McClintock was twiddling the selector switch, listening in. Suddenly he snapped, "Someone is asleep!"
Reynolds checked the number.
"Of course, that's the twins' room; they take turns. You may hear snores in 21 and 30 and 8 and 19. It's okay; they're off watch."
"Well, all right." McCllntock seemed annoyed. Reynolds bent back to his list. Shortly McClintock snorted, "Who's in room 12?"
"Uh? Wait—that's Norman Johnson, Cleveland."
"You mean he's on watch?"
"Yes." ‘Reynolds could hear the boy's asthmatic breathing, felt relieved.
"He's asleep!"
‘"No, he's not."
But McClintock was rushing down the corridor. Reynolds took after him; Hammond and Hanby followed. Reynolds caught up as McClintock burst into room 12. Norman was sprawled in a chair, eyes closed in his habitual attitude.
McClintock rushed up, slapped him. "Wake up!" Reynolds grabbed McClintock. "You bloody fool!" Norman opened his eyes, then burst into tears. "It's gone!"
"Steady, Norman. It's all right."
"No, no! It's gone—and my mammy's gone with it!"
McClintock snapped, "Concentrate, boy! Get back on it!"
Reynolds turned on him. "Get out. Get out before I punch you."
Hanby and Hammond were in the door; the General cut in with a hoarse whisper, "Pipe down, Doctor, bring the boy."
Back at the board the outside light was flashing. Hanby took the call while Reynolds tried to quiet the boy. Hanby ‘listened gravely, then said, "He's right. Cleveland just got it."
McCllntock snapped, "He went to sleep. He ought to be shot."
"Shut up," said Hanby.
"But—"
Reynolds said, "any others, General?"
"Why would there be?"
"All this racket. It may have disturbed a dozen of them."
"Oh, we'll see." He called Washington again. Presently he sighed. "No, just Cleveland. We were lucky."
"General," McClintock insisted, "he was asleep."
Hanby looked at him. "Sir, you may be the President's deputy but you yourself have no military authority. Off my post."
"But I am directed by the President to—"
"Off my post, sir! Go back to Washington. Or to Cleveland. McClintock looked dumbfounded. Hanby added, "You're worse than bad—you're a fool."
"The President will hear of this."
"Blunder again and the President won't live that long. Get out."
By nightfall the situation was rapidly getting worse.
Twenty-seven cities were still threatened and Reynolds was losing operators faster than bombs were being found. Even-Money Karsch would not relieve when awakened. "See that?" he said, rolling dice. "Cold as a well-digger's feet. I'm through." After that Reynolds tested each one who was about to relieve, found that some were tired beyond the power of short sleep to restore them—they were "cold."
By midnight there were eighteen operators for nineteen cities. The twins had fearfully split up; it had worked.
Mrs. Wilkins was holding both Washington and Baltimore; she had taken Baltimore when he had no one to relieve there.
But now he had no one for relief anywhere and three operators—Nelson, Two-Gun and Grandma Wilkins—had had no rest. He was too fagged to worry; he simply knew that whenever one of them reached his limit, the United States would lose a city. The panic had resumed after the bombing of Cleveland; roads again were choked. The disorder made harder the search for bombs. But there was nothing he could do.
Mrs. Ekstein still complained about her sight but kept at it. Harry the newsboy had had no luck with Milwaukee, but there was no use shifting him; other cities were "dark" to him. During the night Mrs. Ekstein pointed to the bomb in Houston. It was, she said, in a box underground. A coffin? Yes, there was a headstone; she was unable to read the name.
Thus, many recent dead in Houston were disturbed. But it was nine Sunday morning before Reynolds went to tell Mary Gifford that she could rest—or relieve for Wilmington, if she felt up to it. He found her collapsed and lifted her onto the bed, wondering if she had known the Houston bomb was found.
Eleven cities now and eight people. Grandma Wilkins held four cities. No one else had been able to double up. Reynolds thought dully that it was a miracle that they had been able to last at all; it surpassed enormously the best test performance.
Hammond looked up as he returned. "Make any changes?"
"No. The Gifford kid is through. We'll lose half a dozen cities before this is over."
"Some of them must be damn near empty by now."
"I hope so. Any more bombs found?"
"Not yet. How do you feel, Doc?"
"Three weeks dead." Reynolds sat down wearily. He was wondering if he should wake some of those sleeping and test them again when he heard a noise below; he went to the stairwell. Up came an M.P. captain. "They said to bring her here." Reynolds looked at the woman with him. "Dorothy Brentano!"
"Dorothy Smith now."
He controlled his trembling and explained what was required. She nodded. "I figured that out on the plane. Got a pencil? Take this: St. Louis—a river warehouse with a sign reading ‘Bartlett & Sons, Jobbers.' Look in the loft. And Houston—no, they got that one. Baltimore—it's in a ship at the docks, the S.S. Gold Coast. What other cities? I've wasted time feeling around where there was nothing to find."
Reynolds was already shouting for Washington to answer.
Grandma Wilkins was last to be relieved; Dorothy located one in the Potomac—and Mrs. Wilkins told her sharply to keep trying. There were four bombs in Washington, which Mrs. Wilkins had known all along. Dorothy found them in eleven minutes.
Three hours later Reynolds showed up in the club mess-room, not having been able to sleep. Several of his people were eating and listening to the radio blast about our raid on Russia. He gave it a wide berth; they could blast Omsk and Tomsk and Minsk and Pinsk; today he didn't care. He was sipping milk and thinking that he would never drink coffee again when Captain Mikeler bent over his table.
"The General wants you. Hurry!"
"Why?"
"I said, ‘Hurry!' Where's Grandma Wilkins—oh I see her. Who is Mrs. Dorothy Smith?"
Reynolds looked around. "She's with Mrs. Wilkins."
Mikeler rushed them to Hanby's office. Hanby merely said, "Sit over there. And you ladies, too. Stay in focus."
Reynolds found himself looking into a television screen at the President of the United States. He looked as weary as Reynolds felt, but he turned on his smile. "You are Doctor Reynolds?"
"Yes, Mr. President!"
"These ladies are Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Smith?"
"Yes, sir."
The President said quietly, "You three and your colleagues will be thanked by the Republic. And by me, for myself. But that must wait. Mrs. Smith, there are more bombs—in Russia. Could your strange gift find them there?"
"Why, I don't—I can try!"
"Mrs. Wilkins, could you set off those Russian bombs while they are still far away?"
Incredibly, she was still bright-eyed and chipper. "Why, Mr. President!"
"Can you?"
She got a far-away look. "Dorothy and I had better have a quiet room somewhere. And I'd like a pot of tea. A large pot."
Water is for Washing
He judged that the Valley was hotter than usual—but, then, it usually was. Imperial Valley was a natural hothouse, two hundred and fifty feet below sea level, diked from the Pacific Ocean by the mountains back of San Diego, protected from the Gulf of Baja California by high ground on the south. On the east, the Chocolate Mountains walled off the rushing Colorado River.