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Forester didn't, but the quiet protest recalled that bleak doubt in
Armstrong's eyes. Reflecting that the members of the Defense Authority might
prove equally incredulous, he decided to wait for better evidence.
It was twilight when the car labored up the narrow road from the desert, to
the guarded fences and flood-lit buildings of Starmont. Groggy with fatigue,
Forester felt a pang of envy when Ironsmith swung easily out as they stopped
at the inner gate, to step easily on his bicycle and pedal briskly off toward
the computing section, whistling as he went.
The Red Alert came at midnight, on the tight-beam teleprinter. That warning
signal meant that hostile action from the Triplanet Powers had been detected.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
It called for the staff of Project Thunderbolt to arm two missiles against
each of the enemy planets, and stand by for the final order to end three
worlds.
A second message, five minutes later, called Forester himself to the capital
for an emergency meeting of the Defense Authority. He took off at once, with
no time even for a word to Ruth. His official aircraft landed in cold rain at
dawn on a military field, and a waiting staff car took him into a guarded
tunnel in the face of a hill.
Deep in the underground sites which men had dug in their frantic search for
vanished safety, he came at last into a narrow room of gray concrete, and took
his place at the foot of a green- covered table to wait for the meeting. He
hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, tossed with nocturnal thunderstorms
along an occluded front. The flight lunch he had shared with the crew felt
heavy on his stomach, and he needed a dose of bicarbonate. Clammy in his
travel-wrinkled clothing, he sat longing for the dry warmth of Starmont and
trying not to think of anything else. He blinked and started when he saw Mason
Horn.
The secret agent came in through another guarded door, walking between two
armed lieutenants of the Security Police. Forester rose eagerly to call out
his greeting, but Horn answered with only a stiff little nod, and one of the
lieutenants beckoned Forester back. They waited, watchfully apart at the end
of that long gray room. Horn carried a small brown leather case, chained to
his left wrist. Sinking back into his chair, Forester felt a new chill in the
damp blast from a fan somewhere behind him. He knew what that case must
contain, and the knowledge was monstrous.
The nearer lieutenant saw his eyes on the case, and frowned at him sharply.
Starting again, he shifted his gaze and tried to wipe the stickiness out of
his palms. The silent weight of rock above began to give him a smothered
feeling, and a faint reek of drying paint sharpened his physical unease. He
slumped in his chair, and straightened again when the high military and
political officials who formed the Defense Authority began to arrive,
surrounded by hushed and nervous satellites.
The aged world president entered at last, leaning on the arm of his solicitous
military aide, one Major Steel. Calling out quavering greetings to a few of
his cronies, he shuffled to his big chair at the end of the table. Steel
helped him to sit, and he waited for the dapper little officer to prompt him
before he spoke to the hushed meeting.
"Gentlemen, I've bad news for you." His voice faltered thinly. "Mr. Mason Horn
will tell you what it is."
The special agent left the two lieutenants, at the president's feeble nod, and
stepped up briskly to the table. With his thinning yellowish hair and fat red
face, he looked more like a show salesman than an interplanetary spy.
Unlocking the chain, he opened the brown leather case to display a polished
metal object the size of an egg.
"This is the bad news." His voice was as blandly casual as if he had been
offering a chic new number in brown suede for the spring market. "I brought it
back from a Triplanet arsenal in Sector Vermilion. The president has
instructed me not to reveal the technical specifications. I'm only to tell you
what it can do."
The men around that long, bright-lit table, most of them withered with years
and all tight-faced with anxiety, leaned silently to watch as Horn's plump,
careful fingers unscrewed the flat-ended metal egg into two parts and set them
on the table. Cold light glittered on small knurled metal knobs and graduated
scales.
"Huh!" The chief of staff sniffed scornfully. "Is that all?"
"It's enough, sir." Horn gave him a brief, amiable smile, as if about to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]