The Menace From Earth

by Robert A. Heinlein

"‘Brown,'" he agreed, "but how about a show for the boys?"

  "Dr. Reynolds wouldn't like it," the first said dutifully. "I'll handle him. We don't get USO; security regulations are too strict. How about it, Joan?"

  "I'm Jane. Okay, if you fix it with Prof."

  "Good girls!" He went back to where Grandma Wilkins was demonstrating selection—showers of sixes in the chuck-a-luck cage. She was still tatting. Dr. Withers watched glumly. Hammond said, ‘Well, Doc?"

  "These things are disturbing," Withers admitted, "but it's on the molar level—nothing affecting the elementary parti­cles."

  "How about those sketches?"

  "I'm a physicist, not a psychologist. But the basic particles—electrons, neutrons, protons—can't be affected except with apparatus designed in accordance with the laws of radioactiv­ity. Dr. Reynolds was in earshot; at Withers' remark he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Wilkins. Now, ladies and gentlemen, an­other experiment. Norman!"

  The colored boy opened his eyes. "Yeah, Prof?"

  "Up here. And the team from your physics laboratory, please. Has anyone a radium-dial watch?"

  Staff technicians hooked the Geiger counter through an amplifier so that normal background radioactivity was heard as occasional clicks, then placed a radium-dial watch close to the counter tube; the clicks changed to hail-storm volume. "Lights out, please," directed Reynolds.

  The boy said, "Now, Prof?"

  "Wait, Norman. Can everyone see the watch?" The silence was broken only by the rattle of the amplifier, counting radioactivity of the glowing figures. "Now, Norman!"

  The shining figures quenched out; the noise, died to sparse clicks.

  The same group was in a blockhouse miles out in the desert; more miles beyond was the bomb proving site; facing it was a periscope window set in concrete and glazed with solid feet of laminated filter glass. Dr. Reynolds was talking with Major General Hanby. A naval captain took reports via earphones and speaker horn; he turned to the C.O. "Planes on station, sir."

  "Thanks, Dick."

  The horn growled, "Station Charlie to Control; we fixed it."

  The navy man said to Hanby, "All stations ready, range clear."

  "Pick up the count."

  "All stations, stand by to resume count at minus seven­teen minutes. Time station, pick up the count. This is a live nun. Repeat, this is a live run."

  Hanby said to Reynolds, "Distance makes no difference?"

  "We could work from Salt Lake City once my colleagues knew the setup." He glanced down. "My watch must have stopped."

  "Always feels that way. Remember the metronome on the first Bikini test? It nearly drove me nuts."

  "I can imagine. Um, General, some of my people are high-strung. Suppose I ad lib?"

  Hanby smiled grimly. "We always have a pacifier for visitors. Doctor Withers, ready with your curtain raiser?"

  The chief physicist was bending over a group of instru­ments; he looked tired. "Not today," he answered in a flat voice. "Satterlee will make it."

  Satterlee came forward and grinned at the brass and V.I.P.'s and at Reynolds' operators. "I've been saving a joke for an audience that can't walk out. But first—" He picked up a polished metal sphere and looked at the ES.P. adepts. "You saw a ball like this on your tour this morning. That one was plutonium; it's still out there waiting to go bang! in about... eleven minutes. This is merely steel—unless someone has made a mistake. That would be a joke­—we'd laugh ourselves to bits!"

  He got no laughs, went on: "But it doesn't weigh enough; we're safe. This dummy has been prepared so that Dr. Reyn­olds' people will have an image to help them concentrate. It looks no more like an atom bomb than I look like Stalin, but it represents—if it were plutonium—what we atom tinker­ers call a ‘subcritical mass.' Since the spy trials everybody knows how an atom bomb works. Plutonium gives off neutrons at a constant rate. If the mass is small, most of them escape to the outside. But if it is large enough, or a critical mass, enough are absorbed by other nuclei to start a chain reaction. The trick is to assemble a critical mass quickly— then run for your life! This happens in microseconds; I can't be specific without upsetting the security officer.

  "Today we will find out if the mind can change the rate of neutron emission in plutonium. By theories sound enough to have destroyed two Japanese cities, the emission of any particular neutron is pure chance, but the total emission is as invariable as the stars in their courses. Otherwise it would be impossible to make atom bombs.

  "By standard theory, theory that works, that subcritical mass out there is no more likely to explode than a pumpkin. Our test group will try to change that. They will con­centrate, try to increase the probability of neutrons' escaping, and thus set off that sphere as an atom bomb."

  "Doctor Satterlee?" asked a vice admiral with wings. "Do you think it can be done?"

  "Absolutely not!" Satterlee turned to the adepts. "No of­fense intended, folks."

  "Five minutes!" announced the navy captain.

  Satterlee nodded to Reynolds. "Take over. And good luck." Mrs. Wilkins spoke up. "Just a moment, young man. These ‘neuter' things. I—"

  "Neutrons, madam."

  "That's what I said. I don't quite understand. I suppose that sort of thing comes in high school, but I only finished eighth grade. I'm sorry."

  Satterlee looked sorry, too, but, he tried. "—and each of these nuclei is potentially able to spit out one of these little neutrons. In that sphere out there"—he held up the dummy—"There are, say, five thousand billion trillion nuclei, each one—"

  "My, that's quite a lot, isn't it?"

  "Madam, it certainly is. Now—"'

  "Two minutes!"

  Reynolds interrupted. "Mrs.. Wilkins, don't worry. Con­centrate on that metal ball out there and think about those neutrons, each one ready to come out. When I give the word, I want you all—you especially, Norman—to think about that ball, spitting sparks like a watch dial. Try for more sparks. Simply try. It you fail, no one will blame you. Don't get tense."

  Mrs. Wilkins nodded. "I'll try." She put her tatting down and got a faraway look.

  At once they were blinded by unbelievable radiance burst­ing through the massive filter. It beat on them, then died away.

  The naval captain said, "What the hell!" Someone screamed, "It's gone, it's gone!"

  The speaker brayed: "Fission at minus one minute thirty-seven seconds. Control, what went wrong. It looks like a hy­drogen—"

  The concussion wave hit and all sounds were smothered.

  Lights went out, emergency lighting clicked on. The blockhouse heaved like a boat in a heavy sea. Their eyes were still dazzled, their ears assaulted by cannonading afternoise, and physicists were elbowing flag officers at the port, when an an­guished soprano cut through the din. "Oh, dear!"

  Reynolds snapped, "What's the matter, Grandma? You all right?"

  "Me? Oh, yes, yes—but I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do it."

  "Do what?"

  "I was just feeling it out, thinking about all those little bitty neuters, ready to spit. But I didn't mean to make it go off—not till you told us to."

  "Oh." Reynolds turned to ‘the rest. "Anyone else jump the gun?"

  No one admitted it. Mrs. Wilkins said timidly, "I'm sorry, Doctor. Have they got another one? I'll be more careful."

  Reynolds and Withers were seated in the officers' mess with coffee in front of them; the physicist paid no attention to his. His eyes glittered and his face twitched. "No limits! Calculations show over ninety per cent conversion of mass to energy. You know what that means? If we assume—no, never mind. Just say that we could make every bomb the size of a pea. No tamper. No control circuits. Nothing but..." He paused. "Delivery would be fast, small jets—just a pilot, a weaponeer, and one of your ‘operators.' No limit to the number of bombs. No nation on earth could—"

  "Take it easy," said Reynolds. "We've got only a few telekinesis operators. You wouldn't risk them in a plane."

  "But—"
>
  "You don't need to. Show them the bombs, give them photos of the targets, hook them by radio to the weaponeer. That spreads them thin. And we'll test for more sensitive people. My figures show about one in eighteen hundred."

  "‘Spread them thin,'" repeated Withers.' "Mrs. Wilkins could handle dozens of bombs, one after another—couldn't she?"

  "I suppose so. We'll test."

  "We will indeed!" ‘Withers noticed his coffee, gulped it. "Forgive me, Doctor; I'm punchy. I've had to revise too many opinions."

  "I know. I was a behaviorist."

  Captain Mikeler came in, looked around and came over. "The General wants you both," he said softly. "Hurry."

  They were ushered into a guarded office.. Major General Hanby was with General LaMott and Vice Admiral Keithley; they looked grim. Hanby handed them message flimsies. Reyn­olds saw the stamp TOP SECRET and handed his back. "Gen­eral, I'm not cleared for this,"

  "Shut up and read it."

  Reynolds skipped the number groups:

  "—(PARAPHRASED) RUSSIAN EMBASSY TODAY HANDED STATE ULTIMATUM: DE­MANDS USA CONVERT TO ‘PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC' UNDER POLITICAL COMMISSARS TO BE ASSIGNED BY USSR. MILITARY ASSURANCES DEMANDED. NOTE CLAIMS MAJOR US CITIES (LIST SEPARATE) ARE MINED WITH ATOMIC BOMBS WHICH THEY THREATEN TO SET OFF BY RADIO IF TERMS ARE NOT MET BY SIXTEEN HUNDRED FRIDAY EST."

  Reynolds reread it—"SIXTEEN HUNDRED FRIDAY"—Two P.M. day after tomorrow, local time. Our cities booby-trapped with A-bombs? Could they do that? He realized that LaMott was speaking. "We must assume that the threat is real. Our free organization makes it an obvious line of attack."

  The admiral said, "They may be bluffing."

  The air general shook his head. "They know the President won't surrender. We can't assume that Ivan is stupid."

  Reynolds wondered why he was being allowed to hear this. LaMott looked at him. "Admiral Keithley and I leave for Washington at once. I have delayed to ask you this: your people set off an atom bomb. Can they keep bombs from going off?"

  Reynolds felt his time sense stretch as if he had all year to think about Grandma Wilkins, Norman, his other paranor­mals. "Yes," he answered.

  LaMott stood up. "Your job, Hanby. Coming, Admiral?"

  "Wait!" protested Reynolds. "Give me one bomb and Mrs. Wilkins—and I'll sit on it. But how many cities? Twenty? Thirty?"

  "Thirty-eight."

  "Thirty-eight bombs—or more. Where are they? What do they look like? How long will this go on? It's impossible."

  "Of course—but do it anyhow. Or try. Hanby, tell them we're on our way, will you?"

  "Certainly, General."

  "Good-by, Doctor. Or so long, rather."

  Reynolds suddenly realized that these two were going back to "sit" on one of the bombs, to continue their duties until it killed them. He said quickly, "We'll try. We'll certainly try."

  Thirty-eight cities, forty-three hours and seven­teen adepts. Others were listed in years of research, but they were scattered through forty-one states. In a dictatorship secret police would locate them at once, deliver them at super­sonic speeds. But this was America.

  "Find them! Get them here! Fast! Hanby assigned Colonel Hammond to turn Reynolds' wishes into orders and directed his security officer to delegate his duties, get on the phone and use his acquaintance with the F.B.I., and other se­curity officers, and through them with local police, to cut red tape and find those paranormals. Find them, convince them, bring pressure, start them winging toward the proving ground. By sundown, twenty-three had been found, eleven had been convinced or coerced, two had arrived. Hanby phoned Reynolds, caught him eating a sandwich standing up. "Hanby speaking. The Président just phoned."

  "The President?"

  "LaMott got in to see him. He's dubious, but he's author­ized an all-out try, short of slowing down conventional de­fense. One of his assistants left National Airport by jet plane half an hour ago to come here and help. Things will move faster."

  But it did not speed things up, as the Russian broadcast was even then being beamed, making the crisis public; the President went on the air thirty minutes later. Reynolds did not hear him; he was busy. Twenty people to save twenty cities—and a world. But how? He was sure that Mrs. Wilkins could smother any A-bomb she had seen; he hoped the others could. But a hidden bomb in a far-off city—find it mentally, think about it, quench it, not for the microsecond it took to set one off, but for the billions of microseconds it might take to uncover it—was it possible?

  What would help? Certain drugs—caffeine, benzedrine. They must have quiet, too. He turned to Hammond. "I want a room and bath for each one."

  "You've got that."

  "No, we're doubled up, with semi-private baths."

  Hammond shrugged. "Can do. It means booting out some brass."

  "Keep the kitchen manned. They must not sleep, but they'll have to eat. Fresh coffee all the time and cokes and tea—any­thing they want. Can you put the room phones through a private switchboard?"

  "Okay. What else?"

  "I don't know. We'll talk to them."

  They all knew of the Russian broadcast, but not what was being planned; they met his words with uneasy silence. Reyn­olds turned to Andrews. "Well, Two-Gun?"

  "Big bite to chew, Prof."

  "Yes. Can you chew it?"

  "Have to, I reckon."

  "Norman?"

  "Gee, Boss! How can I when I can't see ‘em?"

  "Mrs. Wilkins couldn't see that bomb this morning. You can't see radioactivity on a watch dial; it's too small. You just see the dial and think about it. Well?"

  The Negro lad scowled. "Think of a shiny ball in a city somewhere?"

  "Yes. No, wait—Colonel Hammond, they need a visual image and it won't be that. There are atom bombs here—they must see one."

  Hammond frowned. "An American bomb meant for drop­ping or firing won't look like a Russian bomb rigged for placement and radio triggering."

  "What will they look like?"

  "G-2 ought to know. I hope. We'll get some sort of pic­ture. A three-dimensional mock-up, too. I'd better find With­ers and the General." He left.

  Mrs. Wilkins said briskly, "Doctor, I'll watch Washington, D. C."

  "Yes, Mrs. Wilkins. You're the only one who has been tested, even in reverse. So you guard Washington; it's of prime importance."

  "No, no, that's not why. It's the city I can see best."

  Andrews said, "She's got something, Prof. I pick Seattle."

  By midnight Reynolds had his charges, twenty-six by now, tucked away in the officers' club. Hammond and he took turns at a switchboard rigged in the upper hall. The watch would not start until shortly before deadline. Fatigue reduced paranormal powers, sometimes to zero; Reynolds hoped that they were getting one last night of sleep.

  A microphone had been installed in each room; a selector switch let them listen in. Reynolds disliked this but Hammond argued, "Sure, it's an invasion of privacy. So is being blown up by an A-bomb." He dialed the switch. "Hear that? Our boy Norman is sawing wood." He moved it again. "Private ‘Two-Gun' is stilt stirring. We can't let them sleep, once it starts, so we have to spy on them."

  "I suppose so."

  Withers came upstairs. "Anything more you need?'

  "I guess not," answered Reynolds. "How about the bomb mock-up?"

  "Before morning."

  "How authentic is it?"

  "Hard to say. Their agents probably rigged firing circuits from radio parts bought right here; the circuits could vary a lot. But the business part—well, we're using real plutonium.

  "Good. We'll show it to them after breakfast."

  Two-Gun's door opened. "Howdy, Colonel. Prof—it's there."

  "What is?'

  "The bomb. Under Seattle. I can feel it."

  "Where is it?"

  "It's down—it feels down. And it feels wet, somehow. Would they put it in the Sound?"

  Hammond jumped up. "In the harbor—and shower the city with radioactive water!" He
was ringing as he spoke. "Get me General Hanby!"

  "Morrison here," a voice answered. "What is it, Ham­mond?"

  "The Seattle bomb—have them dredge for it. It's in the Sound, or somewhere under water."

  "Eh? How do you know?"

  "One of Reynolds' magicians. Do it!" He cut off.

  Andrews said worriedly, "Prof, I can't see it—I'm not a ‘seeing-eye.' Why don't you get one? Say that little Mrs. Bren­tano?"

  "Oh, my God! Clairvoyants.—we need them, too." Withers said, "Eh, Doctor? Do you think—"

  "No, I don't, or I would have thought of it. How do they search for bombs? What instruments?"

  "Instruments? A bomb in its shielding doesn't even affect a Geiger counter. You have to open things and look."

  "How long will that take? Say for New York!"

  ‘‘Hammond said, "Shut up! Reynolds, where are these clair­voyants?"

  Reynolds chewed his lip. "They're scarce."

  "Scarcer than us dice rollers," added Two-Gun. "But get that Brentano kid. She found keys I had lost digging a ditch. Buried three feet deep—and me searching my quarters."

  "Yes, yes, Mrs. Brentano." Reynolds pulled out a notebook. Hammond reached for the switchboard. "Morrison? Stand by for more names—and even more urgent than the others."

  More urgent but harder to find; the Panic was on. The President urged everyone to keep cool and stay home, where­upon thirty million people stampeded. The ticker in the P.I.O. office typed the story: "NEW YORK NY—TO CLEAR JAM CAUSED BY WRECKS IN OUTBOUND TUBE THE INBOUND TUBE OF HOL­LAND TUNNEL HAS BEEN REVERSED. POLICE HAVE STOP­PED TRYING TO PREVENT EVACUATION. BULLDOZERS WORKING TO REOPEN TRIBOROUGH BRIDGE, BLADES SHOVING WRECKED CARS AND HUMAN HAMBURGER. WEEHAWKEN FERRY DISASTER

  CONFIRMED: NO PASSENGER LIST YET—FLASH—GEORGE WASH­INGTON BRIDGE GAVE WAY AT 0353 EST, WHETHER FROM OVER­LOAD OR SABOTAGE NOT KNOWN. MORE MORE MORE—FLASH—

  It was repeated everywhere. The Denver-Colorado Springs highway had one hundred thirty-five deaths by midnight, then reports stopped. A DC-7 at Burbank ploughed into a mob which had broken through the barrier. The Baltimore-Wash­ington highway was clogged both ways; Memorial Bridge was out of service. The five outlets from Los Angeles were solid with creeping cars. At four A.M. EST the President de­clared martial law; the order had no immediate effect.