“‘Solly,’ he said, toying with the plastic horror which had reached Junior by courtesy of Crunch, the Succulent Cereal—Not a Burp in a Barrel—‘Solly, I still want a gun that does something.’
“Solly ducked in time, so the jet went over his head and baptised a photograph of Louella Parsons.
“‘You’re not going to start shooting all over again!” he wailed.
“‘Nooo,’ replied the producer, with obvious reluctance. ‘We’ll have to use what we’ve got. But it looks faked, somehow.’ He ruffled through the script on his desk, then brightened up.
“‘Now next week we start on Episode 54—“Slaves of the Slug-Men.” Well, the Slug-Men gotta have guns, so what I’d like you to do is this—’
“The Mark III gave Solly a lot of trouble. (I haven’t missed out one yet, have I? Good.) Not only had it to be a completely new design, but as you’ll have gathered it had to ‘do something’. This was a challenge to Solly’s ingenuity: however, if I may borrow from Professor Toynbee, it was a challenge that evoked the appropriate response.
“Some high-powered engineering went into the Mark III. Luckily, Solly knew an ingenious technician who’d helped him out on similar occasions before, and he was really the man behind it. (‘I’ll say he was!’ said Mr. Blumberg gloomily.) The principle was to use a jet of air, produced by a small but extremely powerful electric fan, and then to spray finely divided powder into it. When the thing was adjusted correctly, it shot out a most impressive beam, and made a still more impressive noise. The actors were so scared of it that their performances became most realistic.
“The producer was delighted—for a full three days. Then a dreadful doubt assailed him.
“‘Solly,’ he said, ‘Those damn guns are too good. The Slug-Men can beat the pants off Captain Zoom. We’ll have to give him something better.’
“It was at this point that Solly realised what had happened. He had become involved in an armaments race.
“Let’s see, this brings us to the Mark IV, doesn’t it? How did that work?—oh yes, I remember. It was a glorified oxyacetylene burner, with various chemicals injected into it to produce the most beautiful flames. I should have mentioned that from Episode 50—‘Doom on Deimos’—the studio had switched over from black and white to Murkicolor, and great possibilities were thus opened up. By squirting copper or strontium or barium into the jet, you could get any colour you wanted.
“If you think that by this time the Producer was satisfied, you don’t know Hollywood. Some cynics may still laugh when the motto ‘Ars Gratia Artis’ flashes on the screen, but this attitude, I submit, is not in accordance with the facts. Would such old fossils as Michaelangelo, Rembrandt or Titian have spent so much time, effort and money on the quest for perfection as did Pandemic Productions? I think not.
“I don’t pretend to remember all the Marks that Solly and his ingenious engineer friend produced during the course of the serial. There was one that shot out a stream of coloured smoke-rings. There was the high-frequency generator that produced enormous but quite harmless sparks. There was a particularly ingenious curved beam produced by a jet of water with light reflected along inside it, which looked most spectacular in the dark. And finally, there was the Mark 12.”
“Mark 13,” said Mr. Blumberg.
“Of course—how stupid of me! What other number could it have been! The Mark 13 was not actually a portable weapon—though some of the others were portable only by a considerable stretch of the imagination. It was the diabolical device to be installed on Phobos in order to subjugate Earth. Though Solly has explained them to me once, the scientific principles involved escape my simple mind… However, who am I to match my brains against the intellects responsible for Captain Zoom? I can only report what the ray was supposed to do, not how it did it. It was to start a chain reaction in the atmosphere of our unfortunate planet, making the nitrogen and the oxygen in the air combine—with highly deleterious effects to terrestrial life.
“I’m not sure whether to be sorry or glad that Solly left all the details of the fabulous Mark 13 to his talented assistant. Though I’ve questioned him at some length, all he can tell me is that the thing was about six feet high and looked like a cross between the 200 inch telescope and an anti-aircraft gun. That’s not very helpful, is it?
“He also says that there were a lot of radio tubes in the brute, as well as a thundering great magnet. And it was definitely supposed to produce a harmless but impressive electric arc, which could be distorted into all sorts of interesting shapes by the magnet. That was what the inventor said, and, despite everything, there is still no reason to disbelieve him.
“By one of those mischances that later turns out to be providential, Solly wasn’t at the studio when they tried out the Mark 13. To his great annoyance, he had to be down in Mexico that day. And wasn’t that lucky for you, Solly! He was expecting a long-distance call from one of his friends in the afternoon, but when it came through it wasn’t the kind of message he’d anticipated.
“The Mark 13 had been, to put it mildly, a success. No-one knew exactly what had happened, but by a miracle no lives had been lost and the fire department had been able to save the adjoining studios. It was incredible, yet the facts were beyond dispute. The Mark 13 was supposed to be a phony death-ray—and it had turned out to be a real one. Something had emerged from the projector, and gone through the studio wall as if it wasn’t there. Indeed, a moment later it wasn’t. There was just a great big hole, beginning to smoulder round the edges. And then the roof fell in.…
“Unless Solly could convince the F.B.I. that it was all a mistake, he’d better stay the other side of the border. Even now the Pentagon and the Atomic Energy Commission were converging upon the wreckage.…
“What would you have done in Solly’s shoes? He was innocent, but how could he prove it? Perhaps he would have gone back to face the music if he hadn’t remembered that he’d once hired a man who’d campaigned for Henry Wallace, back in ’48. That might take some explaining away: besides, Solly was a little tired of Captain Zoom. So here he is. Anyone know of a British film company that might have an opening for him? But historical films only, please. He won’t touch anything more up-to-date than cross-bows.”
Critical Mass
“Did I ever tell you,” said Harry Purvis modestly, “about the time I prevented the evacuation of southern England?”
“You did not,” said Charles Willis, “or if you did, I slept through it.”
“Well, then,” continued Harry, when enough people had gathered round him to make a respectable audience. “It happened two years ago at the Atomic Energy Research Establishment near Clobham. You all know the place, of course. But I don’t think I’ve mentioned that I worked there for a while, on a special job I can’t talk about.”
“That makes a nice change,” said John Wyndham, without the slightest effect.
“It was on a Saturday afternoon,” Harry began. “A beautiful day in late spring. There were about six of us scientists in the bar of the “Black Swan,” and the windows were open so that we could see down the slopes of Clobham Hill and out across the country to Upchester, about thirty miles away. It was so clear, in fact, that we could pick out the twin spires of Upchester Cathedral on the horizon. You couldn’t have asked for a more peaceful day.
“The staff from the Establishment got on pretty well with the locals, though at first they weren’t at all happy about having us on their doorsteps. Apart from the nature of our work, they’d believed that scientists were a race apart, with no human interests. When we’d beaten them up at darts a couple of times, and bought a few drinks, they changed their minds. But there was still a certain amount of half-serious leg-pulling, and we were always being asked what we were going to blow up next.
“On this afternoon there should have been several more of us present, but there’d been a rush job in the Radio-isotopes Division and so we were below strength. Stanley Chambers, the landlord, commented on the absence o
f some familiar faces.
“‘What’s happened to all your pals today?’ he asked my boss, Dr. French.
“‘They’re busy at the works,’ French replied—we always called the Establishment “the Works,” as that made it seem more homely and less terrifying. ‘We had to get some stuff out in a hurry. They’ll be along later.’
“‘One day,’ said Stan severely, ‘you and your friends are going to let out something you won’t be able to bottle up again. And then where will we all be?’
“‘Half-way to the Moon,’ said Dr. French. I’m afraid it was rather an irresponsible sort of remark, but silly questions like this always made him lose patience.
“Stan Chambers looked over his shoulder as if he was judging how much of the hill stood between him and Clobham. I guessed he was calculating if he’d have time to reach the cellar—or whether it was worth trying anyway.
“‘About these—isotopes—you keep sending to the hospitals,’ said a thoughtful voice. ‘I was at St. Thomas’ last week, and saw them moving some around in a lead safe that must have weighed a ton. It gave me the creeps, wondering what would happen if someone forgot to handle it properly.’
“‘We calculated the other day,’ said Dr. French, obviously still annoyed at the interruption to his darts, ‘that there was enough uranium in Clobham to boil the North Sea.’
“Now that was a silly thing to say: and it wasn’t true, either. But I couldn’t very well reprimand my own boss, could I?
“The man who’d been asking these questions was sitting in the alcove by the window, and I noticed that he was looking down the road with an anxious expression.
“‘The stuff leaves your place on trucks, doesn’t it?’ he asked, rather urgently.
“‘Yes: a lot of isotopes are short-lived, and so they’ve got to be delivered immediately.’
“‘Well, there’s a truck in trouble down the hill. Would it be one of yours?’
“The dart-board was forgotten in the general rush to the window. When I managed to get a good look, I could see a large truck, loaded with packing cases, careering down the hill about a quarter of a mile away. From time to time it bounced off one of the hedges: it was obvious that the brakes had failed and the driver had lost control. Luckily there was no on-coming traffic, or a nasty accident would have been inevitable. As it was, one looked probable.
“Then the truck came to a bend in the road, left the pavement, and tore through the hedge. It rocked along with diminishing speed for fifty yards, jolting violently over the rough ground. It had almost come to rest when it encountered a ditch and, very sedately, canted over on to one side. A few seconds later the sound of splintering wood reached us as the packing cases slid off to the ground.
“‘That’s that,’ said someone with a sigh of relief. ‘He did the right thing, aiming for the hedge. I guess he’ll be shaken up, but he won’t be hurt.’
“And then we saw a most perplexing sight. The door of the cab opened, and the driver scrambled out. Even from this distance, it was clear that he was highly agitated—though, in the circumstances, that was natural enough. But he did not, as one would have expected, sit down to recover his wits. On the contrary: he promptly took to his heels and ran across the field as if all the demons of hell were after him.
“We watched open-mouthed, and with rising apprehension, as he dwindled down the hill. There was an ominous silence in the bar, except for the ticking of the clock that Stan always kept exactly ten minutes fast. Then someone said, ‘D’you think we’d better stay? I mean—it’s only half a mile.…’
“There was an uncertain movement away from the window. Then Dr. French gave a nervous little laugh.
“‘We don’t know if it is one of our trucks,’ he said. ‘And anyway, I was pulling your legs just now. It’s completely impossible for any of this stuff to explode. He’s just afraid his tank’s going to catch fire.’
“‘Oh yes?’ said Stan. ‘Then why’s he still running? He’s half-way down the hill now.’
“‘I know!” suggested Charlie Evan, from the Instruments Section. ‘He’s carrying explosives, and is afraid they’re going to go up.’
“I had to scotch that one. ‘There’s no sign of a fire, so what’s he worried about now? And if he was carrying explosives, he’d have a red flag or something.’
“‘Hang on a minute,’ said Stan. ‘I’ll go and get my glasses.’
“No one moved until he came back: no one, that is, except the tiny figure far down the hill-side, which had now vanished into the woods without slackening its speed.
“Stan stared through the binoculars for an eternity. At last he lowered them with a grunt of disappointment.
“‘Can’t see much,’ he said. ‘The truck’s tipped over in the wrong direction. Those crates are all over the place—some of them have busted open. See if you can make anything of it.’
“French had a long stare, then handed the glasses to me. They were a very old-fashioned model, and didn’t help much. For a moment it seemed to me that there was a curious haziness about some of the boxes—but that didn’t make sense. I put it down to the poor condition of the lenses.
“And there, I think, the whole business would have fizzled out if those cyclists hadn’t appeared. They were puffing up the hill on a tandem, and when they came to the fresh gap in the hedge they promptly dismounted to see what was going on. The truck was visible from the road and they approached it hand in hand, the girl obviously hanging back, the man telling her not to be nervous. We could imagine their conversation: it was a most touching spectacle.
“It didn’t last long. They got to within a few yards of the truck—and then departed at high speed in opposite directions. Neither looked back to observe the other’s progress; and they were running, I noticed, in a most peculiar fashion.
“Stan, who’d retrieved his glasses, put them down with a shaky hand.
“‘Get out the cars!’ he said.
“‘But—’ began Dr. French.
“Stan silenced him with a glare. ‘You damned scientists!’ he said, as he slammed and locked the till (even at a moment like this, he remembered his duty). ‘I knew you’d do it sooner or later.’
“Then he was gone, and most of his cronies with him. They didn’t stop to offer us a lift.
“‘This is perfectly ridiculous!’ said French. ‘Before we know where we are, those fools will have started a panic and there’ll be hell to pay.’
“I knew what he meant. Someone would tell the police: cars would be diverted away from Clobham: the telephone lines would be blocked with calls—it would be like the Orson Welles ‘War of the Worlds’ scare back in 1938. Perhaps you think I’m exaggerating, but you can never underestimate the power of panic. And people were scared, remember, of our place, and were half-expecting something like this to happen.
“What’s more, I don’t mind telling you that by this time we weren’t any too happy ourselves. We were simply unable to imagine what was going on down there by the wrecked truck, and there’s nothing a scientist hates more than being completely baffled.
“Meanwhile I’d grabbed Stan’s discarded binoculars and had been studying the wreck very carefully. As I looked, a theory began to evolve in my mind. There was some—aura—about those boxes. I stared until my eyes began to smart, and then said to Dr. French: ‘I think I know what it is. Suppose you ring up Clobham Post Office and try to intercept Stan, or at least to stop him spreading rumours if he’s already got there. Say that everything’s under control—there’s nothing to worry about. While you’re doing that, I’m going to walk down to the truck and test my theory.’
“I’m sorry to say that no one offered to follow me. Though I started down the road confidently enough, after a while I began to be a little less sure of myself. I remembered an incident that’s always struck me as one of history’s most ironic jokes, and began to wonder if something of the same sort might not be happening now. There was once a volcanic island in the Far East, with a p
opulation of about 50,000. No one worried about the volcano, which had been quiet for a hundred years. Then, one day, eruptions started. At first they were minor, but they grew more intense hour by hour. The people started to panic, and tried to crowd aboard the few boats in harbour so that they could reach the mainland.
“But the island was ruled by a military commandant who was determined to keep order at all costs. He sent out proclamations saying that there was no danger, and he got his troops to occupy the ships so that there would be no loss of life as people attempted to leave in overloaded boats. Such was the force of his personality, and the example of his courage, that he calmed the multitude, and those who had been trying to get away crept shame-faced back to their homes, where they sat waiting for conditions to return to normal.
“So when the volcano blew up a couple of hours later, taking the whole island with it, there weren’t any survivors at all.…
“As I got near the truck, I began to see myself in the role of that misguided commandant. After all, there are some times when it is brave to stay and face danger, and others when the most sensible thing to do is to take to the hills. But it was too late to turn back now, and I was fairly sure of my theory.”
“I know,” said George Whiteley, who always liked to spoil Harry’s stories if he could. “It was gas.”
Harry didn’t seem at all perturbed at losing his climax.
“Ingenious of you to suggest it. That’s just what I did think, which shows that we can all be stupid at times.
“I’d got to within fifty feet of the truck when I stopped dead, and though it was a warm day a most unpleasant chill began to spread out from the small of my back. For I could see something that blew my gas theory to blazes and left nothing at all in its place.
Tales from the White Hart (Arthur C. Clarke Collection: Short Stories) Page 5
