Security

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Alexander Bauer and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

 

  SECURITY

  _If you let a man learn, and study, and work--and clamp a lid on so that nothing he takes into his mind can be let out--one way or another he'll blow a safety valve!_

  BY ERNEST M. KENYON

  Illustrated by Freas

  Suddenly Collins snapped the pencil between his fingers and hurled thepieces across the lab, where they clattered, rolled from the bench tothe floor, and were still. For a moment he sat leaning against the desk,his hands trembling. He wasn't sure just when the last straw had beenadded, but he was sure that he had had enough. The restrictions, redtape, security measures of these government laboratories seemed toclose in on his mind in boiling, chaotic waves of frustration. Whatwas the good of his work, all this great installation, all the gleamingexpensive equipment in the lab around him? He was alone. None of themseemed to share his problem, the unctuous, always correct Gordon, theeasy-mannered, unbearable Mason, all of them gave him a feeling ofactual physical sickness.

  Gardner's "Nucleonics and Nuclear Problems" lay open on the desk beforehim, but he looked instead beyond through the clear curving glass windowstoward the sweep of green hills and darkening sky and the shadows of thelower forests that gave Fair Oaks its name. Beside him unfinished lay thesummaries of the day's experiments, and the unorganized, hurriedly jottednotes for tomorrow's work. The old intellectual alertness was gone.Delight in changing theory, in careful experimentation no longer sprangfrom his work and were a part of it. There was a dull, indefinable achingin his head and a dry, dissatisfied sensation in his mouth.

  Along the ordered walks below his laboratory windows workers andtechnicians streamed toward the gates, checking out for the day throughthe usual mass of red tape, passes, and Geiger tests. Lights wereflicking on in the long East Wing Dormitory across the quadrangle, andthe mess hall, where he had recently eaten a tasteless supper, waslighted.

  Shortly after restrictions had really begun to tighten up last fall,he had written to a worker who had published making a minor correctionin his calculations and adding some suggestions arising from his ownresearch. A week later his letter was returned completely censored,stamped "Security-Violation." It was that evasive Gordon's fault. Heknew it, but he couldn't prove it. Collins suspected that the man wasnot a top-notch researcher and so was in administration. Perhaps Gordonwas jealous of his own work.

  Even the Journals were drying up. Endless innocuous papers recalculatingthe values of harmless constants and other such nonsense were all thatwas being published. They were hardly worth reading. Others were feelingthe throttling effects of security measures, and isolated, loneresearchers were slowing down, listless and anemic from the loss ofthe life blood of science, the free interchange of information.

  The present research job he was doing was coming slowly, but whatdifference did it make? It would never be published. Probably it wouldbe filed with a Department of Defense code number as Research ReportDDNE-42 dash-dash-dash. And there it would remain, top-secret, guarded,unread, useless. Somewhere in the desk drawers was the directive wordedin the stiff military manner describing the procedures for clearingpapers for publication. When he had first come here, he had tried that.

  "Well, good, Collins," Gordon, the Division Administrator, had said,"glad to check it over. Always happy when one of our men has somethingfor publication. Gives the Division a good name. I'll let you know, butwe have to be careful. Security you know."

  Somehow he had never heard. The first time he had made a pest of himselfwith Gordon who was polite, evasive, always plausible. Gordon,Gordon--it was becoming an obsession with him he knew, but the manappeared at every turn. He personified the system.

  In the past months his work had seemed to clog up in details and slowdown. The early days of broad, rapid outlines and facile sketching in ofdetails were gone. Now the endless indignities, invasion of personalrights and freedom, the hamstringing of his work, the feeling of beingcut off from the main currents of his field, filled him with despair,anger, and frustration.

  * * * * *

  Suddenly he raised his head, slammed the notebook shut and switched offthe desk lamp. Not tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough to write outthis stuff. He needed a drink.

  The hall was dark as he locked the door to his lab except at the far endnear the stairway where a patch of yellow light shone through an opendoorway. Mason, he thought, Allan Mason, the one guy at Fair OaksNuclear Energy Laboratories who was always so damnedly cheerful, whodidn't seem to mind the security restrictions, and who was seen so oftenwith Gordon. As he walked rapidly past the open doorway, he caught aflashing impression from the corner of his eye of Mason's tall figurebent over his bench, his long legs wrapped around a lab stool, theperpetual unlit pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. Then as heswung quickly toward the stairs, he heard Mason's cheerful hail.

  "Hi, Milt, hold up a sec."

  Reluctantly he paused at the head of the stairs scowling momentarily,and then slowly turning and retraced his steps.

  The lab was brightly lighted, and Mason stretched and smiled pleasantly.

  "Come in, old man, I'm about ready to knock off for the evening. Howgoes it?"

  Collins mumbled an O.K. trying to keep the irritation out of his voice,and Mason went on.

  "Just finishing up some loose ends so I can get off to the Societymeeting on Monday. You going?"

  Shaking his head Collins felt his dislike for this man growing. Theannual meeting of the North American Society of Theoretical Physicists.He didn't even give it any thought any more. Maybe he could go, but itdidn't seem worth the effort. In the past he had tried to go to themeetings, but somehow work, rush work, some change of emphasis had comeup on the project, and he had had to cancel his plans. He'd finallygiven up, but with Mason these things seemed to come easily, and hewondered why--

  "That's too bad"--his voice droned pleasantly on, and Collins' eyecaught several botany texts in the book rack above Mason's desk. So, hehad time to read stuff outside of his field. His work was going well.He had time for meetings and was allowed to go to them--the anger roseslowly like a swelling bubble from the hard core of his stomach. Then herealized that Mason had stopped talking and was looking at him.

  "Milt, you look glum tonight. Is there-- Why not have supper with me,and we'll take in the movie in the lounge?"

  "I've eaten already." Collins was on his feet. He forced a, "Thanksanyway. See you tomorrow. I'm--" and he was gone.

  As he strode angerly across the quadrangle Mason's words and cheerfulattitude rankled in his mind. The gravel of the walk spurted from underhis shoes, and the night air was clear and cool. It was good at least tofeel something other than despair again, even anger.

  But once in his study with its attached bedroom and bath that made uphis living quarters, he sank to the couch near his desk, all of thefight gone. He needed a drink. Today all the irritations, tensions, andsuspicions of the past months seemed to close in on him. His work wasgoing badly. Perhaps seeing Mason had brought it to a head. The fifth ofbourbon in the bottom desk drawer was partly gone from the party lastmonth. He took a swallow neat, and the fire of the liquid burned andclawed its way down his throat and spread with blossoming warmth in hisstomach.

  Kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie he leaned back with thebottle on the floor beside him.

  Later in the evening when the early clarity of thought had left him andhis mind moved disjointedly in and out of seemingly brilliant, emotionalsolutions to his problem, he knew he must have a showdown. Lying back onthe couch he drifted in
to sleep determined to have it out with Gordon inthe morning--resign if necessary.

  * * * * *

  The momentary pause of lighting his cigarette gave Collins a chanceto decide where to start, as he sat across from Gordon. The DivisionAdministrator was older with a heavy-jowled, close shaven face, and hewaited patiently for Collins to speak.

  "Dr. Gordon, I am having a great deal of difficulty in making anadjustment both in my work and in my personal relations here at FairOaks, and last night I realized that I would have to talk to you aboutit."

  Gordon's face changed slightly, his eyebrows rising almostimperceptibly.

  "So, what ... how do you mean, Milt?"

  Use of the first name--the familiar approach thoughtCollins--administrative technique number blank blank dash blank.

  "Dr. Gordon, these security measures we are under, the