Palmer grunted. “Doc, you might not believe it, but I don’t give a continental about what happens to me or the plant right now.”
“Or the men? Put a mob in here, hunting your blood, and the men will be on your side, because they know it wasn’t your fault, and they’ve seen you out there taking chances yourself. That mob won’t be too choosy about its targets, either, once it gets worked up, and you’ll have a nice vicious brawl all over the place. Besides, Jorgenson’s practically ready.”
A few minutes would make no difference in the evacuation, and Doc had no desire to think of his partially crippled wife going through the hell evacuation would be; she’d probably refuse, until he returned. His eyes fell on the box Jenkins was playing with nervously, and he stalled for time. “I thought you said it was risky to break the stuff down into small particles, Jenkins. But that box contains the stuff in various sizes, including one big piece we scraped out, along with the contaminated instruments. Why hasn’t it exploded?”
Jenkins’ hand jerked up from it as if burned, and he backed away a step before checking himself. Then he was across the room toward the I–231 and back, pouring the white powder over everything in the box in a jerky frenzy. Hokusai’s eyes had snapped fully open, and he was slopping water in to fill up the remaining space and keep the I–231 in contact with everything else. Almost at once, in spite of the low relative energy release, it sent up a white cloud of steam faster than the air conditioner could clear the room; but that soon faded down and disappeared.
Hokusai wiped his forehead slowly. “The ssuits — armor of the men?”
“Sent ’em back to the converter and had them dumped into the stuff to be safe long ago,” Jenkins answered. “But I forgot that box, like a fool. Ugh! Either blind chance saved us or else the stuff spit out was all one kind, some reasonably long chain. I don’t know nor care right—”
“S’ot! Nnnuh… Whmah nahh?”
“Jorgenson!” They swung from the end of the room like one man, but Jenkins was the first to reach the table. Jorgenson’s eyes were open and rolling in a semiorderly manner, his hands moving sluggishly. The boy hovered over his face, his own practically glowing with the intensity behind it. “Jorgenson, can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Uh.” The eyes ceased moving and centered on Jenkins. One hand came up to his throat, clutching at it, and he tried unsuccessfully to lift himself with the other, but the aftereffects of what he’d been through seemed to have left him in a state of partial paralysis.
Ferrel had hardly dared hope that the man could be rational, and his relief was tinged with doubt. He pushed Palmer back, and shook his head. “No, stay back. Let the boy handle it; he knows enough not to shock the man now, and you don’t. This can’t be rushed too much.”
“I — uh…. Young Jenkins? Whasha doin’ here? Tell y’ur dad to ge’ busy ou’ there!” Somewhere in Jorgenson’s huge frame, an untapped reserve of energy and will sprang up, and he forced himself into a sitting position, his eyes on Jenkins, his hand still catching at the reluctant throat that refused to cooperate. His words were blurry and uncertain, but sheer determination overcame the obstacles and made the words understandable.
“Dad’s dead now, Jorgenson. Now—”
“‘Sright. ‘N’ you’re grown up — ’bout twelve years old, y’were…. The plant!”
“Easy, Jorgenson.” Jenkins’ own voice managed to sound casual, though his hands under the table were white where they clenched together. “Listen, and don’t try to say anything until I finish. The plant’s still all right, but we’ve got to have your help. Here’s what happened.”
Ferrel could make little sense of the cryptic sentences that followed, though he gathered that they were some form of engineering shorthand; apparently, from Hokusai’s approving nod, they summed up the situation briefly but fully, and Jorgenson sat rigidly still until it was finished, his eyes fastened on the boy.
“Hellova mess! Gotta think… yuh tried—” He made an attempt to lower himself back, and Jenkins assisted him, hanging on feverishly to each awkward, uncertain change of expression on the man’s face. “Uh… da’ sroat! Yuh… uh… urrgh!”
“Got it?”
“Uh!” The tone was affirmative, unquestionably, but the clutching hands around his neck told their own story. The temporary burst of energy he’d forced was exhausted, and he couldn’t get through with it. He lay there, breathing heavily and struggling, then relaxed after a few more half-whispered words, none intelligently articulated.
Palmer clutched at Ferrel’s sleeve. “Doc, isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Try.” He metered out a minute quantity of drug doubtfully, felt Jorgenson’s pulse, and decided on half that amount. “Not much hope, though; that man’s been through hell, and it wasn’t good for him to be forced around in the first place. Carry it too far, and he’ll be delirious if he does talk. Anyway, I suspect it’s partly his speech centers as well as the throat.”
But Jorgenson began a slight rally almost instantly, trying again, then apparently drawing himself together for a final attempt. When they came, the words spilled out harshly in forced clearness, but without inflection.
“First… variable… at… twelve… water… stop.” His eyes, centered on Jenkins, closed, and he relaxed again, this time no longer fighting off the inevitable unconsciousness.
Hokusai, Palmer and Jenkins were staring back and forth at one another questioningly. The little Japanese shook his head negatively at first, frowned, and repeated it, to be imitated almost exactly by the manager. “Delirious ravings!”
“The great white hope Jorgenson!” Jenkins’ shoulders dropped and the blood drained from his face, leaving it ghastly with fatigue and despair. “Oh, damn it, Doc stop staring at me! I can’t pull a miracle out of a hat!”
Doc hadn’t realized that he was staring, but he made no effort to change it. “Maybe not, but you happened to have the most active imagination here, when you stop abusing it to scare yourself. Well, you’re on the spot now, and I’m still giving odds on you. Want to bet, Hoke?”
It was an utterly stupid thing, and Doc knew it; but somewhere during the long hours together, he’d picked up a queer respect for the boy and a dependence on the nervousness that wasn’t fear but closer akin to the reaction of a rear-running thoroughbred on the home stretch. Hoke was too slow and methodical, and Palmer had been too concerned with outside worries to give anywhere nearly full attention to the single most urgent phase of the problem; that left only Jenkins, hampered by his lack of self-confidence.
Hoke gave no sign that he caught the meaning of Doc’s heavy wink, but he lifted his eyebrows faintly. “No, I think I am not bet. Dr. Jenkins, I am to be command!”
Palmer looked briefly at the boy, whose face mirrored in credulous confusion, but he had neither Ferrel’s ignorance of atomic technique nor Hokusai’s fatalism. With a final glance at the unconscious Jorgenson, he started across the room toward the phone. “You men play, if you like. I’m starting evacuation immediately!”
“Wait!” Jenkins was shaking himself, physically as well as mentally. “Hold it, Palmer! Thanks, Doc. You knocked me out of the rut, and bounced my memory back to something I picked up somewhere; I think it’s the answer! It has to work — nothing else can at this stage of the game!”
“Give me the Governor, operator.” Palmer had heard, but he went on with the phone call. “This is no time to play crazy hunches until after we get the people out, kid. I’ll admit you’re a darned clever amateur, but you’re no atomicist!”