Chapter V

The return was a letdown, after the tension they had been building between them. Blane put the ferry away, leaving no traces of the trip in it, and slipped quietly back into the hub. Things looked miserable now, cramped and forced together, after the spaciousness and richness of equipment on the other station. But he forced that bitterness from his mind.

A Congressman had stated the official policy years before. "Sure, they got something bigger and stronger. But we got the old American spirit. Didn't our boys conquer the whole British navy with nothing but little wooden sailing ships once?" And hence, of course, it didn't matter how badly matched the stations might be. Nobody bothered to comment that the American fleet had grown strong by freebooting, that both sides were using little wooden ships, and that there was never more than a small fraction of the British navy along the American coast. Facts merely got in the way of good sentiment. The Congressman had been elected three times since then and still fought hard to keep any money from getting into space, though he yelled loud and often for the need of teaching the enemy a good lesson.

Blane went to his little room, to bathe in water that was at least hot and clean, and to change into fresh shorts. He had been gone for nearly nine hours, and fatigue had made him look older, but it wasn't too much different from his looks after a sound sleep. He went into the office, yawning. The secretary glanced up, shoved a new mountain of complaints and thunder-scripts at him, and went on answering the phone. Apparently, he hadn't been too much missed. It wasn't flattering, but he'd expected it.

Routine held him for hours, while he listened to the news from Earth. The Russians were announcing that they had never asked for help from the American supply ships, that the _Tsiolkovsky_ was quite safe, and that under no conditions would any political deals be made under threats and pressure. It was done with a nastiness that lent a ring of sincerity to it.

And somewhere, the rumors seemed to indicate, America had modified her stand, and was now making overtures toward helpfulness, which were brusquely refused. There had been an obvious loss of support from some of the smaller nations in the UN, and that must have hurt.

Peal came in, looking more haggard than Blane. The scientist shook his head wearily. "The count is up in the bomb bay. I've been trying to sound some of the chemists out about ways to test, but I don't think we can do it. We don't know what to do or to look for. But I'm convinced now that something is going on inside those casings. It must be some new isotope being created from the uranium by the action of cosmic radiation. Those energies are high enough to cause transmutation. Whatever isotope it is, it must be a neutron emitter, and it's stirring up the uranium, just as increasing the mass does. The temperature around the casings is rising."

"Still no idea of how much margin we have?"

"Not exactly. But I can get some idea from watching how the temperature rises. Maybe a few days, maybe a couple of months." Peal dropped to a couch, rubbing his eyes. "It's getting too hot in there to work without a protective screen, so we can only make short tests. But Manners and I will take turns."

* * * * *

Headquarters was not greatly impressed by the rise in temperature that had been noted, though the reply was longer in coming this time. It simply suggested he stand by for later orders.

That night, a large meteorite fell in Arkansas. It was metallic, and big enough so that several hundred pounds managed to survive the burning friction of Earth's atmosphere. A large area saw the bright streak across the sky and traced it to where it fell. There its impact had knocked over trees, destroyed a house and the inhabitants, and killed a cow. There was a large hole in the ground where it had hit, and still a trace of metallic fragments around the cup.

Blane picked up the news accounts almost at once on the radio in his office. He switched the circuits around to connect all the speakers in the station and threw the master switch, giving everyone a chance to hear.

It took almost no time for the first reports to come babbling in hysterically, claiming an atomic missile had been sent down from the _Tsiolkovsky_.

The official signal from Headquarters flashed out at Blane, and he listened. They were declaring a general alert, but it wasn't red and there was still a delay. Once it went red, it would mean putting one of the plans already prepared into operation, demanding that he send his few men down into the bomb bay to set the automatic chutes into operation. Then missiles would rain down on Russian cities and bases.

Peal and Manners came in. Manners would have to carry out the orders. Blane glanced at him, and saw doubt and worry etched across the forehead. Could any man start the holocaust going? Or, believing that the _Sulky_ would be throwing bombs, as Manners must still believe, could any man refuse such an order?

Blane shook his head faintly as he met Peal's look. There were no bombs on the _Sulky_. And no bombs must fall from the _Goddard_. But in the long run, would it make any difference. There were more than enough land-based missiles to wipe out both countries. And if Blane saw them on his screens, getting set to wipe out _his_ nation, could he refuse to order the bombs here into operation?

* * * * *

He threw the side door of the office open and heard the mad action going on outside as men were beaming down the full power of their radio signals, giving the true nature and path of the meteorite, trying to override the frantic chaos already filling the atmosphere.

Then the light winked out. A voice that was weak and shaken came from all the speakers. "Attention. This is official! The object that fell from space has been determined to be a natural meteorite. No attack has been initiated. There is no cause for alarm...."

Blane cut off his speakers and went back into his cabin, shaking with reaction.

This time, there had been no holocaust. This time the alert had never gone red, and sane minds had somehow prevailed. But how long would sanity hold sway in a world where every unnatural accident was a potential trigger for a rain of bombs, a storm that might destroy most of the life on Earth and would certainly end man's adventure into space. It wouldn't really matter whether the stations managed to get off without retaliatory missiles from Earth; once the ships and supply bases were gone, there would be no possibility of continuing life here. The men who fired the missiles from these floating arsenals would be committing a long and horrible suicide. Yet he might have to order it--might reach a stage where he would even want to order it!

Peal was waiting for him with the report on the temperature of the casings when he came into the office the next day. There had been an increase of nearly two degrees, and it began to look as if the rise were an asymptotic one, that might get out of hand so quickly that there would be little warning.

"It's not much of a secret, either," the scientist stated. "I don't think Manners said anything, and I've kept it as tight as I could. But there are indirect ways of noting things going on, and the temperature gages in the hull show signs already. The men who service the bomb bay aren't all fools, either. They can guess there's trouble when they're sent in for only minutes at a time. So rumors are spreading."

Blane nodded. If the rumors got out of hand, things would go to pot in ways that might make it impossible for them to meet an emergency later. He threw the master switch for general summons again, and began speaking slowly, choosing his words with care. He wasn't going to lie, but he couldn't give them full information. He was already violating security to an extent that could bring full official wrath on him.

He told them that there was evidence that radioactivity was leaking from the warheads, though not in any measure to endanger the station at present. He said simply that there had been some related increase in temperature noted, and that the situation was being studied and reported to Earth, where fuller analysis was possible. It was all true, so far as it went--and the impression was as false as he could make it.

* * * * *

By the time the station was over Denver, where he could contact headquarters on his tightest beam, most of the rumors had died, and the men were discussing the situation without much excitement.

Surprisingly, headquarters took his report and switched him directly to a human, instead of the tape receiver he usually had to deal with. He gave the basic facts, and reported precisely on the fact that he had been forced to inform the crew of the station.

The voice from below sighed wearily across the thousand miles of space. "Quite right, Blane. Panic would be the worst thing you could have. Forget about the violation--we all have to cut that at times. Now, in regard to your basic situation, I'm going to do the best I can for you. But I wouldn't worry about your boiler trouble yet. It will be at least three days before repairs are really necessary, and before then Devlin will be back with you. He has a full grasp of what must be done. And good luck."

The voice cut off.

Blane sat staring at the wall. Three days--it could only mean that there were three days still to go before the runaway radiation inside the casings built up too high for something to be done--whether to dump the bombs or what, he couldn't guess. But that was shaving it pretty thin.

And how sure could he be that they knew what was going on? They had only his coded figures to go by. Yet he had to trust them. For once, he'd be glad when Devlin was back.

He called Manners and Peal in. "Seal off the bomb bay," he told them. "Just stick up a sign making it off limits and spread the word that nobody's to go in until Devlin gets back here--which will be in a couple of days." He grinned at their protests, and shook his head. "And that means off limits to you, too. Earth says we're safe until Devlin gets here, and he'll have orders. Until then, we can't do anything, so forget the warheads."

It would be a lot easier for the crew of the station to accept than would the sight of Peal and Manners going in and out in constant efforts to check. And there was nothing that their tests could show, anyhow; nobody here knew enough to interpret what the readings meant.

For a change, a sort of lucky accident helped him. One of the pipes in the circulating system got clogged with something that should never have reached the water and burst. It made a mess of most of one deck, and took a full day's cleaning and repairing. That type of misfortune was something the _Goddard_ had long since grown used to, and the sight of great scientists working with cooks and power men was always a relief from the routine. Maybe stations should be built to fail in minor ways. If ever a ship was built to cross the vast gulf to another star, it should be as imperfect as safety permitted.

On the surface, everything was routine by the time Devlin's ship came up the next day. Devlin must have more pull on Earth, Blane decided; something had boosted his stock. The ship had taken off from Cape Canaveral--the same ship that had taken him down--in a tricky but successful maneuver. Edwards, of course, had been called in for the job.

Blane had only a few words with the pilot, but he gathered the ship would be standing by to take Devlin off again at some undecided later time.

* * * * *

General Devlin came into the office with brisk, precise steps, and stood looking at Blane with a perfect picture of a military man regarding an inferior. His short body was as straight as a rod, and his head was at precisely the right posture. But his face looked grey, and a muscle under one eye twitched. He motioned sharply as Blane stood up to relinquish the seat behind the desk.

"At ease. Stay where you are. I've been cramped in a hammock for hours, I prefer to stand. I'm not taking over your command this time, anyhow. I'm merely here to execute one order before I have to report back down there. How's the trouble here?"

He listened to Blane's report, but hardly seemed to hear it. He was apparently fully aware of everything that Blane could tell him. When it was done, he nodded. "I was told to fill you in. I'll make it brief. Dr. Peal's theory that ultra hard radiation has caused the transmutation of some of the uranium to a more dangerous isotope is correct. This effects the same results as raising the mass of each segment of the uranium trigger to critical level eventually. But there is still time to save the station, and the level of radiation will not make it dangerous for the squad to handle the missiles; they will be exposed too short a time. I would appreciate it if you would instruct Captain Manners and his men to assemble in the hub in fifteen minutes. I'll join you there."

It wasn't a lot to work on, Blane decided. But he nodded as Devlin went out, pacing toward the coffee in the rec hall. He put through the orders and shortly moved out to join the eight men and Manners. In the hub were stacked a number of boxes. He counted them, and nodded. There was one for each of the missiles.

"Looks like we dump the missiles," Manners suggested, relief heavy in his voice. "Those must be program tapes for the guidance computers on the missiles."

Devlin's voice sounded sharply behind them, bringing them to attention. If he had heard Manners, he gave no sign of it.

"In those boxes are tapes for the missiles. You are all familiar with their installation and the operation of loading the missiles into the outer chutes. Each of you will take one pile of the tapes and repair to the bomb bay. You are to enter there at precisely nine hundred. The bay is hot, but not dangerous for the length of time required to complete this operation. Captain, how long should the operation of moving all bombs into chutes require?"

"About twenty minutes, sir." There were motorized winches that did the work, and the chutes were one of the few pieces of mechanism on the _Goddard_ that had not been made shoddily.

"Very good. Then at nine twenty, I shall expect you to emerge from the bomb bay and seal it again. You will then report to Mr. Blane for further instructions."

* * * * *

The orders could have been given just as easily outside the bomb bay, or to Manners alone, Blane realized. The whole affair was too precise, too much by the book. He frowned as he watched Manners and the men pick up the little boxes and move toward the elevators. They were in no great hurry, since they still had fifteen minutes before they were to enter the bomb bay. Then they were gone. And Devlin shuddered faintly and began wiping his face with a kerchief. Something cold shot up from Blane's throat to the roof of his mouth.

"What's the destination on the tapes?" he asked sharply.

Devlin stared at him or through him. Then the stiff body bent a trifle in a faint bow. "I suspect you've guessed it, Blane. They are all set to take an elliptical orbit that will bring them against the _Tsiolkovsky_ in mid-Pacific."

"They can't!" But Blane knew that they could be set for just that--they had to be set for such an orbit. With their bomb stock about to become useless in a matter of a few days, and with too little time to replace them after the realization of what was happening, the military mind could decide that the only hope was to eliminate the danger from the other station. It would mean a stalemate in space, and might possibly still leave Russia doubtful enough about the striking power left on the _Goddard_ to intimidate her out of retaliating.

"It would wipe men out of space!" he protested. "You've got to cancel the order."

Again Devlin gave the faint bow. "Unfortunately, I have no authority to cancel that order, Mr. Blane. I cannot do so."

Blane felt his fist move from his hip before he realized what he planned. It was an awkward blow, as all activity in nearly zero gravity must be, but it connected. Devlin was lifted from his weak contact with the floor and his head banged savagely against the roof. He drifted back toward the deck, unconscious. Blane caught himself and dashed for the elevator. There was still time to broadcast the facts to the station and to stop the men from entering the bomb bay. After that, he no longer cared what happened to him.