knew that, but he was so utterly exhausted that he doubted his ability to
finish the race. The thing pursuing him was catching up; he forced his
leaden, aching legs into greater activity. The thing behind him increased
its pace, and actually touched him. His heart stopped, then pounded again.
He became aware that he was screaming, shrieking in mortal terror.
But he had to reach the end of that corridor; more depended on it than just
himself. He had to. He had to! He had to!
Then the sound hit him, and he realized that he had lost, realized it with
utter despair and utter, bitter defeat. He had failed, the bomb had blown
up.
The sound was the alarm going off; it was seven o'clock. His pajamas were
soaked, dripping with sweat, and his heart still pounded. Every ragged
nerve throughout his body screamed for release. It would take more than a
cold shower to cure this case of the shakes.
He got to the office before the janitor was out of it. He sat there, doing
nothing, until Lentz walked in on him, two hours later. The psychiatrist
came in just as he was taking two small tablets from a box in his desk.
"Easy . . . easy, old man," Lentz said in a slow voice. "What have you
there?" He came around and gently took possession of the box.
"Just a sedative."
Lentz studied the inscription on the cover. "How many have you had today?"
"Just two, so far."
"You don't need a sedative; you need a walk in the fresh air. Come, take
one with me."
"You're a fine one to talk � you're smoking a cigarette that isn't
lighted!"
"Me? Why, so I am! We both need that walk. Come."
Harper arrived less than ten minutes after they had left the office.
Steinke was not in the outer office. He walked on through and pounded on
the door of King's private office, then waited with the man who accompanied
him � a hard young chap with an easy confidence to his bearing. Steinke let
them in.
Harper brushed on past him with a casual greeting, then checked himself
when he saw that there was no one else inside.
"Where's the chief?" he demanded.
"Gone out. Should be back soon."
"I'll wait. Oh � Steinke, this is Greene. Greene � Steinke."
The two shook hands. "What brings you back, Cal?" Steinke asked, turning
back to Harper.
"Well . . . I guess it's all right to tell you � "
The communicator screen flashed into sudden activity, and cut him short. A
face filled most of the frame. It was apparently too close to the pickup,
as it was badly out of focus. "Superintendent!" it yelled in an agonized
voice. "The bomb � "
A shadow flashed across the screen, they heard a dull smack, and the face
slid out of the screen. As it fell it revealed the control room behind it.
Someone was down on the floor plates, a nameless heap. Another figure ran
across the field of pickup and disappeared.
Harper snapped into action first. "That was Silard!" he shouted, "in the
control room! Come on, Steinke! He was already in motion himself.
Steinke went dead-white, but hesitated only an unmeasurable instant. He
pounded sharp on Harper's heels. Greene followed without invitation, in a
steady run that kept easy pace with them.
They had to wait for a capsule to unload at the tube station. Then all
three of them tried to crowd into a two-passenger capsule. It refused to
start, and moments were lost before Greene piled out and claimed another
car.
The four-minute trip at heavy acceleration seemed an interminable crawl.
Harper was convinced that the system had broken down, when the familiar
click and sigh announced their arrival at the station under the bomb. They
jammed each other trying to get out at the same time.
The lift was up; they did not wait for it. That was unwise; they gained no
time by it, and arrived at the control level out of breath. Nevertheless,
they speeded up when they reached the top, zigzagged frantically around the
outer shield, and burst into the control room.
The limp figure was still on the floor, and another, also inert, was near
it. The second's helmet was missing.
The third figure was bending over the trigger. He looked up as they came
in, and charged them. They hit him together, and all three went down. It
was two to one, but they got in each other's way. The man's heavy armor
protected him from the force of their blows. He fought with senseless,
savage violence.
Harper felt a bright, sharp pain; his right arm went limp and useless. The
armored figure was struggling free of them.
There was a shout from somewhere behind them, "Hold still!"
Harper saw a flash with the corner of one eye, a deafening crack hurried on
top of it, and re-echoed painfully in the restricted space.
The armored figure dropped back to his knees, balanced there, and then fell
heavily on his face. Greene stood in the entrance, a service pistol
balanced in his hand.
Harper got up and went over to the trigger. He tried to reduce the
dampening adjustment, but his right hand wouldn't carry out his orders, and
his left was too clumsy. Steinke," he called, "come here! Take over."
Steinke hurried up, nodded as he glanced at the readings, and set busily to
work.
It was thus that King found them when he bolted in a very few minutes
later.
"Harper!" he shouted, while his quick glance was still taking in the
situation. "What's happened?"
Harper told him briefly. He nodded. "I saw the tail end of the fight from
my office � Steinke!" He seemed to grasp for the first time who was on the
trigger. "He can't manage the controls � " He hurried toward him.
Steinke looked up at his approach. "Chief!" he called out. "Chief! I've got
my mathematics back!"
King looked bewildered, then nodded vaguely, and let him be. He turned back
to Harper. "How does it happen you're here?"
"Me? I'm here to report � we've done it, chief!"
"Eh?"
"We've finished; it's all done. Erickson stayed behind to complete the
power-plant installation on the big ship. I came over in the ship we'll use
to shuttle between Earth and the big ship, the power plant. Four minutes
from Goddard Field to here in her. That's the pilot over there." He pointed
to the door, where Greene's solid form partially hid Lentz.
"Wait a minute. You say that everything is ready to install the bomb in the
ship? You're sure?"
"Positive. The big ship has already flown with our fuel-longer and faster
than she will have to fly to reach station in her orbit; I was in it � out
in space, chief! We're all set, six ways from zero."
King stared at the dumping switch, mounted behind glass at the top of the
instrument board. "There's fuel enough," he said softly, as if he were
alone and speaking only to himself; "there's been fuel enough for weeks."
He walked swiftly over to the switch, smashed the glass with his fist, and
pulled it.
The room rumbled and shivered as two and a half tons of molten, massive
metal, heavier than gold, coursed down channels, struck against baffles,
split into a dozen dozen streams, and plunged to rest in leaden receivers �
to rest, safe and harmless, until it should be reassembled far out in
space.
SEARCHLIGHT
"WILL SHE HEAR YOU?"
"If she's on this face of the Moon. If she was able to get out of the ship.
If her suit radio wasn't damaged. If she has it turned on. If she is alive.
Since the ship is silent and no radar beacon has been spotted, it is
unlikely that she or the pilot lived through it."
"She's got to be found! Stand by, Space Station. Tycho Base, acknowledge."
Reply lagged about three seconds, Washington to Moon and back. "Lunar Base,
Commanding General."
"General, put every man on the Moon out searching for Betsy!"
Speed-of-light lag made the answer sound grudging. "Sir, do you know how
big the Moon is?"
"No matter! Betsy Barnes is there somewhere � so every man is to search
until she is found. If she's dead, your precious pilot would be better off
dead, too!"
"Sir, the Moon is almost fifteen million square miles. If I used every man
I have, each would have over a thousand square miles to search. I gave
Betsy my best pilot. I won't listen to threats against him when he can't
answer back. Not from anyone, sir! I'm sick of being told what to do by
people who don't know Lunar conditions. My advice � my official advice, sir
� is to let Meridian Station try. Maybe they can work a miracle."
The answer rapped back, "Very well, General! I'll speak to you later.
Meridian Station! Report your plans."
Elizabeth Barnes, "Blind Betsy," child genius of the piano, had been making
a USO tour of the Moon. She "wowed 'em" at Tycho Base, then lifted by jeep
rocket for Farside Hardbase, to entertain our lonely missile men behind the
Moon. She should have been there in an hour. Her pilot was a safety pilot;
such ships shuttled unpiloted between Tycho and Farside daily.
radars. It was . . . somewhere.
Not in space, else it would be radioing for help and its radar beacon would
be seen by other ships, space stations, surface bases. It had crashed � or
made emergency landing � somewhere on the vastness of Luna.
"Meridian Space Station, Director speaking � " Lag was unnoticeable; radio
bounce between Washington and the station only 22,000 miles up was only a
quarter second. "We've patched Earthside stations to blanket the Moon with
our call. Another broadcast blankets the far side from Station Newton at
the three-body stable position. Ships from Tycho are orbiting the Moon's
rim � that band around the edge which is in radio shadow from us and from
the Newton. If we hear � "
"Yes, yes! How about radar search?"
"Sir, a rocket on the surface looks to radar like a million other features
the same size. Our one chance is to get them to answer . . . if they can.
Ultrahigh-resolution radar might spot them in months � but suits worn in
those little rockets carry only six hours air. We are praying they will
hear and answer."
"When they answer, you'll slap a radio direction finder on them. Eh?"
"No, sir."
"In God's name, why not?"
"Sir, a direction finder is useless for this job. It would tell us only
that the signal came from the Moon � which doesn't help."
"Doctor, you're saying that you might hear Betsy � and not know where she
is?"
"We're as blind as she is. We hope that she will be able to lead us to her
. . . if she hears us."
"How?"
"With a Laser. An intense, very tight beam of light. She'll hear it � "
"Hear a beam of light?"
"Yes, sir. We are jury-rigging to scan like radar � that won't show
anything. But we are modulating it to give a carrier wave in radio
frequency, then modulating that into audio frequency � and controlling that
by a piano. If she hears us, we'll tell her to listen while we scan the
Moon and run the scale on the piano � "
"All this while a little girl is dying?"
"Mister President � shut up!"
"Who was THAT?"
"I'm Betsy's father. They've patched me from Omaha. Please, Mr. President,
keep quiet and let them work. I want my daughter back."
The President answered tightly, "Yes, Mr. Barnes. Go ahead, Director. Order
anything you need."
In Station Meridian the director wiped his face. "Getting anything?"
"No. Boss, can't something be done about that Rio station? It's sitting
right on the frequency!"
"We'll drop a brick on them. Or a bomb. Joe, tell the President."
"I heard, Director. They'll be silenced!"
"Sh! Quiet! Betsy � do you hear me?" The operator looked intent, made an
adjustment.
From a speaker came a girl's light, sweet voice: " � to hear somebody! Gee,
I'm glad! Better come quick � the Major is hurt."
The Director jumped to the microphone. "Yes, Betsy, we'll hurry. You've got
to help us. Do you know where you are?"
"Somewhere on the Moon, I guess. We bumped hard and I was going to kid him
about it when the ship fell over. I got unstrapped and found Major Peters
and he isn't moving. Not dead � I don't think so; his suit puffs out like
mine and I hear something when I push my helmet against him. I just now
managed to get the door open." She added, "This can't be Farside; it's
supposed to be night there. I'm in sunshine, I'm sure. This suit is pretty
hot."
"Betsy, you must stay outside. You've got to be where you can see us."
She chuckled. "That's a good one. I see with my ears."
"Yes. You'll see us, with your ears. Listen, Betsy. We're going to scan the
Moon with a beam of light. You'll hear it as a piano note. We've got the
Moon split into the eighty-eight piano notes. When you hear one, yell,
'Now!' Then tell us what note you heard. Can you do that?"
"Of course," she said confidently, "if the piano is in tune."
"It is. All right, we re starting � "
"What note, Betsy?"
"Now!"
"E flat the first octave above middle C."
"This note, Betsy?"
"That's what I said."
the General!" He said to the microphone, "We're finding you, Betsy honey!
Now we scan just that part you're on. We change setup. Want to talk to your
Daddy meanwhile?"
"Gosh! Could I?"
"Yes indeed!"
Twenty minutes later he cut in and heard: " � of course not, Daddy. Oh, a
teensy bit scared when the ship fell. But people take care of me, always
have."
"Betsy?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Be ready to tell us again."
"Now!" She added, "That's a bullfrog G, three octaves down."
"This note?"
"That's right."
"Get that on the grid and tell the General to get his ships up! That cuts
it to a square ten miles on a side! Now, Betsy � we know almost where you
are. We are going to focus still closer. Want to go inside and cool off?"
"I'm not too hot. Just sweaty."
Forty minutes later the General's voice rang out: "They've spotted the
ship! They see her waving!"
LIFE-LINE
THE CHAIRMAN rapped loudly for order. Gradually the cat-calls and boos died
away as several self-appointed sergeant-at-arms persuaded a few hot-headed
individuals to sit down. The speaker on the rostrum by the chairman seemed
unaware of the disturbance. His bland, faintly insolent face was impassive.
The chairman turned to the speaker and addressed him in a voice in which
anger and annoyance were barely restrained.
"Dr. Pinero" � the "Doctor" was faintly stressed � "I must apologize to you
for the unseemly outburst during your remarks. I am surprised that my
colleagues should so far forget the dignity proper to men of science as to
interrupt a speaker, no matter" � he paused and set his mouth � "no matter
how great the provocation." Pinero smiled in his face, a smile that was in
some way an open insult. The chairman visibly controlled his temper and
continued: "I am anxious that the program be concluded decently and in
order. I want you to finish your remarks. Nevertheless, I must ask you to
refrain from affronting our intelligence with ideas that any educated man
knows to be fallacious. Please confine yourself to your discovery � if you
have made one."
Pinero spread his fat, white hands, palms down. "How can I possibly put a
new idea into your heads, if I do not first remove your delusions?"
The audience stirred and muttered. Someone shouted from the rear of the
hall: "Throw the charlatan out! We've had enough."
The chairman pounded his gavel.
"Gentlemen! Please!"
Then to Pinero, "Must I remind you that you are not a member of this body,
and that we did not invite you?"
Pinero's eyebrows lifted. "So? I seem to remember an invitation on the
letterhead of the Academy."
The chairman chewed his lower lip before replying. "True. I wrote that
invitation myself. But it was at the request of one of the trustees � a
fine, public-spirited gentleman, but not a scientist, not a member of the
Academy."
Pinero smiled his irritating smile. "So? I should have guessed. Old
Bidwell, not so, of Amalgamated Life Insurance? And he wanted his trained
seals to expose me as a fraud, yes? For if I can tell a man the day of his
own death, no one will buy his pretty policies. But how can you expose me,
if you will not listen to me first? Even supposing you had the wit to
understand me? Bah! He has sent jackals to tear down a lion." He
deliberately turned his back on them.
The muttering of the crowd swelled and took on a vicious tone. The chairman
cried vainly for order. There arose a figure in the front row.
"Mr. Chairman!"
The chairman grasped the opening and shouted: "Gentlemen! Dr. van Rhein
Smitt has the floor." The commotion died away.
The doctor cleared his throat, smoothed the forelock of his beautiful white
hair, and thrust one hand into a side pocket, of his smartly tailored
trousers. He assumed his women's-club manner.
"Mr. Chairman, fellow members of the Academy of Science, let us have
tolerance. Even a murderer has the right to say his say before the State
exacts its tribute. Shall we do less? Even though one may be intellectually