Killdozer! (43 page)

“What else can you expect,” said Jack grimly, “with our dear friends across the water sitting over their push buttons waiting for an excuse to punch them?”

“And we have our own set of buttons, of course.”

Jack Roway said: “We’ve got to defend ourselves.”

“Are you kidding?”

Roway glanced at him, his dark brows plotting a V. “Not about this. I seldom kid about anything, but particularly not about this.” And he—shuddered.

Grenfell stared amazedly at him and then began to chuckle. “Now,” he said, “I’ve seen everything. My iconoclastic friend Jack Roway, of all people, caught up by a … a fashion. A national pastime, fostered by uncertainty and fed by yellow journalism—fear of the enemy.”

“This country is not at war.”

“You mean, we have no enemy? Are you saying that the gentlemen over the water, with their itching fingertips hovering about the push-buttons, are not our enemies?”

“Well—”

Grenfell came across the room to his friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Jack—what’s the matter? You can’t be so troubled by the news—not
you!”

Roway stared out at the brazen sun, and shook his head slowly. “International balance is too delicate,” he said softly; and if a voice could glaze like eyes, his did. “I see the nations of the world as masses balanced each on its own mathematical point, each with its center of gravity directly above. But the masses are fluid, shifting violently away from the center lines. The opposing trends aren’t equal: they can’t cancel each other; the phasing is too slow. One or the other is going to topple, and then the whole works is going to go.”

“But you’ve known that for a long time. You’ve known that ever since Hiroshima. Possibly before. Why should it frighten you now?”

“I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

“Oh-ho! So that’s it! You have suddenly realized that the explosion is going to come in your lifetime. Hm-m-m? And you can’t take that. You’re capable of all of your satisfying aesthetic rationalizations as long as you can keep the actualities at arm’s length.”

“Whew!”
said Roway, his irrepressible humor passing close enough to nod to him. “Keep it clean, Grenfell!”

Grenfell smiled. “Y’know, Jack, you remind me powerfully of some erstwhile friends of mine who write science-fiction. They had been living very close to atomic power for a long time—years before the man on the street—or the average politician, for that matter—knew an atom from Adam. Atomic power was handy to these specialized word-merchants because it gave them a limitless source of power for background to a limitless source of story material. In the heyday of the Manhattan Project, most of them suspected what was going on, some of them knew—some even worked on it. All of them were quite aware of the terrible potentialities of nuclear energy. Practically all of them were scared silly of the whole idea. They were afraid for humanity, but they themselves were not really afraid, except in a delicious drawing room sort of way, because they couldn’t conceive of this Buck Rogers event happening to anything but posterity. But it happened, right smack in the middle of their own sacrosanct lifetimes.

“And I will be dog-goned if you’re not doing the same thing. You’ve gotten quite a bang out of figuring out the doom humanity faces in an atomic war. You’ve consciously risen above it by calling it inevitable, and in the meantime, leave us gather rosebuds before it rains. You thought you’d be safe home—dead—before the first drops fell. Now social progress has rolled up a thunderhead and you find yourself a mile from home with a crease in your pants and no umbrella. And you’re scared.”

Roway looked at the floor and said, “It’s so soon. It’s so soon.” He looked up at Grenfell, and his cheekbones seemed too large. He took a deep breath. “You … we can stop it, Grenfell. The war … 
the … this thing that’s happening to us. The explosion that will come when the strains get too great in the international situation. And it’s
got
to be stopped!”

“That’s what The Pit is for.”

“The Pit!” Roway said scornfully. “I’ve called you a visionary before. Grenfell, you’ve got to be more practical! Humanity is not going to learn anything by example. It’s got to be kicked and carved. Surgery.”

Grenfell’s eyes narrowed. “Surgery? What you said a minute ago about my stopping it … do you mean what I think you mean?”

“Don’t you see it?” said Jack urgently. “What you have here—total disruptive energy—the peak of atomic power. One or two wallops with this, in the right place, and we can stop anybody.”

“This isn’t a weapon. I didn’t make this to be a weapon.”

“The first rock ever thrown by a prehistoric man wasn’t made to be a weapon, either. But it was handy and it was effective, and it was certainly used because it had to be used.” He suddenly threw up his hands in a despairing gesture. “You don’t understand. Don’t you realize that this country is likely to be attacked at any second—that diplomacy is now hopeless and helpless, and the whole world is just waiting for the thing to start? It’s probably too late even now but it’s the least we can do.”

“What, specifically, is the least thing we can do?”

“Turn your work over to the War Department. In a few hours the government can put it where it will do the most good.” He drew his finger across his throat. “Anywhere we want to, over the ocean.”

There was a taut silence. Roway looked at his watch and licked his lips. Finally Grenfell said, “Turn it over to the government. Use it for a weapon—and what for? To stop war.”

“Of course!” blurted Roway. “To show the rest of the world that our way of life … to scare the daylights out of … to—”

“Stop it!”
Grenfell roared. “Nothing of the kind. You think—you hope anyway—that the use of total disruption as a weapon will stall off the inevitable—at least in your lifetime. Don’t you?”

“No. I—”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, I—”

“You have some more doggerel to write,” said Grenfell scathingly. “You have some more blondes to chase. You want to go limp over a few more Bach fugues.”

Jack Roway said: “No one knows where the first bomb might hit. It might be anywhere. There’s nowhere I … we … can go to be safe.” He was trembling.

“Are the people in the city quivering like that?” asked Grenfell.

“Riots,” breathed Roway, his eyes bright with panic. “The radio won’t announce anything about the riots.”

“Is that what you came out here for today—to try to get me to give disruptive power to
any
government?”

Jack looked at him guiltily. “It was the only thing to do. I don’t know if your bomb will turn the trick, but it has to be tried. It’s the only thing left. We’ve got to be prepared to hit first, and hit harder than anyone else.”

“No.” Grenfell’s one syllable was absolutely unshakable.

“Grenfell—I thought I could argue you into it. Don’t make it tough for yourself. You’ve got to do it. Please do it on your own. Please, Grenfell.” He stood up slowly.

“Do it on my own—or what?
Keep away from me!”

“No … I—” Roway stiffened suddenly, listening. From far above and to the north came the whir of rotary wings. Roway’s fear-slackened lips tightened into a grin, and with two incredibly swift strides he was across to Grenfell. He swept in a handful of the smaller man’s shirt front and held him half off the floor.

“Don’t try a thing,” he gritted. There was not a sound then except their harsh breathing, until Grenfell said wearily: “There was somebody called Judas.”

“You can’t insult me,” said Roway, with a shade of his old cockiness, “And you’re flattering yourself.”

A helicopter sank into its own roaring dust-cloud outside the building. Men poured out of it and burst in the door. There were three of them. They were not in uniform.

“Dr. Grenfell,” said Jack Roway, keeping his grip, “I want you to meet—”

“Never mind that,” said the taller of the three in a brisk voice. “You’re Roway? Hm-m-m. Dr. Grenfell. I understand you have a nuclear energy device on the premises.”

“Why did you come by yourself?” Grenfell asked Roway softly. “Why not just send these stooges?”

“For you, strangely enough. I hoped I could argue you into giving the thing freely. You know what will happen if you resist?”

“I know.” Grenfell pursed his lips for a moment, and then turned to the tall man. “Yes. I have some such thing here. Total atomic disruption. Is that what you were looking for?”

“Where is it?”

“Here, in the laboratory, and then there’s the pile in the other building. You’ll find—” He hesitated. “You’ll find two samples of the concentrate. One’s over there—” he pointed to a lead case on a shelf behind one of the benches. “And there’s another like it in a similar case in the shed back of the pile building.”

Roway sighed and released Grenfell. “Good boy. I knew you’d come through.”

“Yes,” said Grenfell. “Yes—”

“Go get it,” said the tall man. One of the others broke away.

“It will take two men to carry it,” said Grenfell in a shaken voice. His lips were white.

The tall man pulled out a gun and held it idly. He nodded to the second man. “Go get it. Bring it here and we’ll strap the two together and haul ’em to the plane. Snap it up.”

The two men went out toward the shed.

“Jack?”

“Yes, Doc.”

“You really think humanity can be scared?”

“It will be—now. This thing will be used right.”

“I hope so. Oh, I hope so,” Grenfell whispered.

The men came back. “Up on the bench,” said the leader, nodding toward the case the men carried between them.

As they climbed up on the bench and laid hands on the second case, to swing it down from the shelf, Jack Roway saw Grenfell’s face spurt sweat, and a sudden horror swept over him.

“Grenfell!” he said hoarsely. “It’s—”

“Of course,” Grenfell whispered. “Critical mass.”

Then it let go.

It was like Hiroshima, but much bigger. And yet, that explosion did not create The Pit. It was the pile that did—the boron-aluminum lattice which Grenfell had so arduously pieced together from parts bootlegged over the years. Right there at the heart of the fission-explosion, total disruption took place in the pile, for that was its function. This was slower. It took more than an hour for its hellish activity to reach a peak, and in that time a huge crater had been gouged out of the earth, a seething, spewing mass of volatilized elements, raw radiation, and incandescent gases. It was—The Pit. Its activity curve was plotted abruptly—up to peak in an hour and eight minutes, and then a gradual subsidence as it tried to feed further afield with less and less fueling effect; and as it consumed its own flaming wastes in an effort to reach inactivity. Rain would help to blanket it, through energy lost in volatilizing the drops; and each of the many elements involved went through its respective secondary radioactivity, and passed away its successive half-lives. The subsidence of The Pit would take between eight and nine thousand years.

And like Hiroshima, this explosion had effects which reached into history and into men’s hearts in places far separated in time from the cataclysm itself.

These things happened:

The explosion could not be concealed; and there was too much hysteria afoot for anything to be confirmed. It was easier to run headlines saying WE ARE ATTACKED. There was an instantaneous and panicky demand for reprisals, and the government acceded, because such “reprisals” suited the policy of certain members who could command emergency powers. And so the First Atomic War was touched off.

And the Second.

There were no more atomic wars after that. The Mutant’s War was a barbarous affair, and the mutants defeated the tattered and largely sterile remnants of humanity, because the mutants were strong. And then the mutants died out because they were unfit. For a while
there was some very interesting material to be studied on the effects of radiation on heredity, but there was no one to study it.

There were some humans left. The rats got most of them, after increasing in fantastic numbers; and there were three plagues.

After that there were half-stooping, naked things whose twisted heredity could have been traced to humankind; but these could be frightened, as individuals and as a race, so therefore they could not progress. They were certainly not human.

The Pit, in
AD
5000, had changed little over the centuries. Still it was an angry memorial to the misuse of great power; and because of it, organized warfare was a forgotten thing. Because of it, the world was free of the wasteful smoke and dirt of industry. The scream and crash of bombs and the soporific beat of marching feet were never heard, and at long last the earth was at peace
.

To go near The Pit was slow, certain death, and it was respected and feared, and would be for centuries more. It winked and blinked redly at night, and was surrounded by a bald and broken tract stretching out and away over the horizon; and around it flickered a ghostly blue glow. Nothing lived there. Nothing could
.

With such a war memorial, there could only be peace. The earth could never forget the horror that could be loosed by war
.

That was Grenfell’s dream
.

“W
E INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM TO ANNOUNCE—
”

“Jack, don’t jump like that! And you’ve dropped ashes all over your—”

“Aw, Iris, honey, let me listen to—”

“—at first identified as a comet, the object is pursuing an erratic course through the stratosphere, occasionally dipping as low as—”

“You make me nervous, Jack. You’re an absolute slave to the radio. I wish you paid that much attention to me.”

“Darling, I’ll argue the point, or pay attention to you, anything in the wide world you like when I’ve heard this announcement; but please,
please let me listen!”

“—dents of the East Coast are warned to watch for the approach of this ob—”

“Iris, don’t—”

Click!

“Well, of all the selfish, inconsiderate, discourteous—”

“That will do, Jack Garry. It’s my radio as much as yours, and I have a right to turn it off when I want to.”