Now the faces of the three men fell. “No,” said Edison immediately. “Certainly not right now. As I told you we have learned the chemical composition of the wire, but simply mixing together the same elements in the same proportion does not produce the same results. The alloy we’ve been able to create has none of the physical properties of the original. Clearly there are steps in the manufacturing process that we do not understand.”
Andrew nodded. “The British say the same thing.”
“Even so,” said Sprague, “we have thousands of miles of this wire from captured machines. We’ve seen that even small amounts of it can store large amounts of power. The potential for us to create compact storage batteries and powerful electric motors is very great. Have the British been working on those ideas, too?” He started rummaging through the stack of paper.
“Yes, I believe they have,” replied Andrew. “They’ve also been working on some other things—with considerable success.” He leaned across the table and flipped through the papers until he found a page he’d marked by folding the corner. “Are any of you gentlemen familiar with the concept of a ‘coil gun’?”
“Uh, there was a Norwegian fellow…” said Hammer.
“Yes, Birkeland, Kristian Birkeland,” said Edison. “He received a patent on the idea back in ’04 or ’05. Some sort of electromagnetic gun, as I recall.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Andrew. “A series of electromagnets accelerate a projectile to very high velocities. The British have already created, and are using, such weapons—using this wire. The Ordnance Department is very interested in building our own version. I believe the plans are in these documents. We’d like to have a test model ready before the end of the year.”
Edison rubbed his chin. “Might be doable. We’ll get to work on it.” He picked up the strand of wire again and looked at Andrew. “We’re going to need as much of this as we can get. And right now you fellows in the army are the only ones who can get it for us.”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “We’re working on it. Well, sir, gentlemen, I have to be going. Please keep us appraised of your progress.”
He took his leave and walked down to the train station, which was only a few blocks away. He caught a train to nearby New York City where he changed trains for Boston. In the middle of the day, it wasn’t too crowded. At least half the other passengers were in uniform. Once in a seat, he closed his eyes. He’d only been back for a little over a week and the ‘honeymoon’ cruise seemed like a dream. He had a huge amount of work to do and had only spent one night with his wife since they returned.
The great victory on the coast of Venezuela was still a major news story, but it couldn’t crowd out the fact that the second wave of Martian cylinders was due in less than two months. The level of activity had increased, just in the time he’d been away, to amazing levels. The fortifications around the cities, which had been all but abandoned after the first landing, were being worked on again at a frantic pace. And now they weren’t just ditches in the mud. Concrete was being poured and guns mounted. The train passed fort after fort as it moved north.
Military camps were everywhere, too, and now they weren’t just for raw recruits. The men were organized in functioning military units, ready for combat. Tank production had reached a level where a new battalion was finished every week. Camp Colt at Gettysburg had been tripled in size to train the crews. Heavy artillery, too, was being turned out in unprecedented amounts. His train passed sidings jammed with flat cars carrying tanks and guns, ready to move. If the Martians did try to land in the east, they were going to be in for a rude surprise!
It was mid-afternoon by time he reached Boston. He took a trolley car to the campus of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He had to ask direction to find the Metallurgy Department which was in a building on Garrison Street, some distance from the rest of the campus.
As he was about to go up the steps to the main door of the building, someone was suddenly shouting. “Major! Major Comstock?” He looked back the way he had just come and saw two men. One was fairly dashing toward him while the other was following at a more sedate pace. He paused on the steps and the leading man stopped on the sidewalk a few feet away, gasping for breath. “Major Comstock?” he said again.
“Yes. What is it?” He stared at the man and saw that he was about his own age, although he had already lost most of his hair. He had a small mustache and was wearing a rather cheap-looking suit of clothes with a crumpled hat clutched in his hand. The second man walked up and he was much older, fairly stout, and also sported a mustache.
“Oh, thank goodness we spotted you,” said the younger one. “A friend of mine here at MIT told me you were supposed to be here today and we wanted to take the chance to see you!”
“Excuse me, sir, do I know you?” Andrew was fairly certain he’d never laid eyes on either one of the men before.
“No, no, we’ve never met, but please let me introduce us. My name’s Goddard, Robert Goddard, and this is Charles Munroe.”
“Pleased to meet you. But why did you want to see me? And why did you need to run me down on the street?”
“Well, you see, we know you work in the Ordnance Department—there were those stories in the newspapers about what you did out west—and that you’re involved with developing new weapons to use against the Martians.”
“Yes, that’s true, although all I really do is see what other people have come up with and then report back to my superiors in Washington. Coordination, that sort of thing.”
“That’s perfect,” said Goddard, “because Charles and I have an idea for a new weapon which we think will be very useful against the Martians!”
Oh dear… Since the start of the war, the army had found itself under an increasing flood of suggestions for ‘great new weapons’. Most came from well-meaning citizens who had come up with some idea which they felt would help win the war. Most often the ideas were completely unworkable and could be disregarded instantly. Other times the ideas sounded reasonable enough that some investigation was warranted. Andrew had gotten stuck with a few of them and in each case they had proved to be impractical if not unworkable. The worst were the ones which had some sort of high ranking backer, like a senator or governor, working on behalf of some friend. Letting those people down softly was a job for a diplomat, not a major in ordnance. On very rare occasions, the idea had some real merit. Back in Washington, there was a whole office with a lieutenant and a half-dozen men who sorted through these ideas full-time to see what category they fell in. Andrew was grateful he’d gotten promoted soon enough to have avoided that duty!
But this was the first time he’d been hunted down in the street by idea bearers!
“Uh, there is an office at the Ordnance Department where you can send your ideas, gentlemen, I can give you the address. Right now I have a…”
“We’ve tried that route, sir!” interrupted Goddard. “If you could just give us a moment of your time, you’ll see that we’re not a pair of crackpots! Charles here is an engineer with the US Naval Torpedo Station in Newport!”
That got Andrew’s attention. Munroe, Munroe, hadn’t he heard that name before? He checked the time and saw that he had a few minutes. He came down the steps to stand with them on the sidewalk. “Mr. Munroe, if you work for the navy, why haven’t you tried them?”
“I have tried. I’m afraid that they showed little interest.”
“They said the ‘Munroe Effect’ had no application in naval ordnance!” said Goddard indignantly. “No application!”
Munroe Effect? Ah! That’s where he knew the name from! “You, uh, you’ve done work with explosives, as I recall?”
“Yes, Major. It’s a proven phenomenon that high explosives, if formed in certain shapes, will direct a significant portion of their force in a controllable direction. This would allow a charge of a given size to penetrate an object more deeply than a non-directional charge of the same size.”
“Right, right, I remember now. It
does seem as though such a thing might have some uses.”
“Like penetrating the armor of a Martian machine!” said Goddard. “My friend told me you were here today to see some tests on the Martian armor. That’s why we thought you might be interested.”
“And what is your, ah, interest in this Mr. Goddard?”
“Well, you see, I’ve recently been doing some work in the field of rocketry…”
“Rocketry?”
“Yes, sir. A sadly neglected field! Rockets have been used by armies and navies for centuries, but there hasn’t been any real progress in ages. I have some ideas which will make rockets far more reliable and far more accurate.”
“I see.”
“Rockets have the advantage that they don’t need heavy metal gun tubes to launch them. They are much cheaper and much lighter—and thus more mobile—than conventional artillery.”
And much less accurate, thought Andrew.
“But against the Martians, a standard shrapnel warhead would probably do them little harm. Based on the reports we’ve seen, the Martian armor must be struck a very heavy impact to suffer damage. Typical rockets would be unable to do that. I couldn’t see any way a lightweight rocket would be much use.
“But then when I read about Charles’ work I realized we had the answer! A shaped charge warhead delivered by a rocket could do the trick!”
“Perhaps it would,” said Andrew, impressed in spite of himself. “But we have conventional artillery in ever-growing amounts.”
“Yes, and I’m not proposing that our rockets would replace the artillery, Major! But it’s obvious from the newspapers and military journals that our infantry is terribly vulnerable to the Martian machines. Even the hand-thrown dynamite bombs are extremely dangerous to use and force the infantry to close to suicidal ranges.”
That’s for sure!
“Rockets would give the infantry a real chance!”
“You think you could develop an effective weapon light enough to be carried by infantry?”
“It’s possible! All we ask is a chance to try!”
Andrew checked the time again. “I have to go. But here is my card. If you can send me a written proposal, I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, sir!” cried Goddard, snatching the card and then vigorously pumping Andrew’s hand. Andrew disentangled himself and retreated up the steps. That had been awkward, but who knew? Perhaps something useful would come of it.
Inside the building, which appeared to be a converted warehouse of some sort, he was directed down to the basement where he was met by Henry Howe, head of MIT’s Metallurgical Department. He had two other men with him, Radclyff Furness and Nathanial Keith.
“Welcome, Major,” said Howe. “Good to meet you at last. Nice to put a face to someone I’ve been corresponding with. I must say these samples you’ve sent us have posed a pretty puzzle!”
“That seems to be what everyone I send things say, sir. Have you managed to solve any of it?”
“We’ve certainly accumulated some fascinating data and observations, but I’m not sure we’ve solved anything. But here. Let me show you.” He led the way through a maze of machines, cabinets, and work tables to an area that had been fenced off. He produced a key to unlock the door. “Need to keep these secure,” he explained. “Can’t afford to let the students take any souvenirs!”
At one end of the space was an enormous power-hammer. The rest was filled with cabinets, work benches, microscopes, vises, chisels, wrenches, saws, files, and a multitude of other tools. On many of the benches were sections of Martian machines which had been salvages after the Battle of Prewitt. One piece had been clamped beneath the power-hammer.
“Here, I want to show you this first, Major,” said Howe, handing him a large magnifying glass. “Take a look at the section of metal right under the hammer.” Andrew took the glass and did as instructed. All he saw was a uniform gray-silver surface. “Nothing to see, right? No sign of those hexagonal flakes?”
“No, none,” said Andrew. The Martian armor seemed to be composed of a multitude of tiny metal flakes in the shape of a hexagon. Andrew had seen how they came loose when damaged.
“All right, now stand back please.” Andrew did so while Howe made some adjustments to the power-hammer. As he waited, Andrew took a closer look at the actual hammer.
“Is that a three-inch artillery round?”
“A mock-up of one,” said Howe. “No explosive charge, of course, but the same size, shape, and material as one. We have other heads for four-inch, five-inch, and seven-inch. We can adjust the force of the hammer to approximate the impact of the actual projectiles.”
“Ingenious,” said Andrew, very impressed.
“Beats the hell out of lugging these things out to an artillery range,” said Furness.
“Okay, here we go,” said Howe, flipping a switch. The hammer moved upward and then suddenly smashed down on the metal plate with a ringing crash. He flipped another switch and the hammer drew upward a little and stopped. “Take a look now.”
Andrew picked up the glass and again inspected the surface. This time he saw a web of hexagonal-shaped cracks radiating out from the point of impact. He’d seen similar things on the wrecked Martian machines. “No loose flakes, though,” he said looking around.
“No, through many tests we’ve been able to find just the right force to produce the cracks, without knocking anything loose.”
“Okay, so what am I looking for?”
“Actually, nothing just at the moment, but remember how the pattern of cracks look.” Andrew took another look and then handed the glass back to Howe.
“While we’re waiting…”
“Waiting for what?”
“You’ll see. While we’re waiting, let me tell you a bit about what else we’ve learned. Naturally, the first thing we did was test the metal itself. Tensile strength, compression strength, malleability, melting point, they were all very high compared to any alloy we’re familiar with. The melting point, especially; we had to use our hottest arc furnace to melt a sample. The chemical composition was quite unusual, too: titanium, aluminum, iron, copper, calcium, and a host of rare earths; an unexpected mix of elements. Mostly titanium and not all that much iron, so it has very little magnetic attraction. And using the exact proportions we found in the sample we tried casting our own pieces and…”
“Let me guess,” said Andrew, “the results were different from the samples.”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“I met with Edison this morning and he had some Martian electrical wire which did the same thing. As he put it: ‘Clearly there are steps in the manufacturing process that we do not understand’.”
“That about sums it up, yes,” said Howe.
“So there’s no way to produce this stuff ourselves?”
“Not at this time, no. Perhaps as we learn more. But to be honest we have a lot more to learn than just how to produce the alloy itself.” He checked his pocket watch and said: “Should be long enough. Have another look at the sample, Major.” Again he proffered the magnifying glass.
Andrew went back to the power hammer and looked at the metal plate. What was he supposed to…? He looked closer and the web of cracks was much smaller than before! When he first looked, the pattern was as large as his hand. Now it was about the size of a silver dollar! And squinting, he focused on one single crack at the edge of the pattern and saw that it was slowly closing up! After another few seconds it was completely gone! “It… it’s healing itself!” he cried.
“That’s a good way of putting it,” said Howe.
“But how is it doing this?”
“Good question, I wish I had the answer.”
Andrew glanced at his briefcase. There was another thick bundle of papers he’d brought for Howe, but unlike the one he gave to Edison, he hadn’t had a chance to even browse through them. Did the British have any answers to this mystery? Somehow he doubted it.
“There are a few thing
s we do know, however,” continued Howe. “One is that prior to the healing process finishing up, the area around the damage is significantly weaker. I read the report you wrote after the battle in New Mexico and your hypothesis that damage can weaken the surrounding structure is exactly correct. That was some fine reasoning, Major.”
“Uh, thanks…”
“Also, we’ve found that if the damage is enough to knock some of the hexagonal flakes loose, it will still heal, but with ‘divots’ where the missing flakes were, again weakening the structure in proportion to how big a ‘divot’ it was. And it should be noted that once a flake is knocked loose, it loses whatever this mysterious property is. We tried immediately putting the loose flakes back into their proper position on the plate, but they were not reattached.”
Howe went over to a shelf and pulled down a box and opened it. Inside was a mound of the hexagonal flakes. “We also discovered that if a plate is smashed down to small enough fragments it loses its ability to hold itself together completely and simply falls apart.”
“So,” said Andrew, “at present your best recommendation for dealing with the Martian armor is to do as we have been: just keep pounding them until they fall over?”
Howe smiled grimly. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Of course the more force you can hit them with, the greater the damage—but that’s nothing new.”
Andrew nodded, thinking about the coil gun idea. Those should supply more force! He thanked the men and gave them the bundle of British document. They were just as scandalized as Edison had been, but when he left they had their noses pressed to the papers.
He stepped out of the building and saw why the street it was on was named ‘Garrison’. There was a large brick armory on the next block and a swarm of men in uniform were assembling there. Walking over he realized that they were MIT students undergoing training. Yes, nearly every college and university in the country now had compulsory military training, hoping to turn out the educated officers that would be needed for the vastly expanded army.
The long day was drawing to a close. It was nearly dark by the time he got to the railroad station. He’d take the night train back to Washington where Victoria—and more work—awaited him.
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