Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (120 page)

The trip to Washington was fast and uneventful, but his army pilot sighed with relief as the machine touched tarmac at the destination.

He clambered out, saying to Graham, “It’s nice to arrive at where you intended instead of where some blue globe compels you to go.”

Graham nodded, got into the waiting car, was whirled away at top pace. Ten minutes later, he was savagely pondering the bureaucratic habit of saving two minutes and wasting ten. He paced the waiting room with hard, restless strides. You wouldn’t think there was a war on, the way they let you hang around in Washington.

That couple of scientists, for instance. Heaven only knew whom they were waiting to see, but they’d been there when be arrived, and they acted like they hoped still to be there when finally the rock of ages crumbled into dust. Graham gave them an irritated look over. Talk!—they talked and talked as if worldwide destruction and human slaughter were trifling distractions compared with other and weightier matters.

Arguing about Bjornsen’s formula, they were. The little one reckoned that modification of eyesight was caused by molecules of methylene blue transported to the visual purple by iodine as a halogen in affinity, functioning as a carrier.

The fat one thought otherwise. It was the iodine that made the difference. Methylene blue was the catalyst causing fixation of an otherwise degeneratable rectifier. He agreed that mescal served only to stimulate the optic nerves, attuning them to the new vision, but the actual cause was iodine. Look at Webb’s schizophrenics, for example. They had iodine, but not methylene blue. They were mutants with natural fixation, requiring no catalyst.

With blissful disregard for other and more urgent matters, the little one started off again, threatening to bring Graham’s temper to the boil. The investigator was just asking himself what it mattered how Bjornsen’s formula functioned so long as it did function, when he heard his own name called.

Three men occupied the room into which he was ushered. He recognized them all: Tollerton, a local expert; Willetts C. Keithley, supreme head of the Intelligence Service; and finally a square-jawed, gray-eyed figure whose presence brought him stiffly to attention—the President!

“Mr. Graham,” said the President, without preamble, “this morning a courier arrived from Europe. He was the fifth they’d dispatched to us within forty-eight hours. His four predecessors died on their way here. He brought bad news.”

“Yes, sir,” said Graham, respectfully.

“A rocket dropped on Louvain, Belgium. It had an atomic warhead. Europe retaliated with ten. The Asians have sent back twelve more. This morning, the first atomic rocket in this hemisphere arrived on our territory. The news has been suppressed, of course, but we are about to hit back strongly. In brief, the much-feared atomic war has begun.” He put his hands behind his back, walked up and down the carpet.

“Our morale is good despite everything. The people have confidence. They feel sure that victory will be ours in the end.”

“I’m sure of that, sir,” said Graham.

“I wish I were as sure!” The President stopped his pacing and faced him squarely. “The situation now existing is no longer war in the historical sense of the term. If it were, we should win it. But this is something else—it is the suicide of a species! The man who jumps in the river wins nothing but everlasting peace. Neither side can win this battle—except perhaps the Vitons. Humanity, as a whole, must lose. We, as a nation, must also lose, for we are part of humanity. The coolest heads on both sides have realized that from the start, hence the reason why atomic weapons have been held back as long as possible. Now—God forgive us!—the atomic sword has been drawn. Neither side dare take the risk of being the first to sheath it.”

“I understand, sir.”

“If that were all, it would be bad enough,” the President continued, “but it is far from all.” He turned to a wall map, pointed to a thick black line broken by a tipsy-vee which speared across most of Nebraska. “The public does not know of this. It represents the area of the enemy’s armored penetration within the last two days. It is an Asian salient which we may or may not be able to contain.”

“Yes, sir.” Graham eyed the map without expression.

“We can make no greater sacrifices. We can hold no stronger foe.” The President stepped nearer, his stern eyes looking deep into Graham’s. “The courier reported that Europe’s situation already is extremely critical, in fact so much so that they can hold out until six o’clock on Monday evening. Until that time, we remain humanity’s last hope. After that, Europe’s collapse or annihilation. Six o’clock and no later—not one minute later.”

“I see, sir.” The intelligence man noted the wide-eyed gaze that Tollerton kept upon him, the fixed, keen stare with which Keithley was watching him.

“Frankly, that means there is no way of escape for any of us except by striking an effective blow at the fundamental cause of all this—the Vitons. Either that, or we cease to survive as sentient beings. Either that, or those left of us revert to the status of domestic animals. We have eighty hours in which to find salvation!” The President was grave, very grave. “I don’t expect you to find it for us, Mr. Graham. I don’t expect miracles of any man. But, knowing your record, knowing that you personally have been involved in all this from the beginning, I wanted to inform you myself; to tell you that any suggestions you can make will be acted upon immediately and with all the power at our command; to tell you that all the authority you require may be had for the asking.”

“The President,” interjected Keithley, “thinks that if anything can he done by one man, that man is you. You started all this, you’ve seen it through so far, and you’re the likeliest person to finish it—if it can be finished.”

“Where have you hidden the experts?” asked Graham, bluntly.

“There’s a group of twenty in Florida, and twenty-eight in the interior of Puerto Rico,” Keithley replied.

“Give them to me!” Graham’s eyes were alight with the fire of battle. “Bring them back and give them to me.”

“You shall have them,” declared the President. “Anything else, Mr. Graham?”

“Give me absolute authority to commandeer all laboratories, plants and lines of communication that I see fit. Let my requirements for materials be given preference over all else.”

“Granted.” The President uttered the word with no hesitation.

“One more request.” He made it to Keithley, explaining, “His duty will be to watch me. He’ll watch me and I’ll watch him. Should either of us become a dupe, the other will remove him at once.”

“That, too, is granted.” Keithley handed over a slip of paper. “Sangster said that you wanted addresses of fellow operatives in New York. There are ten on that list—six locals and four out-of-towners. Two of the local men have not reported for some time, and their fate is unknown.”

“I’ll try to look them up.” Graham pocketed the slip.

“Eighty hours, remember,” said the President. “Eighty hours between freedom for the living or slavery for the not-dead.” He put a paternal hand on the other’s shoulder. “Do the best with the powers we’ve given you, and may Providence be your guide!”

“Eighty hours,” murmured Graham as he raced toward the plane waiting to bear him back to New York.

Down the spine of the New World, a hundred millions were facing three hundred millions. Every hour, every minute thousands were dying, thousands more were being mutilated—while overhead hung the glowing quaffers of the ascending champagne of agony.

The end of the hellish banquet was drawing nigh. The last course was about to be served, an atomic one, in critical masses, served with blood red hands. Then appetites replete with human currents might rest content to wait the further feasts to come, the oldtime, regular guzzlings in humanity’s rutting seasons and burying seasons. Eighty hours!

The rush with which he entered his New York apartment took Graham halfway across the floor before he saw the figure dozing in the chair. The center light was cold and dull, but the whole room was aglow with the electric radiator’s brilliant flare. Seeing by radiant heat had long lost its novelty to those with the new sight.

“Art!” he shouted, delightedly. “I was about to phone Stamford and ask them to toss you out. I need you badly.”

“Well, I’m out,” said Wohl, succinctly. “I couldn’t stand that hospital any longer. There was an angular ward sister with ambitions. She got me scared. She called me Wohly-Pohly and stole my britches. Ugh!” He shuddered reminiscently. “I bawled for my clothes and they acted like they’d been sold to the junkman. So eventually I beat it without them.”

“What—nude?”

“Tut!” Wohl was shocked. His foot nudged a bundle on the floor. “No, in these. The crime wave’s awful when even police lieutenants snitch hospital blankets.” Standing up, he stretched his arms sidewise, revolved slowly, like a gown model. “How d’you like the suit?”

“Holy smoke, it’s one of mine!”

“Sure! I found it in your wardrobe. Bit saggy under the arms, and tight around the fanny, but it’ll do.”

“Heck of a figure you must have. Too little in front and too much behind,” commented Graham. His smile faded as he switched expressions and became serious. He shoved Wohl back into his chair. “Listen, Art. Time’s short. I’ve just got back from Washington, and what I heard there is going to keep me on the jump like a flea on a hot stove. The situation is tougher than I’d imagined.” He recounted the march of events since he’d left Wohl in the hospital at Stamford. “So I asked Keithley, and here it is.” He handed over a plain, iridium-lined ring. “You’ve been fired by the police and conscripted by the Intelligence, whether you like it or not. You’re now my opposite number.”

“So be it.” Wolds studied nonchalance failed to conceal his delight. “How the devil do the authorities manage always to supply rings the correct size?”

“Forget it—we’ve bigger puzzles to solve.” He gave Wohl the clipping he’d taken from Farmiloe’s copy of the
Sun.
“We’re organizing fast. We’ve got until Monday evening, by which time it must be conquest or curtains! It doesn’t matter whether we starve or die so long as we produce by that deadline.” He pointed to the clipping. “That’s Farmiloe’s dying scrawl. That’s our only clue.”

“You’re certain that it’s a clue?”

“Nope! I’m certain of nothing in this precarious existence. But I’ve a hunch that it is a genuine pointer to something worth knowing—something that cost Farmiloe his life!”

Staring long and hard at the bear posing inanely before an iceberg, Wohl said, “Have you had a refrigerator picked to bits?”

“Sangster dumped one on the university and they took it apart. They went down to the last bolt, screw and piece of wire. There was nothing left for them to do but lick the enamel off the plates.”

“It told them nothing?”

“Not a thing. Cold might kill luminosities by slowing down their vibrations, but how’re we going to apply it? There’s no such thing as a beam of pure cold, nor any likelihood of developing one—it’s a theoretical absurdity.” Graham glanced anxiously at his watch. “Does that scrawl suggest anything to you?”

“Br-r-r!” replied Wohl, hugging himself.

“Don’t act the fool, Art! There’s no time for horsing around.”

“I always feel the cold,” Wohl apologized. He scowled at the taunting advertisement. “I don’t like that animal’s complacent smirk. It knows we’re stuck, and it doesn’t care.” He returned the clipping to Graham. “All it tells me is what I knew long ago, namely, that you have an astonishing aptitude for digging up the screwiest leads.”

“Don’t remind me of it!” Graham’s voice was an annoyed growl. He transfixed the clipping with an angry finger. “A bear! We’ve got something here we think is a clue. Maybe it’s the master key of our puzzle. Maybe it’s salvation in our time if only we can look at it the right way. And it’s nothing more than a long, mercenary, self-satisfied looking and probably flea-bitten bear!”

“Yes,” Wohl joined in, for lack of anything better to contribute. “A gangling, cockeyed, stinking bear! A lousy polar bear!”

“If only I’d been quicker after Farmiloe, or had met him on his way—” Graham stopped in mid-sentence. A thoroughly startled look sprang into his features. In a voice hushed with sheer surprise, he said, “Hey, you called it a
polar
bear!”

“Sure I did! It’s not a giraffe, unless I’m blind.”

“A polar bear!” yelled Graham, changing tone with sudden violence that brought Wohl upright. “Polarization! That’s it—polarization!” He stirred his finger vigorously in the air. “Circular or elliptical polarization. Hell!—why didn’t I see it before? A child ought to have seen it. I’m too dumb to live!”

“Eh?” said Wohl, his mouth agape.

“Polarization, a million dollars to a doughnut!” Graham shouted. His face was deep purple with excitement. It would have looked red to ordinary sight. Grabbing two hats, he slammed one on the startled Wohl’s head, where it stuck rakishly. “Out! We’re getting out hell-for-leather! Were telling the world before it’s too late! Out!”

They fled through the door without bothering to close it behind them. Warily, their eyes watched the heights as they hammered along the sidewalk. Blue dots were glowing in the sky, but none swung low.

“Down here!” puffed Graham. He ducked into a concrete maw whose throat lead to the newer and lower city. Together they went full tilt down the ultra-rapid escalators, hit the levitator banks at first level, descended another four hundred feet.

They were inhaling heavily as they jumped from their disks, found themselves at the junction of six recently made tunnels. Dull rumbles and raucous grinding noises of steadily boring mammoths still spouted from the two newest holes.

Hydrants, telephone booths, public televisors and even a small cigar store already stood in this subterranean area dug only within the last few weeks. Engineers, overseers, surveyors, and laborers were scurrying about laden with tools, materials, instruments and portable lamps. Occasionally, an electric trolley, heavily laden, whirred out of one tunnel and into another. Ominously, workers were fitting radioactive gas detectors to the levitator tubes and the air conditioning vents.