The Worlds Of Robert A Heinlein

by Robert A. Heinlein

puzzled.

  "The Harkness, eh? That's the headquarters?"

  "I didn't say that! You're putting words in my mouth! You � "

  "Calm yourself, Joe. Forget it." Moyland got up and drew down the shade.

  "You didn't say anything."

  "Of course I didn't." Benz stared at his glass. "Say, Zack, where do I

  sleep? I don't feel good."

  "You'll have a nice place to sleep any minute now."

  "Huh? Well, show me. I gotta fold up."

  "Any minute. You've got to check in first."

  "Huh? Oh, I can't do that tonight, Zack. I'm in no shape."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to. See me pull that shade down? They'll be along

  any moment."

  Benz stood up, swaying a little. "You framed me!" he yelled, and lunged at

  his host.

  Moyland sidestepped, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down into

  the chair. "Sit down, sucker," he said pleasantly. "You don't expect me to

  get A-bombed just for you and your pals, do you?"

  Benz shook his head, then began to sob.

  Hobart escorted them out of the house, saying to Art as they left, "If you

  get back, tell McCracken that Aunt Dinah is resting peacefully."

  "Okay."

  "Give us two minutes, then go in. Good luck."

  Cleve took the outside; Art went in. The back door was locked, but the

  upper panel was glass. He broke it with the hilt of his knife, reached in

  and unbolted the door. He was inside when Moyland showed up to investigate

  the noise.

  Art kicked him in the belly, then let him have the point in the neck as he

  went down. Art stopped just long enough to insure that Moyland would stay

  dead, then went looking for the room where Benz had been when the shade was

  drawn.

  He found Benz in it. The man blinked his eyes and tried to focus them, as

  if he found it impossible to believe what he saw. "Art!" he got out at

  last. "Jeez boy! Am I glad to see you! Let's get out of here � this place

  is 'hot'."

  Art advanced, knife out.

  Benz looked amazed. "Hey, Art! Art! You're making a mistake, Art. You can't

  do this � " Art let him have the first one in the soft tissues under the

  breast bone, then cut his throat to be sure. After that he got out quickly.

  Thirty-five minutes later he was emerging from the country end of the

  chute. His throat was burning from exertion and his left arm was useless �

  he could not tell whether it was broken or simply wounded.

  Cleve lay dead in the alley behind Moyland's house, having done a good job

  of covering Art's rear.

  It took Art all night and part of the next morning to get back near the

  mine. He had to go through the hills the entire way; the highway was, he

  judged, too warm at the moment.

  He did not expect that the Company would still be there. He was reasonably

  sure that Morgan would have carried out the evacuation pending certain

  evidence that Benz's mouth had been shut. He hurried.

  But he did not expect what he did find � a helicopter hovering over the

  neighborhood of the mine.

  He stopped to consider the matter. If Morgan had got them out safely, he

  knew where to rejoin. If they were still inside, he had to figure out some

  way to help them. The futility of his position depressed him � one man,

  with a knife and a bad arm, against a helicopter.

  Somewhere a bluejay screamed and cursed. Without much hope he chirped his

  own identification. The bluejay shut up and a mockingbird answered him �

  Ted.

  Art signaled that he would wait where he was. He considered himself well

  hidden; he expected to have to signal again when Ted got closer, but he

  underestimated Ted's ability. A hand was laid on his shoulder.

  He rolled over, knife out, and hurt his shoulder as he did so. "Ted! Man,

  do you look good to me!"

  "Same here. Did you get him?"

  "Benz? Yes, but maybe not in time. Where's the gang?"

  "A quarter mile north of back door. We're pinned down. Were's Cleve?"

  "Cleve's not coming back. What do you mean 'pinned down'?"

  "That damned 'copter can see right down the draw we're in. Dad's got 'em

  under an overhang and they're safe enough for the moment, but we can't

  move."

  "What do you mean 'Dad's got 'em'?" demanded Art. "Where's the Boss?"

  "He ain't in such good shape, Art. Got a machine gun slug in the ribs. We

  had a dust up. Cathleen's dead."

  "The hell you say!"

  "That's right. Margie and Maw Carter have got her baby. But that's one

  reason why we're pinned down � the Boss and the kid, I mean."

  A mockingbird's call sounded far away. "There's Dad," Ted announced. "We

  got to get back."

  "Can we?"

  "Sure. Just keep behind me. I'll watch out that I don't get too far ahead."

  Art followed Ted in, by a circuitous and, at one point, almost

  perpendicular route. He found the Company huddled under a shelf of rock

  which had been undercut by a stream, now dry. Against the wall Morgan was

  on his back, with Dad Carter and Dr. McCracken squatting beside him. Art

  went up and made his report.

  Morgan nodded, his face gray with pain. His shirt had been cut away;

  bandaging was wrapped around his ribs, covering a thick pad. "You did well,

  Art. Too bad about Cleve. Ted, we're getting out of here and you're going

  first, because you're taking the kid."

  "The baby? How � "

  "Doc'll dope it so that it won't let out a peep. Then you strap it to your

  back, papoose fashion."

  Ted thought about it. "No, to my front. There's some knee-and-shoulder work

  on the best way out."

  "Okay. It's your job."

  "How do you get out, boss?"

  "Don't be silly."

  "Look here, boss, if you think we're going to walk off and leave you,

  you've got another � "

  "Shut up and scram!" The exertion hurt Morgan; he coughed and wiped his

  mouth.

  "Yes, sir." Ted and Art backed away.

  "Now, Ed � " said Carter.

  "You shut up, too. You still sure you don't want to be Captain?"

  "You know better than that, Ed. They took things from me while I was your

  deppity, but they wouldn't have me for Captain."

  "That puts it up to you, Doc."

  McCracken looked troubled. "They don't know me that well, Captain."

  "They'll take you. People have an instinct for such things."

  "Anyhow, if I am Captain, I won't agree to your plan of staying here by

  yourself. We'll stay till dark and carry you out.

  "And get picked up by an infra-red spotter, like sitting ducks? That's

  supposing they let you alone until sundown � that other 'copter will be

  back with more troops before long."

  "I don't think they'd let me walk off on you."

  "It's up to you to make them. Oh, I appreciate your kindly thoughts, Doc,

  but you'll think differently as soon as you're Captain. You'll know you

  have to cut your losses."

  McCracken did not answer. Morgan turned his head to Carter. "Gather them

  around, Dad."

  They crowded in, shoulder to shoulder. Morgan looked from one troubled face

  to another and smiled. "The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the

  United States of America, is now i
n session," he announced, his voice

  suddenly firm. "I'm resigning the captaincy for reasons of physical

  disability. Any nominations?"

  The silence was disturbed only by calls of birds, the sounds of insects.

  Morgan caught Carter's eyes. Dad cleared his throat. "I nominate Doc

  McCracken."

  "Any other nominations?" He waited, then continued, "All right, all in

  favor of Doc make it known by raising your right hand. Okay � opposed the

  same sign. Dr. McCracken is unanimously elected. It's all yours, Captain.

  Good luck to you."

  McCracken stood up, stooping to avoid the rock overhead "We're evacuating

  at once. Mrs. Carter, give the baby about another tablespoon of the syrup,

  then help Ted. He knows what to do. You'll follow Ted. Then Jerry, Margie,

  you are next. I'll assign the others presently. Once out of the canyon,

  spread out and go it alone. Rendezvous at dusk, same place as under Captain

  Morgan's withdrawal plan � the cave." He paused. Morgan caught his eye and

  motioned him over. "That's all until Ted and the baby are ready to leave.

  Now back away and give Captain Morgan a little air."

  When they had withdrawn McCracken leaned over Morgan the better to hear his

  weak words. "Don't be too sure ,you've seen the last of me, Captain. I

  might join up in a few days."

  "You might at that. I'm going to leave you bundled up warm and plenty of

  water within reach. I'll leave you some pills, too � that'll give you some

  comfort and ease. Only half a pill for you � they're intended for cows." He

  grinned at his patient.

  "Half a pill it is. Why not let Dad handle the evacuation? He'll make you a

  good deputy � and I'd like to talk with you until you leave."

  "Right." He called Carter over, instructed him, and turned back to Morgan.

  "After you join up with Powell's outfit," whispered Morgan, "your first job

  is to get into touch with Brockman. Better get Mrs. Carter started right

  away, once you've talked it over with Powell."

  "I will."

  "That's the most important thing we've got to worry about, Doc. We've got

  to have unity, and one plan, from coast to coast. I look forward to a day

  when there will be an American assigned, by name, to each and every one of

  them. Then at a set time-zzzt!" He drew a thumb across his throat.

  McCracken nodded. "Could be. It will be. How long do you think it will take

  us?"

  "I don't know. I don't think about 'how long'. Two years, five years, ten

  years � maybe a century. That's not the point. The only question is whether

  or not there are any guts left in America." He glanced out where the fifth

  person to leave was awaiting a signal from Carter, who in turn was awaiting

  a signal from Art, hidden out where he could watch for the helicopter.

  "Those people will stick."

  "I'm sure of that."

  Presently Morgan added, "There's one thing this has taught me: You can't

  enslave a free man. Only person can do that to a man is himself. No, sir �

  you can't enslave a free man. The most you can do is kill him."

  "That's a fact, Ed."

  "It is. Got a cigarette, Doc?"

  "It won't do you any good, Ed."

  "It won't do me any harm, either � now, will it?"

  "Well, not much" McCracken unregretfully gave him his last and watched him

  smoke it.

  Later, Morgan said, Dad's ready for you, Captain. So long."

  "So long. Don't forget. Half a pill at a time. Drink all the water you

  want, but don't take your blankets off, no matter how hot you get."

  "Half a pill it is. Good luck."

  "I'll have Ted check on you tomorrow."

  Morgan shook his head. "That's too soon. Not for a couple of days at

  least."

  McCracken smiled. "I'll decide that, Ed. You just keep yourself wrapped up.

  Good luck." He withdrew to where Carter waited for him. "You go ahead, Dad.

  I'll bring up the rear. Signal Art to start."

  Carter hesitated. "Tell me straight, Doc. What kind of shape is he in?"

  McCracken studied Carter's face, then said in a low voice, "I give him

  about two hours."

  "I'll stay behind with him."

  "No, Dad, you'll carry out your orders." Seeing the distress in the old

  man's eyes, he added, "Don't you Worry about Morgan. A free man can take

  care of himself. Now get moving."

  "Yes, sir."

  Blowups Happen

  "PUT DOWN that wrench!"

  The man addressed turned slowly around and faced the speaker. His

  expression was hidden by a grotesque helmet, part of a heavy, leaden armor

  which shielded his entire body, but the tone of voice in which he answered

  showed nervous exasperation.

  "What the hell's eating you, Doc?" He made no move to replace the tool in

  question.

  They faced each other like two helmeted, arrayed fencers, watching for an

  opening. The first speaker's voice came from behind his mask a shade higher

  in key and more peremptory in tone. "You heard me, Harper. Put down that

  wrench at once, and come away from that 'trigger.' Erickson!"

  A third armored figure came around the shield which separated the uranium

  bomb proper from the control room in which the first two stood. "Whatcha

  want, Doc?"

  "Harper is relieved from watch. You take over as engineer-of-the-watch.

  Send for the stand-by engineer."

  "Very well." His voice and manner were phlegmatic, as he accepted the

  situation without comment. The atomic engineer, whom he had just relieved,

  glanced from one to the other, then carefully replaced the wrench in its

  rack.

  "Just as you say, Dr. Silard � but send for your relief too. I shall demand

  an immediate hearing!" Harper swept indignantly out, his lead-sheathed

  boots clumping on the floor plates.

  Dr. Silard waited unhappily for the ensuing twenty minutes until his own

  relief arrived. Perhaps he had been hasty. Maybe he was wrong in thinking

  that Harper had at last broken under the strain of tending the most

  dangerous machine in the world � an atomic power plant. But if he had made

  a mistake, it had to be on the safe side � slips must not happen in this

  business; not when a slip might result in the atomic detonation of two and

  a half tons of uranium.

  He tried to visualize what that would mean, and failed. He had been told

  that uranium was potentially forty million times as explosive as TNT. The

  figure was meaningless that way. He thought of it, instead, as a hundred

  million tons of high explosive, two hundred million aircraft bombs as big

  as the biggest ever used. It still did not mean anything. He had once seen

  such a bomb dropped, when he had been serving as a temperament analyst for

  army aircraft pilots. The bomb had left a hole big enough to hide an

  apartment house. He could not imagine the explosion of a thousand such

  bombs, much, much less a hundred million of them.

  Perhaps these atomic engineers could. Perhaps, with their greater

  mathematical ability and closer comprehension of what actually went on

  inside the nuclear fission chamber � the "bomb" � they had some vivid

  glimpse of the mind-shattering horror locked up beyond that shield
. If so,

  ho wonder they tended to blow up �

  He sighed. Erickson looked up from the linear resonant accelerator on which

  he had been making some adjustment. "What's the trouble, Doc?"

  "Nothing. I'm sorry I had to relieve Harper."

  Silard could feel the shrewd glance of the big Scandinavian. "Not getting

  the jitters yourself, are you, Doc? Sometimes you squirrel sleuths blow up,

  too � "

  "Me? I don't think so. I'm scared of that thing in there � I'd be crazy if

  I weren't."

  "So am I," Erickson told him soberly, and went back to his work.

  The accelerator's snout disappeared in the shield between them and the

  bomb, where it fed a steady stream of terrifically speeded up subatomic

  bullets to the beryllium target located within the bomb itself. The

  tortured beryllium yielded up neutrons, which shot out in all directions

  through the uranium mass. Some of these neutrons struck uranium atoms

  squarely on their nuclei and split them in two. The fragments were new

  elements, barium, xenon, rubidium � depending on the proportions in which

  each atom split. The new elements were usually unstable isotopes and broke

  down into a dozen more elements by radioactive disintegration in a

  progressive chain reaction.

  But these chain-reactions were comparatively unimportant; it was the

  original splitting of the uranium nucleus, with the release of the

  awe-inspiring energy that bound it together � an incredible two hundred

  million electron-volts � that was important � and perilous.

  For, while uranium isotope 235 may be split by bombarding it with neutrons

  from an outside source, the splitting itself gives up more neutrons which,

  in turn, may land in other uranium nuclei and split them. If conditions are

  favorable to a progressively increasing reaction of this sort, it may get

  out of hand, build up in an unmeasurable fraction of a micro-second into a

  complete atomic explosion � an explosion which would dwarf the eruption of

  Krakatoa to popgun size; an explosion so far beyond all human experience as

  to be as completely incomprehensible as the idea of personal death. It

  could be feared, but not understood.

  But a self-perpetuating sequence of nuclear splitting, just under the level

  of complete explosion, was necessary to the operation of the power plant.

  To split the first uranium nucleus by bombarding it with neutrons from the

  beryllium target took more power than the death of the atom gave up. In

  order that the output of power from the system should exceed the power

  input in useful proportion it was imperative that each atom split by a

  neutron from the beryllium target should cause the splitting of many more.

  It was equally imperative that this chain of reactions should always tend

  to dampen, to die out. It must not build up, or the entire mass would

  explode within a time interval too short to be measured by any means

  whatsoever.

  Nor would there be anyone left to measure it.

  The atomic engineer on duty at the bomb could control this reaction by

  means of the "trigger," a term the engineers used to include the linear

  resonant accelerator, the beryllium target, and the adjacent controls,

  instrument board, and power sources. That is to say, he could vary the

  bombardment on the beryllium target to increase or decrease the power

  output of the plant, and he could tell from his instruments that the

  internal reaction was dampened � or, rather, that it had been dampened the