Since newspapers invariably distorl the facts for a cryptic headline, a world-wide panic almost ensued. Several bloody riots burst forth, particularly in those countries where slavery, or near slavery, was common. The people there knew what to fear. It was bad enough on Earth, but to be surrendered to the whims of alien slave masters was too much to bear. The situation was rapidly becoming dangerous.
Politburo Chairman Torsky stood stiffly on the balcony. His hands patted each other impatiently behind his back as he looked down at the mob milling in the street below. Several people lay unconscious or dead among the rioters, victims of frantic police action. Torsky finally snorted angrily, turned and stamped into the room.
“Stupid sheep!” he bellowed at the uneasy government officials gathered there. “They will turn Moscow into a shambles!”
“They are frightened, sir,” an aide said timidly.
“Frightened of what!” Torsky roared at the unfortunate man. “Of nine animated circus balloons? Do they think we’d trade them off as slaves? We have enough labor battalions in Siberia to supply the aliens for a century!”
“Yes, your excellency,” the Propaganda Minister smiled apologetically, “but we’ve been keeping those labor battalions a secret from the public. As the leader himself pointed out, it would not be wise for the people to know just how many of them do… uh… become wards of the Slate. As far as those comrades outside are concerned, I’m afraid that they show a startling lack of confidence in the ability of their government to protect them. They feel that they will be the first to be sent to the aliens.”
“Perhaps,” Torsky sneered, “your propaganda is not as effective as your reports would have us believe.”
The Propaganda Minister coughed nervously and hurriedly returned to an examination of his portfolio.
“Has that scientist Chilko come yet?” Torsky bellowed at his secretary as he paced the room.
“Yes, your excellency, he arrived a moment ago. Shall I have him sent in?”
“Yes, yes, send him in at once!” Torsky sat down heavily behind his huge desk.
The scientist Chilko was a thin, bespectacled man. His slouch and red-rimmed eyes bespoke the killing hours of labor he had just finished. He bowed slightly to the group in the room.
“Well, what have you found out?” Torsky thumped his desk impatiently. “Can we do it?”
Chilko removed his glasses slowly and stood there for a moment as if afraid to speak; finally he straightened a bit and said, “I am truly sorry, your excellency, but we cannot do it. So far we have found no way at all to nullify the effects of atomic fission.”
“What!” Torsky roared. “What are we paying you for? What did you get all those medals for? You’re a traitor to your country!”
An uneasy silence filled the room while Torsky fumed. Chilko grew red as the chairman called him every degrading name in his repertoire. Finally he quieted down, stared at Chilko for a while, and asked, in an oddly restrained voice:
“Is there no chance Chilko? Haven’t you come across anything?”
“As a matter of fact, your excellency,” Chilko answered, “we do have a theory of reducing nuclear fission temperature, but I’m afraid that we are not far enough along in our research to effectively corroborate it. If, however, we can enlist the aid of another scientist, perhaps—”
“Who is the man you want?” Torsky sat up quickly. “You shall have him immediately.”
“He is an American, named Hartnell, your excellency. Perhaps you have heard of him, he is a very famous nuclear physicist. I am certain that with him we might be able to—”
“Are you out of your mind, Chilko?” Torsky twisted irritably in his chair. “That is out of the question.”
“Then I’m afraid that there is truly no hope at all, your excellency.” As Chilko turned to leave, Torsky waved a restraining hand at him.
“Wait a moment, Chilko, where in America can we get in touch with this scientist?” Torsky pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as the tension of the past few days began to tell on him. “Perhaps our ambassador in Washington will be able to do something for you, through the United States Government.”
The secretary of state handed the message to Balfort, the head of the secret service, and waited for the reaction.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he muttered through a broad smile. “The Reds are offering their co-operation on this bomb nullifier project. I never thought they’d ever co-operate in anything.”
“Think we can risk it?” Halwit asked anxiously.
Balfort looked through the thick smoke of his cigar and shook his head as he spoke.
“I don’t know now, there’s no doubt they’re a slippery bunch. Did you ask Hartnell about our side of it?”
“I called him an hour ago,” Halwit said. “He told me we’re still stymied on the nullifier project. He also said that he would be very happy to confer with Chilko. Claims he met Chilko back in the ’20s and rated him a top man in the field. He’s all for the idea.”
“Those intellects never are much on politics,” Balfort grunted as he rubbed his chin in thought. “Personally, I say no deal. We have too much to lose. We’re way ahead of them in atomics, and I’ll just bet that those Reds would love to get a peek at the insides of our labs.”
“Beware the Greeks bearing gif is,” Halwit quoted.
“Exactly,” Balfort agreed. “I say, wait it out. If our lab boys can’t lick it, no one can.”
As the days passed, the situation worsened. Communiques from the aliens revealed that their group of testers would arrive any day. The moment of decision was coming closer. The world had to choose between annihilation or slavery. The temper of the public was ugly. It had slowly switched from fear to anger. The populaces of the world were demanding co-operation on the part of their governments in order to reach some sort of common decision. The U.N., as usual, was deadlocked, since its two most important members refused to agree on a policy. The Russians screamed that the United States was ready to sacrifice the world because they refused to co-operate on the nullifier. The United States claimed that the Russians were only after more atomic information to further their own cause. It was Hartnell, the physicist, who finally broke the deadlock. He went to see the President.
The President was not happy. He frowned at his clasped hands and silently cursed the day he was nominated at the National Convention. Professor Hartnell sat facing the President’s desk.
“That is the story in brief, sir,” he said. “There is no sense in deluding ourselves about the future. We have reached an impasse. We’ve spent so much time increasing the destructivness of the bombs, we find it difficult to think in terms of nullifying them.”
“Be that as it may,” the President said, “but I still cannot see why you insist on Chilko. You must realize that reversing our policy like that will prove very embarrassing.”
Hartnell shrugged. “If we are to get anywhere at all on this thing, we need some fresh thinking. We must have every qualified nuclear fission man in the world on this project, and, government policy not withstanding, that means Chilko.” The professor examined his nails as he paused. “Of course, if the President prefers to prepare slave lists instead—”
The President winced involuntarily. “All right, professor, you win—but I wonder how kindly the history books will treat me for this one.”
The Hartnell-Chilko theory of antifission fields was born three weeks later. Scientists of a dozen different nationalities worked on it desperately, day and night, until the problem was finally cracked. But the aliens threw a monkey wrench into the works at the last moment.