“We also organized a plan to find and qualify surviving hominems as quickly as possible as to mental and emotional stability and useful skills. Radiation levels dropped to safe levels within a week after the attack, and H. sapiens were gone, so we went to work.
“In the course of only two or three months we found and enlisted over a thousand people. We were pleased to learn that, in practice, general-population hominems turned out to be only about 20 percent unstable. The rest are hard to tell from AAs: likable, well-adjusted, intelligent, highly motivated overachievers. Quite a few of even the minority are all right, given a challenge and intelligent supervision.
“Of course we ended up with many more than we anticipated, and we don’t have room for them all in the shelters. If we can’t stop the bomb, we’ll face some difficult decisions or, more probably, decide who goes into the shelters with a lottery.”
“I’m going to hold my breath until you get to the point,” I warned.
Gayle smiled. “Your original question was, ‘What are we doing about the bomb?’ Happily, some 30 or so of us — the expanded us, not just the AAs — were key NASA people. I say ‘happily’ because our only hope of escaping two centuries of underground living — assuming we survive the earthquakes — is to launch the Nathan Hale…” We rounded corner and Gayle indicated monstrous assembly poised on pad with casual wave surely more appropriate for discussing weather than H. sapiens’ ultimate technological achievement. “…rendezvous with the bomb in orbit, and deactivate it.”
(Something in statement tugged fretfully at psyche, but instantly forgotten in rush of amazement over scale of plan.)
Briefly reinforced hoary, naïve-ruralite stereotypes by stopping abruptly, gawking openmouthed in unfeigned wonder at monstrous spacecraft looming overhead. Television doesn’t come close to conveying scale. Bigger close-up than appears on tube. Lots.
Proximity to technological marvel stimulated imagination, triggered inspiration; conceived possible solution, far less complicated: “Gayle, if you can launch a shuttle, why not send up a big thermonuclear ICBM — oh…” Realized, even as spoke, couldn’t be that easy, or already fait accompli.
Gayle apparently still reading mind — or whatever — nodded approvingly as reached proper conclusion. “The Bratstvo thought of that and took precautions. First, the entire vehicle in which the bomb is housed is constructed of a new lightweight, long-molecule material that seems to be sort of a metallic polymer.
“Becky Chamberlin, one of our best metallurgists — plastics are her second love — had a chance to play with a sample shortly before the attack. She says it’s so strong and such a fabulous insulator that, in space, that bomb could probably ride out a multimegaton, near-direct hit without damage — depending on how well the components are packaged, of course.
“But it doesn’t have to; it mounts quite capable defenses: the latest analytical radar, a sophisticated computer, and lasers capable of destroying any missile long before it gets close enough to constitute a threat. Finally, it’s programmed to initiate reentry the moment it’s attacked.”
“How did we get the sample?”
“One of our number was a quadruple agent…” Gayle paused, noting blank expression; elaborated: “One of us, pretending to them to pretend to us to work for us while actually spying on them as well as a fourth party — got that?”
“This spy business sounds unprincipled, deceitful, and entirely too complicated,” I replied with mock disapproval.
“Of course it is.” She grinned. “That’s the way things were in the old days: All professions cloaked themselves in as much mystery as possible — spies were nowhere near as bad in that respect as, say, real estate appraisers.
“Anyway, Wallace Griffin allowed himself to be recruited by the Bratstvo while he was in Russia, supposedly undergoing training with the KGB for his work in the U.S. Quite a few of the KGB were members, and they were always on the lookout for likely prospects. Wallace is good at his job: While ostensibly helping program the on-board computer, he managed to microfilm the bomb’s entire schematics package — warhead, drive, guidance system, software, and all. He’s the one who brought back the material sample.
“Then, only days before the attack, everything Wallace learned was confirmed when one of the Bratstvo’s people tried unsuccessfully to defect and warn the world. His name is Kyril Svetlanov; he was an inner-circle figure among the fanatics. But his story wasn’t believed any more than ours was; so we took him in, and he’s been helping us ever since. He’s our resident strontium-90 bomb expert: He was involved in its design, construction, and launching, and works harder than anyone here, with the possible exception of Teacher. But that’s understandable: In his place, I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt!”
Cast sidelong glance at Gayle. Did not appear type to believe in Santa Claus. She noticed, grinned, addressed unspoken doubt: “Yes, we did find it suspicious that a highly placed member of such a fanatical organization should suffer so convenient a change of heart, turning up just when we needed the specific information on which he was a leading expert. But we investigated his story from every possible angle, even interrogating him under drug-augmented, deep hypnosis, and everything checked.
“We’ve assigned him to the bomb deactivation phase of the project. And since then we’ve tested him further: At various times we produced data which we knew was erroneous, and led him to believe that we believed it valid and were going to include it in our planning. They were reasonable errors, of the sort which might have been introduced through faulty translation from Russian or even data missing due to incomplete intelligence-gathering, but which almost certainly would have scuttled us in the end.
“Each time he caught and corrected the mistake. Once, when we insisted that we knew what we were doing, he threw up his hands and was on the point of quitting, stating that we had doomed the project and further effort was pointless. He’s passed every test with flying colors.
“I’ve studied him myself as closely as I know how, and I’ve never spotted even a suggestion that he’s not sincere. And finally, he’s going along on the Hale to make sure everything goes all right, which is in itself pretty convincing evidence of his sincerity and desire to atone. Even so, of course, he’s never alone.”
(That disquieting something nudged psyche again, but still couldn’t put finger on cause.)
Gayle continued as we rounded building’s corner. “You’ll see him at the meeting — there he is now, and here we are,” she finished, pointing out young man as we arrived at meeting site.
Populace assembling in bleachers arranged in semicircle before elevated platform outside launch control center, near huge payload preparation room; everyone present who could be spared even momentarily from duties: numbered in hundreds…
And at stage center was Teacher!
Undignified shriek, run-and-hug, probably disrupted proceedings, if any in progress; but didn’t care, and nobody else seemed to mind — Teacher least of all. Long time before he let go. Finally held me out at arms’ length; scrutinized head to foot. “I think you’re in better shape now than when I last saw you in Wisconsin,” he said approvingly.