Keeping his temper, Graham said, “Will you give me a list if I bring you written authority?”
“Well,” Thurlow ceased his cackling, looked cunning, “if what you bring satisfies me, I’ll give you a list. What you bring had better be convincing. No slick competitor is going to gyp me out of a list just because trade’s gone haywire.”
“You need not fear that.” Graham stood up. “I’ll get something in clear writing, or else the police will make application on my behalf.” Stopping by the door, he asked one more question. “How long have you been using that bear as a trade-mark?”
“Ever since we started. More than thirty years.” Thurlow waxed pompous. “In the public’s mind, the standing bear is associated with a product unrivalled in its sphere, a product which—although I say it myself—is universally accepted as—”
“Thanks!” interrupted Graham, cutting short the eulogy. He went out.
The stubborn one with whom he’d first battled conducted him to the front doors, saying, “Did he oblige?”
“No.”
“I thought he wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
The other looked troubled. “I shouldn’t say it but, frankly, Thurlow wouldn’t give milk to a blind kitten.”
Regarding him shrewdly, Graham punched his arm. “Why let that worry you? Time’s on your side. You’ll be in his chair when he’s stinking.”
“If any of us live long enough to see this through,” observed the other, gloomily.
“That’s
my
worry,” said Graham. “Bye!”
There was a phone booth in the corner drugstore. Graham sized up the four customers and three assistants before turning his back to them and entering the booth.
He was leery of everybody. That warning voice within his mind whispered that he was being sought with grim determination, that at long last it had dawned upon the eerie foe that the source of opposition was not so much the world of science as a small group of investigatory aces—in which he was the ace of trumps.
The Vitons had gained compensation for their inherent inability to distinguish one human being from another, humans who seemed as alike as so many sheep. Other humans had been forcibly enrolled and given the duty of segregating intransigent animals from the flock. The Vitons now were aided by a horde of surgically-created quislings, a hapless, helpless, hopeless but dangerous fifth column.
Short of a prowling luminosity picking on him at random, and reading his mind, he had been safe. Now he was threatened by proxies of his own kind. This brother-kill-brother technique was the newest and deadliest menace.
Dialling his number, he thanked heaven that Wohl’s dazed mind had not depicted himself and the locality of his home. Wohl’s smothered, disorganized brain helplessly had surrendered its knowledge of the field office, causing wolfish captors contemptuously to leave him upon the bank in their haste to reach the scene of slaughter.
Graham would never tell the burly police lieutenant that he, and he alone, had put the finger on Leamington and the others.
“This is Graham,” he said, detecting the lift of a distant receiver.
“Listen, Graham,” Sangster’s voice came back urgently. “I connected with Washington shortly after you last phoned. We’re linked through amateur transmitters—the hams seem to have the only reliable communications system left. Washington wants you right away. You’d better get there fast!”
“D’you know what it’s for, sir?”
“I don’t. All I’ve got is that you must see Keithley without delay. There’s a captured Asian strat-plane waiting for you down at Battery Park.”
“Fancy me roaming around in an Asian. Our fighters won’t give it five minutes in the air.”
“I’m afraid you don’t appreciate our true position, Graham. Except for occasional and very risky sorties, our fighters are grounded. If they had only the Asians to meet, they’d soon sweep the skies clear of them. But there are the Vitons, too. That makes a lot of difference. When a Viton can swoop on a pilot, compelling him to land his plane in enemy territory as a free gift from us… well… we just can’t afford to give away men and machines like that. The Asians have gained command of the air. It’s a fact that may lose us this war. You take that Asian job—you’ll be safer in that.”
“I’ll do it on the run.” Watching the shop through the booth’s plastiglass panels, he put his lips nearer the mouthpiece, and went on hurriedly, “I called to ask you to get me a list of local customers from Freezer Fabricators. You may have to get tough with a wizened dummy named Thurlow; the tougher you get the better I’ll like it. He’s long overdue to have his ears pinned back. I’d also like you to make contact with Harriman, at the Smithsonian, ask him to reach any astronomers who’re still active, and find out whether they can conceive any possible connection between the luminosities and the Great Bear.”
“The Great Bear?” echoed Sangster, surprisedly.
“Yes, there’s a bear hanging around that means something or other. God alone knows what it does mean, but somehow I’ve got to find out. I’ve a feeling it’s mighty important.”
“Important—a bear! It can’t be any other animal, eh? It has to be a bear?”
“Nothing but a smelly bruin,” Graham agreed. “I’m pretty sure that the astronomical slant is entirely wrong, but we can’t afford to overlook even the remotest chance.”
“Refrigerators, wizened dummies, stars and bears!” gabbled Sangster. “Jesus!” He was silent a moment, then moaned, “I think maybe they’ve got at you, too—but I’ll do as you request.” Then he said, “Jesus!” again and disconnected.
The trip to Washington was fast and uneventful, but his army pilot sighed with relief as the machine touched tarmac at the destination.
He clambered out, saying to Graham, “It’s nice to arrive at where you intended instead of where some blue globe compels you to go.”
Graham nodded, got into the waiting car, was whirled away at top pace. Ten minutes later, he was savagely pondering the bureaucratic habit of saving two minutes and wasting ten. He paced the waiting room with hard, restless strides. You wouldn’t think there was a war on, the way they let you hang around in Washington.
That couple of scientists, for instance. Heaven only knew whom they were waiting to see, but they’d been there when he arrived, and they acted like they hoped still to be there when finally the rock of ages crumbled into dust. Graham gave them an irritated look over. Talk!—they talked and talked as if worldwide destruction and human slaughter were trifling distractions compared with other and weightier matters.
Arguing about Bjornsen’s formula, they were. The little one reckoned that modification of eyesight was caused by molecules of methylene blue transported to the visual purple by iodine as a halogen in affinity, functioning as a carrier.
The fat one thought otherwise. It was the iodine that made the difference. Methylene blue was the catalyst causing fixation of an otherwise degeneratable rectifier. He agreed that mescal served only to stimulate the optic nerves, attuning them to the new vision, but the actual cause was iodine. Look at Webb’s schizophrenics, for example. They had iodine, but not methylene blue. They were mutants with natural fixation, requiring no catalyst.
With blissful disregard for other and more urgent matters, the little one started off again, threatening to bring Graham’s temper to the boil. The investigator was just asking himself what it mattered how Bjornsen’s formula functioned so long as it did function, when he heard his own name called.
Three men occupied the room into which he was ushered. He recognized them all: Tollerton, a local expert; Willetts C. Keithley, supreme head of the Intelligence Service; and finally a square-jawed, gray-eyed figure whose presence brought him stiffly to attention—the president!
“Mr. Graham,” said the president, without preamble, “this morning a courier arrived from Europe. He was the fifth they’d despatched to us within forty-eight hours. His four predecessors died on their way here. He brought bad news.”
“Yes, sir,” said Graham, respectfully.
“A rocket dropped on Louvain, Belgium. It had an atomic warhead. Europe retaliated with ten. The Asians have sent back twelve more. This morning, the first atomic rocket in this hemisphere arrived on our territory. The news has been suppressed, of course, but we are about to hit back strongly. In brief, the much-feared atomic war has begun.” He put his hands behind his back, walked up and down the carpet. “Our morale is good despite everything. The people have confidence. They feel sure that victory will be ours in the end.”
“I’m sure of that, sir,” said Graham.
“I wish I were as sure!” The president stopped his pacing and faced him squarely. “The situation now existing is no longer war in the historical sense of the term. If it were, we should win it. But this is something else—it is the suicide of a species! The man who jumps in the river wins nothing but everlasting peace. Neither side can win this battle—except perhaps the Vitons. Humanity, as a whole must lose. We, as a nation, must also lose, for we are part of humanity. The coolest heads on both sides have realized that from the start, hence the reason why atomic weapons have been held back as long as possible. Now—God forgive us!—the atomic sword has been drawn. Neither side dare take the risk of being the first to sheath it.”
“I understand, sir.”
“If that were all, it would be bad enough,” the president continued, “but it is far from all.” He turned to a wall map, pointed to a thick black line broken by a tipsy-vee which speared across most of Nebraska. “The public does not know of this. It represents the area of the enemy’s armored penetration within the last two days. It is an Asian salient which we may or may not be able to contain.”
“Yes, sir.” Graham eyed the map without expression.
“We can make no greater sacrifices. We can hold no stronger foe.” The president stepped nearer, his stern eyes looking deep into Graham’s. “The courier reported that Europe’s situation already is extremely critical, in fact so much so that they can hold out until six o’clock on Monday evening. Until that time, we remain humanity’s last hope. After that, Europe’s collapse or annihilation. Six o’clock and no later—not one minute later.”
“I see, sir.” The Intelligence man noted the wide-eyed gaze that Tollerton kept upon him, the fixed, keen stare with which Keithley was watching him.
“Frankly, that means there is no way of escape for any of us except by striking an effective blow at the fundamental cause of all this—the Vitons. Either that, or we cease to survive as sentient beings. Either that, or those left of us revert to the status of domestic animals. We have eighty hours in which to find salvation!” The president was grave, very grave. “I don’t expect you to find it for us, Mr. Graham. I don’t expect miracles of any man. But, knowing your record, knowing that you personally have been involved in all this from the beginning, I wanted to inform you myself; to tell you that any suggestions you can make will be acted upon immediately and with all the power at our command; to tell you that all the authority you require may be had for the asking.”
“The president,” interjected Keithley, “thinks that if anything can be done by one man, that man is you. You started all this, you’ve seen it through so far, and you’re the likeliest person to finish it—if it can be finished.”
“Where have you hidden the experts?” asked Graham, bluntly.
“There’s a group of twenty in Florida, and twenty-eight in the interior of Porto Rico,” Keithley replied.
“Give them to me!” Graham’s eyes were alight with the fire of battle. “Bring them back and give them to me.”
“You shall have them,” declared the president. “Anything else, Mr. Graham?”
“Give me absolute authority to commandeer all laboratories, plants and lines of communication that I see fit. Let my requirements for materials be given preference over all else.”
“Granted.” The president uttered the word with no hesitation.
“One more request.” He made it to Keithley, explaining, “His duty will be to watch me. He’ll watch me and I’ll watch him. Should either of us become a dupe, the other will remove him at once.”
“That, too, is granted.” Keithley handed over a slip of paper. “Sangster said that you wanted addresses of fellow operatives in New York. There are ten on that list—six locals and four out-of-towners. Two of the local men have not reported for some time, and their fate is unknown.”
“I’ll try to look them up.” Graham pocketed the slip.
“Eighty hours, remember,” said the president. “Eighty hours between freedom for the living or slavery for the not-dead.” He put a paternal hand on the other’s shoulder. “Do the best with the powers we’ve given you, and may Providence be your guide!”
“Eighty hours,” murmured Graham as he raced toward the plane waiting to bear him back to New York.
Down the spine of the New World, a hundred millions were facing three hundred millions. Every hour, every minute thousands were dying, thousands more were being mutilated—while overhead hung the glowing quaffers of the ascending champagne of agony.
The end of the hellish banquet was drawing nigh. The last course was about to be served, an atomic one, in critical masses, served with blood red hands. Then appetites replete with human currents might rest content to wait the further feasts to come, the oldtime, regular guzzlings in humanity’s rutting seasons and burying seasons. Eighty hours!
The rush with which he entered his New York apartment took Graham halfway across the floor before he saw the figure dozing in the chair. The center light was cold and dull, but the whole room was aglow with the electric radiator’s brilliant flare. Seeing by radiant heat had long lost its novelty to those with the new sight.
“Art!” he shouted, delightedly. “I was about to phone Stamford and ask them to toss you out. I need you badly.”
“Well, I’m out,” said Wohl, succinctly. “I couldn’t stand that hospital any longer. There was an angular ward sister with ambitions. She got me scared. She called me Wohly-Pohly and stole my britches. Ugh!” He shuddered reminiscently. “I bawled for my clothes and they acted like they’d been sold to the junkman. So eventually I beat it without them.”