Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky (16 page)

King, who had been following the discussion with attention in spite of his tired despondency, interjected a remark. “How would you go about that?”

“I don’t know,” Lentz admitted. “It will take some thinking. But it seems the most fruitful line of approach. If it doesn’t work, we can always fall back on Harrington’s notion of publicity—I don’t insist that the world commit suicide to satisfy my criteria of evaluation.”

Harrington glanced at his wrist watch—a bulky affair—and whistled. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “I forgot the time! I’m supposed officially to be at the Flagstaff Observatory.”

King had automatically noted the time shown by the Captain’s watch as it was displayed. “But it can’t be that late,” he had objected. Harrington looked puzzled, then laughed.

“It isn’t—not by two hours. We are in zone plus-seven; this shows zone plus-five—it’s radio-synchronized with the master clock at Washington.”

“Did you say radio-synchronized?”

“Yes. Clever, isn’t it?” He held it out for inspection. “I call it a telechronometer; it’s the only one of its sort to date. My nephew designed it for me. He’s a bright one, that boy. He’ll go far. That is”—his face clouded, as if the little interlude had only served to emphasize the tragedy that hung over them—“if any of us live that long!”

A signal light glowed at King’s desk, and Steinke’s face showed on the communicator screen. King answered him, then said, “Your car is ready, Doctor Lentz.”

“Let Captain Harrington have it.”

“Then you’re not going back to Chicago?”

“No. The situation has changed. If you want me, I’m stringing along.”

The following Friday, Steinke ushered Lentz into King’s office. King looked almost happy as he shook hands. “When did you ground, Doctor? I didn’t expect
you
back for another hour, or so.”

“Just now. I hired a cab instead of waiting for the shuttle.”

“Any luck?” King demanded.

“None. The same answer they gave you: ‘The Company is assured by independent experts that Destry’s mechanics is valid, and sees no reason to encourage an hysterical attitude among its employees.”

King tapped on his desktop, his eyes unfocused. Then, hitching himself around to face Lentz directly, he said, “Do you suppose the Chairman is right?”

“How?”

“Could the three of us, you, me, and Harrington, have gone off the deep end, slipped mentally?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain. I looked up some independent experts of my own, not retained by the Company, and had them check Harrington’s work. It checks.” Lentz purposely neglected to mention that he had done so partly because he was none too sure of King’s present mental stability.

King sat up briskly, reached out and stabbed a push button. “I am going to make one more try,” he explained, “to see if I can’t throw a scare into Dixon’s thick head. Steinke,” he said to the communicator, “get me Mr. Dixon on the screen.”

“Yes, sir.”

In about two minutes, the visiphone screen came to life and showed the features of Chairman Dixon. He was transmitting, not from his office, but from the boardroom of the power syndicate in Jersey City.

“Yes?” he said. “What is it, Superintendent?” His manner was somehow both querulous and affable.

“Mr. Dixon,” King began, “I’ve called to try to impress on you the seriousness of the Company’s action. I stake my scientific reputation that Harrington has proved completely—”

“Oh, that? Mr. King, I thought you understood that that was a closed matter.”

“But Mr. Dixon—”

“Superintendent, please! If there was any possible legitimate cause to fear do you think I would hesitate? I have children, you know, and grandchildren.”

“That is just why—”

“We try to conduct the affairs of the Company with reasonable wisdom, and in the public interest. But we have other responsibilities, too. There are hundreds of thousands of little stockholders who expect us to show a reasonable return on their investment. You must not expect us to jettison a billion-dollar corporation just because you’ve taken up astrology. Moon theory!” He sniffed.

“Very well, Mr. Chairman.” King’s tone was stiff.

“Don’t take it that way, Mr. King. I’m glad you called—the Board has just adjourned a special meeting. They have decided to accept you for retirement—with full pay, of course.”

“I did not apply for retirement!”

“I know, Mr. King, but the Board feels that—”

“I understand. Good-bye!”

“Mr. King—”

“Good-bye!” He switched him off, and turned to Lentz. “‘—with full pay,’” he quoted, “which I can enjoy in any way that I like for the rest of my life—just as happy as a man in the death house!”

“Exactly!” Lentz agreed. “Well, we’ve tried our way. I suppose we should call up Harrington now and let him try the political and publicity method.”

“I suppose so,” King seconded absentmindedly. “Will you be leaving for Chicago now?”

“No . . .” said Lentz. “No . . . I think I will catch the shuttle for Los Angeles and take the evening rocket for the Antipodes.”

King looked surprised, but said nothing. Lentz answered the unspoken comment. “Perhaps some of us on the other side of the Earth will survive. I’ve done all that I can here. I would rather be a live sheepherder in Australia than a dead psychiatrist in Chicago.”

King nodded vigorously. “The shows horse sense. For two cents, I’d dump the pile now, and go with you.”

“Not horse sense, my friend—a horse will run back into a burning barn, which is exactly what I plan
not
to do. Why don’t you do it and come along. If you did, it would help Harrington to scare ’em to death.”

“I believe I will!”

Steinke’s face appeared again on the screen. “Harper and Erickson are here, Chief.”

“I’m busy.”

“They are pretty urgent about seeing you.”

“Oh—all right,” King said in a tired voice. “Show them in. It doesn’t matter.”

They breezed in, Harper in the van. He commenced talking at once, oblivious to the superintendent’s morose preoccupation. “We’ve got it, Chief, we’ve got it!—and it all checks out to the umpteenth decimal!”

“You’ve got what? Speak English.”

Harper grinned. He was enjoying his moment of triumph, and was stretching it out to savor it. “Chief, do you remember a few weeks back when I asked for an additional allotment—a special one without specifying how I was going to spend it?”

“Yes. Come on—get to the point.”

“You kicked at first, but finally granted it. Remember? Well, we’ve got something to show for it, all tied up in pink ribbon. It’s the greatest advance in radioactivity since Hahn split the nucleus. Atomic fuel, Chief, atomic fuel, safe, concentrated, and controllable. Suitable for rockets, for power plants, for any damn thing you care to use it for.”

King showed alert interest for the first time. “You mean a power source that doesn’t require a pile?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t say that. You use the breeder pile to make the fuel, then you use the fuel anywhere and anyhow you like, with something like ninety-two percent recovery of energy. But you could junk the power sequence, if you wanted to.”

King’s first wild hope of a way out of his dilemma was dashed; he subsided. “Go ahead. Tell me about it.”

“Well—it’s a matter of artificial radioactives. Just before I asked for that special research allotment, Erickson and I—Doctor Lentz had a finger in it, too,” he acknowledged with an appreciative nod to the psychiatrist, “—found two isotopes that seemed to be mutually antagonistic. That is, when we goosed ’em in the presence of each other they gave up their latent energy all at once—blew all to hell. The important point is we were using just a gnat’s whisker of mass of each—the reaction didn’t require a big mass to maintain it.”

“I don’t see,” objected King, “how that could—”

“Neither do we, quite—but it works. We’ve kept it quiet until we were sure. We checked on what we had, and we found a dozen other fuels. Probably we’ll be able to tailor-make fuels for any desired purpose. But here it is.” He handed him a bound sheaf of typewritten notes which he had been carrying under his arm. “That’s your copy. Look it over.”

King started to do so. Lentz joined him, after a look that was a silent request for permission, which Erickson had answered with his only verbal contribution, “Sure, doc.”

As King read, the troubled feelings of an acutely harassed executive left him. His dominant personality took charge, that of the scientist. He enjoyed the controlled and cerebral ecstasy of the impersonal seeker for the elusive truth. The emotions felt in his throbbing thalamus were permitted only to form a sensuous obbligato for the cold flame of cortical activity. For the time being, he was sane, more nearly completely sane than most men ever achieve at any time.

For a long period there was only an occasional grunt, the clatter of turned pages, a nod of approval. At last he put it down.

“It’s the stuff,” he said. “You’ve done it, boys. It’s great; I’m proud of you.”

Erickson glowed a bright pink, and swallowed. Harper’s small, tense figure gave the ghost of a wriggle, reminiscent of a wire-haired terrier receiving approval. “That’s fine, Chief. We’d rather hear you say that than get the Nobel Prize.”

“I think you’ll probably get it. However”—the proud light in his eyes died down—“I’m not going to take any action in this matter.”

“Why not, Chief?” His tone was bewildered.

“I’m being retired. My successor will take over in the near future; this is too big a matter to start just before a change in administration.”

“You
being
retired!
What the hell!”

“About the same reason I took you off watch—at least, the directors think so.”

“But that’s nonsense! You were right to take me off the watch-list; I
was
getting jumpy. But you’re another matter—we all depend on you.”

“Thanks, Cal—but that’s how it is; there’s nothing to be done about it.” He turned to Lentz. “I think this is the last ironical touch needed to make the whole thing pure farce,” he observed bitterly. “This thing is big, bigger than we can guess at this stage—and I have to give it a miss.”

“Well,” Harper burst out, “I can think of something to do about it!” He strode over to King’s desk and snatched up the manuscript. “Either you superintend the exploitation, or the Company can damn well get along without our discovery!” Erickson concurred belligerently.

“Wait a minute.” Lentz had the floor. “Doctor Harper . . . have you already achieved a practical rocket fuel?”

“I said so. We’ve got it on hand now.”

“An escape-speed fuel?” They understood his verbal shorthand—a fuel that could lift a rocket free of the Earth’s gravitational pull.

“Sure. Why, you could take any of the
Clipper
rockets, refit them a trifle, and have breakfast on the moon.”

“Very well. Bear with me . . .” He obtained a sheet of paper from King, and commenced to write. They watched in mystified impatience. He continued briskly for some minutes, hesitating only momentarily. Presently he stopped, and spun the paper over to King. “Solve it!” he demanded.

King studied the paper. Lentz had assigned symbols to a great number of factors, some social, some psychological, some physical, some economic. He had thrown them together into a structural relationship, using the symbols of calculus of statement. King understood the paramathematical operations indicated by the symbols, but he was not as used to them as he was to the symbols and operations of mathematical physics. He plowed through the equations, moving his lips slightly in subconscious vocalization.

He accepted a pencil from Lentz, and completed the solution. It required several more lines, a few more equations, before they cancelled out, or rearranged themselves, into a definite answer.

He stared at this answer while puzzlement gave way to dawning comprehension and delight.

He looked up. “Erickson! Harper!” he rapped out. “We will take your new fuel, refit a large rocket, install the breeder pile in it, and throw it into an orbit around the Earth, far out in space. There we will use it to make more fuel, safe fuel, for use on Earth, with the danger from the Big Bomb itself limited to the operators actually on watch!”

There was no applause. It was not that sort of an idea; their minds were still struggling with the complex implications.

“But Chief,” Harper finally managed, “how about your retirement? We’re still not going to stand for it.”

“Don’t worry,” King assured him. “It’s all in there, implicit in those equations, you two, me, Lentz, the Board of Directors—and just what we all have to do about it to accomplish it.”

“All except the matter of time,” Lentz cautioned.

“Eh?”

“You’ll note that elapsed time appears in your answer as an undetermined unknown.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course. That’s the chance we have to take. Let’s get busy!”

Chairman Dixon called the Board of Directors to order. “This being a special meeting, we’ll dispense with minutes and reports,” he announced. “As set forth in the call, we have agreed to give the retiring superintendent two hours of our time.”

“Mr. Chairman—”

“Yes, Mr. Strong?”

“I thought we had settled that matter.”

“We have, Mr. Strong, but in view of Superintendent King’s long and distinguished service, if he asks for a hearing, we are honor bound to grant it. You have the floor, Doctor King.”

King got up, and stated briefly, “Doctor Lentz will speak for me.” He sat down.

Lentz had to wait for coughing, throat-clearing, and scraping of chairs to subside. It was evident that the Board resented the outsider.

Lentz ran quickly over the main points in the argument which contended that the bomb presented an intolerable danger anywhere on the face of the Earth. He moved on at once to the alternative proposal that the bomb should be located in a rocketship, an artificial moonlet flying in a free orbit around the Earth at a convenient distance—say fifteen thousand miles—while secondary power stations on Earth burned a safe fuel manufactured by the bomb.

He announced the discovery of the Harper-Erickson technique and dwelt on what it meant to them commercially. Each point was presented as persuasively as possible, with the full power of his engaging personality. Then he paused and waited for them to blow off steam.