“All right,” said Everard, “so it's a dud. Somebody made a mistake and never filled it.”
“The same cartridge was working this morning, but never mind that. Maybe cartridges can get switched somehow. But I got that hunk of pitchblende from our display box on the fourth floor and that doesn't register either. You're not going to tell me that someone forgot to put the uranium in it.”
Everard rubbed his ear. “What do you think, Damelli?”
Damelli shook his head. “I don't know, boss. Wish I did.”
Johannison said, “It's not the time for thinking. It's a time for doing. You've got to call Washington.”
“What about?” asked Everard. “About the A-bomb supply.”
“What?”
“That might be the answer, boss. Look, someone has figured out a way to stop radioactivity, all of it. It might be blanketing the country, the whole U.S.A. If that's being done, it can only be to put our A-bombs out of commission. They don't know where we keep them, so they have to blank out the nation. And if that's right, it means an attack is due. Any minute, maybe. Use the phone, boss!”
Everard's hand reached for the phone. His eyes and Johannison's met and locked.
He said into the mouthpiece, “An outside call, please.”
It was five minutes to four. Everard put down the phone.
“Was that the commissioner?” asked Johannison.
“Yes,” said Everard. He was frowning.
“All right. What did he say?”
“'Son,'“ said Everard, “he said to me, 'What A-bombs?'“
Johannison looked bewildered. “What the devil does he mean, 'What A-bombs?' I know! They've already found out they've got duds on their hands, and they won't talk. Not even to us. Now what?”
“Now nothing,” said Everard. He sat back in his chair and glowered at the physicist. “ Alex, I know the kind of strain you're under; so I'm not going to blow up about this. What bothers me is, how did you get me started on this nonsense?”
Johannison paled. “This isn't nonsense. Did the commissioner say it was?”
“He said I was a fool, and so I am. What the devil do you mean coming here with your stories about A-bombs? What are A-bombs? I never heard of them.”
“You never heard of atom bombs? What is this? A gag?”
“I never heard of them. It sounds like something from a comic strip.”
Johannison turned to Damelli, whose olive complexion had seemed to deepen with worry. “Tell him, Gene.”
Damelli shook his head. “Leave me out of this.”
“All right.” Johannison leaned forward, looking at the line of books in the shelves about Everard's head. “I don't know what this is all about, but I can go along with it. Where's Glasstone?”
“Right there,” said Everard.
“No. Not the Textbook of Physical Chemistry. I want his Sourcebook on Atomic Energy.”
“Never heard of it.”
“What are you talking about? It's been here in your shelf since I've been here.”
“Never heard of it,” said Everard stubbornly.
“I suppose you haven't heard of Kamen's Radioactive Tracers in Biology either?”
“No.”
Johannison shouted, “All right. Let's use Glasstone's Textbook then. It will do.”
He brought down the thick book and flipped the pages. First once, then a second time. He frowned and looked at the copyright page. It said: Third Edition, 1956. He went through the first two chapters page by page. It was there, atomic structure, quantum numbers, electrons and theirshells, transition series-but no radioactivity, nothing about that.
He turned to the table of elements on the inside front cover. It took him only a few seconds to see that there were only eighty-one listed, the eighty-one nonradioactive ones.
Johannison's throat felt bricky-dry. He said huskily to Everard, “I suppose you never heard of uranium.”
“What's that?” asked Everard coldly. “ A trade name?” Desperately, Johannison dropped Glasstone and reached for the Handbook of Chemistry and Physics. He used the index. He looked up radioactive series, uranium, plutonium, isotopes. He found only the last. With fumbling, jittery fingers he turned to the table of isotopes. Just a glance. Only the stable isotopes were listed.
He said pleadingly, “All right. I give up. Enough's enough. You've set up a bunch of fake books just to get a rise out of me, haven't you?” He tried to smile.
Everard stiffened. “Don't be a fool, Johannison. You'd better go home. See a doctor.”
“There's nothing wrong with me.”
“You may not think so, but there is. You need a vacation, so take one. Damelli, do me a favor. Get him into a cab and see that he gets home.”
Johannison stood irresolute. Suddenly he screamed, “Then what are all the counters in this place for? What do they do?”
“I don't know what you mean by counters. If you mean computers, they're here to solve our problems for us.”
Johannison pointed to a plaque on the wall. “All right, then. See those initials. A! E! C! Atomic! Energy! Commission!” He spaced the words, staccato.
Everard pointed in turn. “ Air! Experimental! Commission! Get him home, Damelli.”
Johannison turned to Damelli when they reached the sidewalk. Urgently he whispered, “Listen, Gene, don't be a setup for that guy. Everard's sold out. They got to him some way. Imagine them setting up the faked books and trying to make me think I'm crazy.”
“You heard him. He never heard of A-bombs. Uranium's a trade name. How can he be all right?”
“If it comes to that, I never heard of A-bombs or uranium.”
He lifted a finger. “Taxi!” It whizzed by.
Johannison got rid of the gagging sensation. “Gene! You were there when the counters quit. You were there when the pitchblende went dead. You came with me to Everard to get the thing straightened out.”
“If you want the straight truth, Alex, you said you had something to discuss with the boss and you asked me to come along, and that's all I know about it. Nothing went wrong as far as I know, and what the devil would we bedoing with this pitchblende? We don't use any tar in the place. -Taxi!”
A cab drew up to the curb.
Damelli opened the door, motioned Johannison in. Johannison entered, then, with red-eyed fury, fumed, snatched the door out of Damelli's hand, slammed it closed, and shouted an address at the cab driver. He leaned out the window as the cab pulled away, leaving Damelli stranded and staring.
Johannison cried, “Tell Everard it won't work. I'm wise to all of you.”
He fell back into the upholstery, exhausted. He was sure Damelli had heard the address he gave. Would they get to the FBI first with some story about a nervous breakdown? Would they take Everard's word against his? They couldn't deny the stopping of the radioactivity. They couldn't deny the faked books.
But what was the good of it? An enemy attack was on its way and men like Everard and Damelli-How rotten with treason was the country?
He stiffened suddenly. “Driver!” he cried. Then louder, “Driver!”
The man at the wheel did not turn around. The traffic passed smoothly by them.
Johannison tried to struggle up from his seat, but his head was swimming.
“Driver!” he muttered. This wasn't the way to the FBI. He was being taken home. But how did the driver know where he lived?
A planted driver, of course. He could scarcely see and there was a roaring in his ears.
Lord, what organization! There was no use fighting! He blacked out!
He was moving up the walk toward the small, two-story, brick-fronted house in which Mercedes and he lived. He didn't remember getting out of the cab.
He fumed. There was no taxicab in sight. Automatically, he felt for his wallet and keys. They were there. Nothing had been touched.