big plate +of spaghetti? Or ravioli? Maybe some pizza?" + +He came out of the bathroom wiping his face with a towel, his hair wet +and frizzled. + +[Illustration] + +"Am I going to have trouble with you?" He was pessimistic. "Aren't +you ever satisfied?" + +I turned away from the window and let the curtain flap in the breeze. +"Who wants to be satisfied? How about some sub-gum war mein, or +chicken cacciatora?" + +He tossed the towel back through the open door. "Now, look here," he +protested. + +I laughed at him. "Okay, but you get the point." + +He did, but he didn't know what he could do about it. "We were +supposed to wait here until--" + +That one I'd heard before. "Until the hotel freezes over, sure. But I +don't want to freeze. Do you?" + +No, nor to rust. You could see that he liked his job of body-guard and +factotum, and yet.... + +I pushed him over the edge. "Tell you what to do," I said. "You call +up and say that I'm getting restless. Say that you're afraid I'll ease +out of here when your back is turned. Say anything you like, as long +as you lay it on thick, and I'll back you up. Okay?" + +He weighed it awhile. He liked inaction, no matter how sybaritic as +much as I. Then, "Okay," and he reached for the telephone. + +The number he gave answered the first ring. + +"I'm calling for Mr. Robertson," he said. "This is Mr. William +Wakefield. W. W. Wakefield." He paused. Then, "Ordinarily, I wouldn't, +but Mr. Robertson felt that I should get in touch with you at once." + +The other end squawked, nervously, I thought. + +Stein thought so, too. "That's quite possible. However, Mr. Robertson +feels that his time here in Washington is valuable. So valuable that +he thinks that his business is soon going to call him back to +Wisconsin Dells, if the merger referred to is delayed any longer. I +beg your pardon?" + + * * * * * + +He twisted to throw me a wink over his shoulder as the telephone +chattered frantically. + +"That's exactly what I told Mr. Robertson.... Yes, he knows of +that.... Yes, I have assured him that, in these days of business +uncertainty and production difficulties, mergers are not as easily +arranged as--" That Stein had a sense of humor when he wanted to use +it. + +"Is that right? I'm glad to hear it. One moment, while I check with +Mr. Robertson." He held his hand over the mouthpiece and grinned at +me. "They are ready to have a stroke. This man I'm talking to has no +more authority than a jackrabbit, and he knows it. He wants to check +with his boss, and call us back later. All right with you, Mr. +Robertson?" + +I laughed out loud, and he clamped the mouthpiece tighter. "I think +so, Mr. W. W. Wakefield. As long as he puts the heat on that merger." + +He went back on the telephone. "Mr. Robertson thinks he might be able +to wait a trifle longer. He asked me to warn you, that as he is a very +busy man, every minute of his time can cost a considerable amount of +money and goods.... Yes, I'll tell him that.... I'll be waiting for +your call.... Yes, I will. Thank you, and good-bye." He hung up the +telephone with a flourish. + +"Satisfied, Mr. Robertson?" + +I was satisfied. "Quite, Mr. W. W. Wakefield. Wouldst care for ein +bier?" + +Ein bier haben. He would. + +The telephone rang about an hour later, and I answered it. It was the +Old Man's voice. + +"Mr. Robertson?" he said cautiously. + +"Mr. Robertson speaking," I said. "Yes?" + +"I'm calling," he told me in a voice that said he was annoyed, but +didn't want to show it, "in reference to the Wisconsin Dells merger." + +"Yes?" I gave him no help. + +"You understand, Mr. Robertson, that such an important merger can +hardly be arranged at a moment's notice." + +Yes, I understood that. "But two days notice is more than sufficient, +even allowing for an enormous amount of red tape." I put real regret +into my voice. "It is not that I wouldn't like to let nature take its +course, but other things must be taken into consideration." I hoped I +sounded like the busy executive. "I believe that Mr. Wakefield, Mr. W. +W. Wakefield, has explained that I am a very busy man, and that I can +hardly be expected to wait indefinitely in even such a pleasant +atmosphere." + +The Old Man forced a cheery--and false--heartiness. "There are, or +there might be, Mr. Robertson, other things that might induce you to +stay. Many other things." + +Threaten me, would he? "That, I doubt very much. I'm afraid I must +insist--it's now two-twenty. If a merger, or at least a meeting cannot +be arranged by tomorrow at the very latest, the reason for having a +meeting will, for all practical purposes, have ceased to exist. Do I +make myself clear?" + +I certainly did. With a short-tempered bang, Smith hung up, after +saying that he would call back later. I relayed the conversation to +Bob Stein, and we sent down for lunch. + +The Old Man called back about seven, when I was washing up, and Bob +answered the telephone. By the time I came out he had all the +information we needed, and was calling room service to clear the +dishes. + +"Meeting tonight," he said when he was finished. He was pleased with +himself. + +"Good." It was getting a little tiresome being cramped up. "When? +Where?" + +He shrugged. "Where? I couldn't say. Someone will call for us, +somewhere between nine and ten. And," he added slowly, "it might be a +good idea to wear the best bib and tucker, with Sunday School +manners." + +"Oh?" I said, "that kind of a party? Fine. I'm all ready now. Better +get your hat." + +At ten-thirty, the telephone rang. I answered it. + +"This is the desk," it said. "Mr. Wakefield?" + +"He's here," I said. "Wait a minute," and I passed the phone to Stein. + +"Wakefield," he said. "Yes?" + +The receiver chattered briefly. + +"All right," and he waved at me. "Be right down." He turned. "Car +waiting." It didn't take us long to get downstairs. + +It was a sedan with a neat little drive-yourself tab on the right-hand +door. Before we got near the car, Stein was careful to see who was the +driver. He evidently was someone he knew, so Bob nodded curtly, and we +got in and pulled away from the curb. + + * * * * * + +I don't know Washington at all, so I can't say where we made port. Not +too far a drive, I imagine, if we had gone there directly. It was a +good forty-five minutes before we ended our erratic turning of corners +and sped up a long tree-bordered driveway. + +"Nice place," I said to Stein as we braked to a stop in front of a +long white-columned Southern portico. "Who lives here?" + +He smiled and shook his head. "That's something I don't know. Does it +matter?" + +It didn't. + +As we strode up the steps the Drive-Yourself pulled away, tires +crackling on the white gravel. We both reached for the knocker at the +same time, but before we had it, the door swung open. Stein recognized +the young fellow who opened it and took our hats. A message passed +between their eyes, and the young man almost imperceptibly shook his +head in negation. + +"Will you come this way, please?" and he led us down the hall. + +The house was smaller than the outside had led me to expect. The +builder had gone whole hog on the giant Greek columns and the wide +sweep of the porch, and the inside of the house showed the results of +the skimping. Not that it wasn't a far bigger and a far more expensive +house than any average man would hope to have, but the limited space +inside didn't go with those sweeping curves of the drive. I wondered +who lived there. + +The room where the doorman left us went with the inside of the house. +So small it reminded me of the times when I tried to sell brushes +during the depression, in Grosse Pointe, I expected every moment to +have an underpaid maid, laundress, and butler come in to tell me that +the lady of the house was out. In keeping with the faded appointments +of the tiny room, a Chinese table held, for those who wait and read, +an ancient collection of "Spur" and "Town and Country." As we sat and +smoked, far off through the thin walls we could hear the soft rumble +of voices. Occasionally a bass would rise above the sound, and a +baritone would slide softly and soothingly across the pained roar. The +front door opened and closed twice during the fifteen minutes or so we +waited, and the footsteps that came in went past our room and pattered +further down the hall. Each time, when the steps were out of reach of +hearing, another door would open, and the distant voices would become +almost distinguishable until the door again was shut. I looked +curiously around the walls. Decorated with prints and pictures they +were, yes, but with that faded permanency that to me spells the +furnished house. The rugs were worn, worn to the shredding point, worn +until the spurious Oriental design seemed an eerie Dali drawing. All +it needed was the faroff smell of secondhand ham and cabbage. + +The doorman slipped in and beckoned to us, a grim conspirator if ever +I saw one. We followed him back to the entrance hall, back, back, to +where the voices grew louder at every step. A double door--golden oak, +or I don't know wood--barred the end of the hall, and the young fellow +preceded us to throw it open with a semi-flourish. We walked in. + +The place was blue with smoke. That was the first thing we saw. Lights +there were in plenty, hanging around, hanging over the great oval +table in the center of the room in a fiery glitter of glassy +brilliants. The room was enormous, and I began to realize why this +house was still in existence. Who cares about rugs if there is just +one single room in the house where a ball or a party could be +comfortably accommodated. Or a conference. I didn't know whose name +appeared on the tax bills, but I would bet that it would be any other +name besides the United States Government. + +No group of men or women could produce that much smoke in a short +time. That meeting had been going on for hours. As we stepped in +through the double doors I tried to pick out anyone I knew, but the +glare flickered in my eyes and I saw no face as more than just a pale +blur against a background of tenuous blue. Tentatively I got inside +the doors and they shut behind me with an abrupt finality. Two steps +forward, three, four, five, and Stein drifted away from my side, away +from the eyes that grew in size as I got closer to the table rim, +toward the vacant chairs I saw slightly pulled away and ready for +occupants. I stumbled over nothing and a reassuring hand touched mine. +I felt callow, self-conscious, awkward. I never thought I'd be so glad +to see Old Man Smith. + +He stood alongside me as I sank gratefully into my ready chair. +"Gentlemen," he announced quietly, "Mr. Peter A. Miller." + +I half-bowed automatically, the proper thing to do, and the Old Man +gave me his moral support by sitting next to me. He leaned over to +say, "I won't introduce you formally. Point out who you want to know +and I'll tell you who he is." + +"Okay," I muttered, and felt in my pockets for cigarettes. I had to do +something with my hands. I blew a cloud into the air and felt better. +Settled back into the chair, I sent my glance around the table. Did I +know anyone there? + + * * * * * + +At my right, the Old Man. His suit was wrinkled and his eyes were +red-rimmed and tired. The large paper pad in front of him was covered +with crisscross lines. On his right, a quite old man, bald and +beetle-browed. His collar was open and wrinkled, his vest twisted +under the lapel of his coat. I leaned toward Smith, and indicated his +companion with my eyes. + +"Morgan, Undersecretary of State," he said softly. + +Morgan heard his name spoken, and shot a questioning glance my way. He +realized what had been said and the beetlebrows slid upwards in a +movement meant to be conciliatory. He bobbed his head with a cursory +jerk and went back to staring across the table. I followed his glance. + +The object of his affections seemed to be--yes, it was. Five-Star +General Oliver P. Legree, not so affectionately called Simon by the +men who served under him. I had been one of them. Trim and rigid and +oh, so military he was, the very figure of a modern five-star general. +His poker-stiff back thrust the tiers of ribbons to a sparkling +glitter under the tinkling glare of the massive chandelier overhead. +His face--well, it's been in enough rotogravures worldwide. The cigar +was there, the big black cigar he never lit and never lost. His +trademark was that cigar; his trademark was that and his jutting jaw +that to everyone but his compatriots spelled determination and grit. +To his staff and his men--me--it meant an ill-fitting lower plate. + +That prognathous jaw was tilted, aimed at Morgan, and Morgan knew it. +What had gone on just before I had come in? Just as I started to turn +my glance away, the General threw his famous scowl directly at me. For +one long second our eyes clung, almost glared. Then, without a sign of +emotion or recognition he went back to staring at the Undersecretary +with an intensity almost violent. Shaken back into self-consciousness +by that grim stare I tried to fit together some of the other faces +about the table. + +Admiral Mason-Nason-Lacey--Admiral Lacey. I'd met him just a few days +before, in that ill-fated conference in the White House. What was the +other name? Jessop. He was there, too, alongside Lacey. But where was +the Army, outside of Simon Legree? That was like Simon, at that. Let +the Navy stick together; Legree was the _General_, and as such was +himself the Army. + +Who were the others? I knew none of them, certainly, although some +trick of memory made me sure that I had seen or heard of them before. +Like faces in an old school album they presented themselves to me, and +for a long fraction of a minute I delved deep, trying to recall. A +voice, that deep barking bass I had heard while waiting, boomed across +the table. + +"Mr. Morgan!" and the table seemed to quiver. "Mr. Morgan!" and the +tenseness seemed to flow back into that huge room like a warm current. +The Old Man leaned over and answered my unspoken question. + +"Senator Suggs, Foreign Affairs Chairman." + +I eyed the redoubtable senator. Short, swarthy skin that belied all +his ranted racial theories, hair that straggled by intent over his +weak green eyes, and a chin that retreated and quivered and joggled in +time with his twitching adolescent eyebrows. Six solid terms in the +Senate; six solid terms of appealing to the highest in theory and the +lowest in fact; six terms of seniority for the chairmanship of +committees far too important for a bigot; six terms of Suggs, Suggs, +Suggs. The bass rumbled on. + +"We're no further ahead, Morgan, than we were two hours ago. This, +definitely cannot go on, if it has to be taken to the people +themselves." + +Morgan pondered well before he answered, and the room stilled. + +"Senator," he said at last; "this is right now in the hands of the +people, if you consider that you are one of the elected +representatives, and the rest of us are chosen, with one exception, by +those same elected representatives. The exception, naturally, is Mr. +Miller." + +Five Star Simon snorted. His nasal voice carried well. "People?" and +that brittle snap was only too familiar to me. "What have the people +to do with it? This is no time for anything but a decision, and a +quick one!" + +Morgan agreed with that. "Correct, General. The question, I believe, +is not that a decision be made, but the wording and definition of that +decision." + +"Bah!" and the cigar jumped to the other side. "Words! Definitions! +Decisions! Words, words, words! Let's decide what's to be done and do +it!" + +The Undersecretary coughed gently behind his palm. "Unfortunately, +General Legree, for the sake of speedy action, and as unfortunately +for the sake of all concerned, words mean one thing to one man, and +another thing to a second." + + * * * * * + +A fine party this turned out to be. In the dark as to what happened +before I came in, and equally at sea as to what was going on, I leaned +toward the Old Man. + +"What's this?" I whispered. + +He shot a quick retort. "Keep your mouth shut for the time being." He +paused, and then bent in my direction. "You'll get your chance to +talk." He grasped my extended arm tightly. "I'll nudge you when the +time comes. Then talk, and _talk_! You know what I mean?" + +Did I? I didn't know. He saw my indecision and motioned for quiet. +Evidently he was expecting me to catch the trend if I waited long +enough. I waited, and I watched, and I listened. + +Simon had been right about one thing. Words, words, words. But I began +to get some of the drift. They'd already settled the part of the +problem I thought was supposed to be bothering them. They'd decided +that since the news on me was out, the facts had to be faced--the way +they understand facing them. + +I should have been reading the papers or listening to the radio. It +must have been something to hear when the news that I was a new secret +weapon to end them all was confirmed; but they'd confused the issue by +indicating that I was just one of the men with the new power, and that +the country was now practically blanketed with it. + +It was fine for them. It meant that the people were happy, and that +Army, Navy and all the other departments were being openly and +publicly adulated for the fine thing they had done for everyone. + +The Undersecretary made an answer to one of Simon's remarks. I hadn't +been listening for a few seconds while the scheme sank in, but this +registered. + +"You're right, of course, General. Certain foreign information bureaus +won't be deceived by the confusion we've created. And that still +leaves us with the unfortunate need for speedy action on the case of +Mr. Miller." + +Suggs rolled his bass across the room. It was the only characteristic +he had favorable to eye or ear. + +"Unfortunate, Mr. Undersecretary? Unfortunate is hardly the word to +describe an event so favorable for the fortunes for all." + +Favorable. Me? Was I good or bad? I came in just in the middle of the +picture. Keep your ears and your eyes and your ears open, Miller, and +catch up on the feature attraction. + +Suggs licked his razor-sharp lips and hooked his fingers in his +stained vest. + +"'Unfortunate,' Mr. Undersecretary? Hardly!" He loved to hear his own +voice. "This country, these great United States, these states have +never in their existence been in such a favorable position as +today...." + +I would rather have read the Congressional Record. That, at least, I +could have discarded when I became bored. + +"No, never in such a favorable position; diplomatically, +economically...." + +The Undersecretary coughed politely. It's nice to be tactful and know +how to break in. + +"To use your own words, Senator. 'Hardly!' Diplomatically we are at +the brink of one of the worst imaginable pitfalls." + +The medals on Five Star clinked. "Bosh!" + +Morgan went on. "Where would you like to live, gentlemen?" and his +glance flicked around the table; "in the best liked or most hated +country in the world?" + + * * * * * + +It mattered not to Five Star, nor to Suggs. + +"What difference does it make, Mr. Undersecretary? Speaking for myself +and my constituents, I can truthfully say that the opinion of the +world matters not one good solitary damn. Who cares what some other +country has got to say, if words can't be backed up with action? Right +now, and you know it as well as you're sitting there, Mr. +Undersecretary, right now Uncle Sam is known all over the world as +Uncle Sucker, and Uncle Shylock. Europe and Asia have had what they +wanted over my protests and those of my constituents, and now Europe +and Asia can go hang, for all I care. That's What they want us to do!" + +He gave Morgan no chance to break in. That rolling bass rattled off +the walls and crinkled my ears. + +"Europe and Asia and the rest of the world could never affect us one +way or another, favorable or otherwise, if it weren't for the +ninny-headed mouthings of a few influential morons. Fight, Mr. +Undersecretary, fight and murder and declare war and blow up millions +of people and then run to Uncle Sam to pay the bills. I say, Mr. +Undersecretary, I say what I've said before and what I'll say again; +if Europe and Asia and the rest of the world don't like what we do +here in these United States, let Europe and Asia and the rest of the +world go to hell!" + +Suggs wasn't a bit excited. Those grand, those mellifluous and rotund +phrases rolled out of those skinny lips at a mile-a-minute pace with +never a flicker of emotion but a nervous twitching of the drooping +eyelids. If that was the way he talked when calm, I could see why he +had been sent back and back to the Senate time after time. + +The General deliberately tossed his cigar on the floor and pounded his +fist on the table. + +"Well said, Senator! My sentiments exactly. If Europe and Asia and the +rest of the world don't like what we do here, let 'em all go to hell, +or better yet, let's send them there in a hand-basket." + +Bloodthirsty old bat. I never remembered seeing him any too close to +the jumping-off point. That's what generals are for, they tell me. + +"I say to hell with them all, and the sooner they know about it, the +better for all concerned." His gaudy gold case, the gift of a grateful +staff, was on the table in front of him, and he jerked out a cigar +with a flourish. A light with a gold lighter, and he puffed thick +clouds. + +Morgan coughed politely. "Regardless, Senator, of what has or what is +happening, we're concerned at present with what might happen." + +Suggs opened his mouth like a thirsty carp and closed it again as +Morgan went on. + +"Call it what you like, Senator; General Legree will agree with me +that this perfect defense--if defense is the word--is equally well the +perfect weapon. Right, General?" + +Legree pursed pontifical lips for a reply and was annoyed when Morgan +paused only momentarily. + +"Perfect defense means the nullification of an opposing weapon. +Obviously, a weaponless army is no longer anything but a disciplined +mob. In correlation, Senator, _our_ arms and weapons are still +effective, and--you mentioned the distrust (or dislike, or hatred, or +whatever you will) held for us by Europe and Asia. Now, Senator, think +of yourself and your constituents: is it not far better that Europe +and Asia and the world be solaced and comforted by the announcement +that we would use our ... Iron Curtain only in our own defense? Would +it not be better--how many years, Senator, have there been recorded of +universal peace? How many years?" + +Some men can sit poker-stiff, yet give the impression of teetering +slowly on their heels, slowly counting the horses' teeth. Suggs was a +horse trader from away back. + +He said, "Mr. Morgan, I say I can appreciate your viewpoint. I can +even appreciate the fact that you mean exactly what you say. But--!" + +Sharks must have teeth like that; broken and yellow, and razor-keen. +The smile of the Senator fascinated me. + +"But--! Mr. Undersecretary, who's been doing all the fighting, and +who's been starting all these wars? The United States? No, sir! We +just get in them too late to do anything but pay all the bills!" He +leaned forward and fixed the tabletop with a piscine stare. + +"Look at it this way, the only way. When this whatshisname dies, all +these countries look at the map and start mobilizing the Guards. How +do we know how long he's going to live, or how long he's going to keep +this magic head of his?" + +My magic head itched, and I rubbed it. + +"Now, here's what I've said before, and here's what I say now--we +can't let the world get away with murder--'murder' is what I said, Mr. +Undersecretary, and 'murder' is what I mean. Didn't you say--now, tell +us the truth, now--haven't you always said that it would be just a +question of time until just about anyone has the secret of the atomic +bomb? Didn't you say that?" + +Morgan nodded. "Quite often I've said that, Senator. Too often for +some." + +Suggs was triumphant. "All right, now. You've hung yourself on your +own rope and you don't know it. Answer me this; now, what's to prevent +anyone who has the bomb from coming over here and using it on us? +What's to prevent them?" + + * * * * * + +They had been all through that before, and Morgan knew it was no use +to answer. + +Suggs was his own echo. "Nothing's to prevent them, not a thing in the +world. How many times have I come right out and said in public that +the only way to keep the world where we want it is to just make sure +that no one else is going to get it? How many times?" + +Morgan rubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and spoke to the table. +"You've said that many times, Senator. That's true, too true. I, on +the other hand, have asked you many times if you've thought that the +only way to make sure no other nation gets the bomb would be to go +right in and make _sure_. You agreed with me that _that_ would mean +force. Force, meaning war. Right, Senator?" + +And the Senator, champion of Man and Humanity and Right said, "Right, +Mr. Undersecretary. Right. We have the bomb, haven't we?" + +Morgan didn't say much in answer to that. I don't think there was much +he could find to say. Psychologists claim there is hardly anyone, +anyone with a modicum of logic in a brain-pan, who cannot eventually +see the light of reason. Maybe. Maybe calm logic could force Senator +Suggs and his brain-pan off his muddy detour. Maybe humanity and +decency and all the other things that complement the civilized man to +this day lie submerged in that pithecanthropic skull. Maybe, but I +hated his guts then, and I do now. + +I cleared my throat, and it must have been louder than I thought, +because all the eyes swung my way. Well, so what? If I had anything at +all to say about what was going to happen, or if I was ever going to +be more than just a rubber stamp, now was the time to find out. After +all, I'd been asked to bring my harp to the party, and I was going to +play. + + * * * * * + +So I said, "Senator. Senator Suggs!" + +He was a little taken aback. Like having the sweeper talk back. + +"Senator," I said, "you talk big. Let's get right down to rock-bottom, +and let's stay there until we're finished. Okay?... All right; in +words of one syllable, you want us to do what amounts to declaring war +on the rest of the world, winning the war and then running things our +way. Right?" + +The Senator teetered on those mental heels again. His lips sucked in +and sharp hollows formed in his cheeks. I could see his mind reach all +the way across the table and throw face-up the cards, one by one. + +"You're Mr. Miller, I presume, although we haven't been formally +introduced." His eager eyes flickered over me. "You haven't said much +so far, and it's just as well that you spoke when you did." + +Legree groped for his cigar case, and Suggs rumbled on. + +"You said I talk big, Mr. Miller, and I'm going to take that as a +compliment. Yes, I do talk big. And you talk plain. I like men who +talk plain. We're going to get along well together." And he paused to +let his thoughts catch up. + +I gave my needle a little push. "You're still talking big, Senator," I +reminded him. + +He resented that, and tried to hide it. "Hardly, Mr. Miller. Hardly. +But you asked a question, and I'll try to talk plain, like you do. If +we have to fight the rest of the world to do things our way, the +American way, then my answer is yes. Yes!" + +Legree grinned his saturnine smile through a blue wreath of smoke and +Morgan sat back in his chair with an almost silent exhalation. The +rest of the group seated around that great table affected me hardly at +all one way or another. Suggs was the spokesman for one faction and +I--well, Morgan was willing to let me talk; the Old Man was sunk in +the dumb obscurity of his chair, and who else was there to speak for +me? Who else? + +All right, Miller. Take it slow and easy. Watch your temper. Say what +you have that's important, and let it go at that. But--say it! + +Now, there's one thing I learned long ago; you get a lot further if +the other loses his temper first, and the best way to pry the lid of a +temper is the use of the unexpected. The man who is handy with his +hands will crack wide open with ridicule, with words used as the +lever. The man who is handy with words is a different nut to crack; +slap him down with insults while his verbal guard is down. If his +temper doesn't snap in the first two minutes, it never will. + +So, because I thought it was the right thing to say, and because I +didn't like the Senator anyway, I said, "Senator Suggs, you talked +plain. That's good. I like men who talk plain. Let's have some more of +that talk. Let's get this right on the record for everyone here to see +and hear. + +"I don't like you, Senator. I like neither you nor your ideas, nor +anything about you or your thoughts. How long has it been, Senator, +since anyone has told you right to your face--not in a newspaper--that +you're a self-convinced liar and a hypocrite, and that you and your +ideas and everything about you stink to high heaven?" + +"Stink" was the word that got him. He'd expected a nice gentlemanly +quarrel with gentlemanly words above the table and rapiers below, and +instead had walked around the corner and taken a barrel-stave across +the mouth. His face flushed in an instant to a livid unhealthy red, +his lips pulled away from his yellow teeth, his eyes seemed to +protrude visibly. A beautiful sight. + +It took him long seconds to throttle his gasping shock. I gave him +just enough time to inhale for a long tirade, just long enough to open +that fish-like mouth for words that might have been anything, then I +let him have it again. And I don't know whether or not I told you, I +was a sergeant before I got busted back to private, first class. + +"Shut up!" I bellowed, and my roar boomed back at me from all those +startled, those stunned faces. Shut up shut up shut up shut up.... + + * * * * * + +I'm certain that those walls had never heard anything above a quiet +murmur before that night. I just shocked Suggs and the rest into a +panicky silence while I ranted. I had to talk fast, because while +volume and violence are a good temporary substitute for brilliance, I +knew I wasn't going to have the floor forever. + +"Let's talk straight, Suggs. Get this once, because I'm not repeating +it, and get that silly look off your face--" I'd heard he was +vain--"you and your constituents and your Army and your Navy can go to +hell, as far as I care for any of them. I'm the man you want to keep +your shirt clean while the rest of the world wallows in filth; I'm the +man that's supposed to let you and your type, God forbid, rule the +world; I'm the man--" I leaned over the table as far as I could, as +far as I dared. + +"Suggs," and I poured venom down his shirtfront, "the only thing that +keeps me from despising the Government of the United States and the +people in it is the fact that I know you're not typical. You're a +freak, a monster!" And I threw in another to keep him off balance. +"You even _look_ like a fish! + +"Remember this, Senator. Remember this one thing; if I ever see, if I +ever hear as much as one word from you about war or bombs, in private +or public, you'll live just long enough for me to hear about it!" + +I threw a disgusted glance at the rest of the table. "One thing you +don't know, Senator, is that I can kill you where you sit. Smith!" + +The Old Man was astonished as the Senator, who sat with gaping piscine +mouth and pop eyes. "Yes, Peter?" + +"Tell him," I snapped. "Tell him how Kellner found out that I can stop +a heart just as fast as I can a truck. And you'd better tell him while +you're at it that Kellner thinks I'm emotionally unstable, subject to +fits of temper. Tell that to the Senator. Tell him what Kellner said +about me." + +Smith coughed. "I think you all agree that Mr. Miller is a trifle upset. +You can form your own opinion as to his temper. As to the other ... well, +Dr. Kellner is the top man in his field. He tested Peter--Mr. Miller--very +thoroughly. I would give very careful consideration to whatever he says +about Peter's capabilities." + +Now you can see what makes a diplomat. When Smith was finished talking +it sounded as though Kellner had actually said that I could murder +someone. And yet Smith hadn't told even a tiny bit of a lie. Lying, as +any married man knows, is knowing what to say and what not to say at +the right time. But to get back to the rest. I dismissed Suggs. I +ignored him for all the rest of the time he was there. Even when I +looked directly at him, and that hurt him. I have hopes, high hopes, +that might have brought on the real heart attack he had the next day. + +"So," I said generally to the rest of the table, "let's just assume +from now on that you're dealing with a homicidal maniac with unlimited +power. Is that the phrase you were thinking of, General?" + +General Legree jumped as though he had seen me pull the pin on a live +grenade. + +"Forget it, General," I told him kindly. "I just read a lot of your +speeches. Now you, Mr. Morgan, you're apparently having a meeting. I +got here a little late. How about telling me the score?" + +The tension seemed to seep out of the room as tangible as a stream of +water. Suggs shrank up in his chair like a little old kobold, the +Generals shifted into easier positions with the old familiar creak of +expensive leather, and the man Smith looked right at me with his right +eye closed. I'd said what he wanted me to say, but now what? Where did +we go from here? + +Undersecretary of State Theodore Morgan was one of the career men to +be found in State Departments throughout the world, if by that you +mean someone who has had the same job for years. The newspapers liked +to tee off on him occasionally, using his pseudo-British mannerisms +and habits for caricature. And the great American public, I suppose, +considered him pretty much as a jerk, as the public is most apt to do +when regarding a man who wore striped pants and a top hat in public +and apparently liked it. But the Old Man, Smith--and I never did find +out if Morgan was Smith's boss or vice versa--set me straight on a lot +of things about Morgan. He had a fairly rough job, as jobs are when +you do something you dislike merely because policy has been set by +higherups. Let's just say he did the best he could, and let it go at +that. + +He was in charge of the meeting, all right. He knew just how to handle +Simon Legree, and without Suggs things went fairly smooth--on the +surface. + +"Mr. Miller," he said, "you made a rather abrupt entrance into the +conversation. I think it better if we have it understood right now +that we prefer to use reason instead of volume." + +"Call me Pete," I said. I knew, somehow that he hadn't disapproved too +much of what I'd said, and he was cracking down at the outset just to +show the rest that _he_ wasn't intimidated. "Pete is all right with +me, since I'm sure that this is all among friends." I looked around, +and they were all friends. Especially the two generals that had seen +me stop the trucks from the Federal Building window. I don't say they +were actually afraid; just cautious. Just friends. + +I went on. "Maybe I can help break the ice. I suppose you were talking +about what you were going to do about things in general, and in +particular, me. Well, go ahead." + +So they did. + +I won't bother with the details of the rest of the meeting or +conference, or whatever you want to call it, because I don't think the +details are too important. For one thing, when the first flush wore +off, and I began to realize the colossal bluff I'd gotten away with, I +got a little weak in the knees. For another, Morgan and Smith did all +the talking to amount to anything. Legree, who seemed to be the +self-appointed spokesman for the Army, really didn't have much to say +when he knew that the State Department had all the cards, with me the +joker. The Navy played right along when it was tentatively agreed that +it was to be an island where I would be "stationed," as they +euphemistically called it; they knew that islands are surrounded by +water, and who sails on the water? The FBI got in their little piece +when they were made responsible for general security. My contribution +was that I was to be responsible to State, in the person of Smith, and +Smith was to be the boss as far as conditions were concerned. When I +brought that up I knew the Old Man was thinking of all the times I'd +complained about his guardianship, and wrote him a tiny note so he +wouldn't get too pleased with himself. + +"The lesser--or the least--of many evils. Don't get swell-headed." He +just grinned when he read it, and stuck it in his pocket to save for +Morgan, I feel sure. + +Smith and Bob Stein and I were the last to leave, and Morgan's grip +for an old man was firm as we shook hands. "You did an excellent +demolition job on the Senator," he said. "You know, Pete, there is one +of the few people that have made me regret the job I have." + +"Forget it," I told him. "You can get fired. Me, I got seniority in a +lifetime job. As far as that carp is concerned, you can consider me +your chief steward. I'll run ten miles to take up your grievance with +Suggs." + +Morgan smiled politely as he ushered us to the door, but I don't think +he knew what I meant. They don't have unions in State. + + * * * * * + +The island isn't too bad. I swore, years ago, with the first cold I +ever remember having, that I would never care if I ever saw snow +again. And where I am, there isn't any snow. The beach is yellow as +gold, the sun comes up every day in the east and sets in the west, and +I've got for my personal use the biggest, shiniest bar you ever saw in +all your life. They ship in draft beer for me all the way from La +Crosse, Wisconsin, and Munich, Germany. Every month I get a four-quart +keg from Belfast in Ireland, and I've got all the gadgets I need to +mix anything a barkeep could dream up. The ice I get from what +probably is a six-hundred dollar refrigerator that makes nothing but +ice cubes. I have a subscription to practically every magazine I ever +heard of, and I get daily aerial delivery--that's right. A little +Piper Cub with floats drops the New York _Times_, the _Monitor_, and a +couple of others every morning--of the newspapers with the least +amount of junk. I used to get the Detroit papers, but I found out it +took too much mental effort to avoid looking at the Vital Statistics, +where they record the marriages and deaths. + +I finally learned to play bridge. Euchre doesn't seem the same without +a barful of people, and pinochle is not the game that Stein is good +at. Bob Stein, the poor guy--although he never says one word about +it--takes everything in his stride. He spends six weeks out of every +eight here with me and the others that form the crew of this little +island afloat in the Southern Sea. The food is good, and with no limit +to variety and type. We can't be too far from somewhere, because every +once in a while we hear a rattle and banging somewhere out to sea. +Once we heard what sounded like a full scale battle. I pried it out of +Bob Stein that it was just maneuvers, as he called it. I know better. +I see nothing but naval craft, and I suspect that they're not always +just at the horizon for practice. + +National affairs? Well, they're not too bad. The big noise came when +the UN wanted my custody and didn't get it. The Old Man once asked me +why I wasn't in favor of it, and I told him. In theory, yes; in +practice, the UN was too dangerous. Personally, I felt that I could +trust very few, and none that I hadn't known before all this happened. +UN supervision meant that I would serve too many masters, and that I +didn't like. And too, there are too many people in the United States +that don't believe in the UN, and might be tempted to do something +about it if they thought I owed allegiance to someone else besides the +United States. I couldn't stir up anything like that, I told him. Deep +down in my heart, I wanted people to like me, to admire me, to think +that I was their hero, and no other country's. I think I can see +admiration and affection in the eyes of the civilians and sailors that +supply me the food and the other things I ask for. They ask me every +once in a while if I'm all right, if I need women. I tell them I +don't, that I'm reconciled with living like I am. And that's true; I +want no other woman except Helen, and her I can't have, for devious +reasons; my name is just anonymous to the world. Smith talked me into +that--his idea was that if no one knew who I was, I'd be just that +much harder to find. He explained that there are several other islands +set up the same as mine, with almost the same conditions and the same +surroundings. He calls it camouflage on a grand scale, and he's the +boss. I know I'm not very smart; just smart enough to know that the +reports in the _Times_ about other people in other parts of the world +with my capabilities are some of the grand-scale camouflage started by +Smith's agents. I'm all alone, and I know it. But sometimes I wake up +in the middle of the night and go for a walk along the beach and kick +up a little sand with my bare feet like Helen and I did on our +honeymoon. They asked me once if I really had to do that. I told them +I felt like it, and they asked me why. I didn't tell them I was just +lonesome. + + * * * * * + +_CONFIDENTIAL MEMO_ + + _FROM:_ _Morgan_ + + _TO:_ _Smith_ + + _MESSAGE: I don't care how many plants got hit. Draft + another plant. Draft the T i m e s itself. But get those special + editions to Miller and get them there today. Repeat, today! + You're already one day late in getting started on those + hints of probable attack. Better rush the softening up. The + way things are going, all plans are off, and we may need him + in a hurry. And that means we'll need cooperation. You know + Miller. You saw those reports on the Suggs post-mortem. Do I + have to draw diagrams for you? You've got unlimited + authority. Use it. I'm serious about drafting the T i m e s if + you have to. But GET THOSE PAPERS PRINTED AND GET THEM TO + HIM TODAY...._ + + * * * * * + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cue for Quiet, by Thomas L. Sherred + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUE FOR QUIET *** + +***** This file should be named 32889.txt or 32889.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/8/8/32889/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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