Book + 

II + 

The World War + 

IV + 

1918 + 

Sobbing furiously, Captain Ralph Kinnison wrenched at his stick⁠—with half of his control surfaces shot away the crate was hellishly logy. He could step out, of course, the while saluting the victorious Jerries, but he wasn’t on fire⁠—yet⁠—and hadn’t been hit⁠—yet. He ducked and flinched sidewise as another burst of bullets stitched another seam along his riddled fuselage and whanged against his dead engine. Afire? Not yet⁠—good! Maybe he could land the heap, after all! + 

Slowly⁠—oh, so sluggishly⁠—the Spad began to level off, toward the edge of the wheatfield and that friendly, inviting ditch. If the krauts didn’t get him with their next pass.⁠ ⁠… + 

He heard a chattering beneath him⁠—Brownings, by God!⁠—and the expected burst did not come. He knew that he had been just about over the front when they conked his engine; it was a toss-up whether he would come down in enemy territory or not. But now, for the first time in ages, it seemed, there were machine-guns going that were not aimed at him! + 

His landing-gear swished against stubble and he fought with all his strength of body and of will to keep the Spad’s tail down. He almost succeeded; his speed was almost spent when he began to nose over. He leaped, then, and as he struck ground he curled up and rolled⁠—he had been a motorcycle racer for years⁠—feeling as he did so a wash of heat: a tracer had found his gas-tank at last! Bullets were thudding into the ground; one shrieked past his head as, stooping over, folded into the smallest possible target, he galloped awkwardly toward the ditch. + 

The Brownings still yammered, filling the sky with cupro-nickeled lead; and while Kinnison was flinging himself full length into the protecting water and mud, he heard a tremendous crash. One of those Huns had been too intent on murder; had stayed a few seconds too long; had come a few meters too close. + 

The clamor of the guns stopped abruptly. + 

“We got one! We got one!” a yell of exultation. + 

“Stay down! Keep low, you boneheads!” roared a voice of authority, quite evidently a sergeant’s. “Wanna get your blocks shot off? Take down them guns; we gotta get the hell out of here. Hey, you flyer! Are you OK, or wounded, or maybe dead?” + 

Kinnison spat out mud until he could talk. “OK!” he shouted, and started to lift an eye above the low bank. He stopped, however, as whistling metal, sheeting in from the north, told him that such action would be decidedly unsafe. “But I ain’t leaving this ditch right now⁠—sounds mighty hot out there!” + 

“You said it, brother. It’s hotter than the hinges of hell, from behind that ridge over there. But ooze down that ditch a piece, around the first bend. It’s pretty well in the clear there, and besides, you’ll find a ledge of rocks running straight across the flat. Cross over there and climb the hill⁠—join us by that dead snag up there. We got to get out of here. That sausage over there must have seen this shindig and they’ll blow this whole damn area off the map. Snap it up! And you, you goldbricks, get the lead out of your pants!” + 

Kinnison followed directions. He found the ledge and emerged, scraping thick and sticky mud from his uniform. He crawled across the little plain. An occasional bullet whined through the air, far above him; but, as the sergeant had said, this bit of terrain was “in the clear.” He climbed the hill, approached the gaunt, bare tree-trunk. He heard men moving, and cautiously announced himself. + 

“OK, fella,” came the sergeant’s deep bass. “Yeah, it’s us. Shake a leg!” + 

“That’s easy!” Kinnison laughed for the first time that day. “I’m shaking already, like a hula-hula dancer’s empennage. What outfit is this, and where are we?” + 

“B R R O O M!” The earth trembled, the air vibrated. Below and to the north, almost exactly where the machine-guns had been, an awe-inspiring cloud billowed majestically into the air; a cloud composed of smoke, vapor, pulverized earth, chunks of rock, and debris of what had been trees. Nor was it alone. + 

“Crack! Bang! Tweet! Boom! Wham!” Shells of all calibers, high explosive and gas, came down in droves. The landscape disappeared. The little company of Americans, in complete silence and with one mind, devoted themselves to accumulating distance. Finally, when they had to stop for breath: + 

“Section B, attached to the 76th Field Artillery,” the sergeant answered the question as though it had just been asked. “As to where we are, somewhere between Berlin and Paris is about all I can tell you. We got hell knocked out of us yesterday, and have been running around lost ever since. They shot off a rally signal on top of this here hill, though, and we was just going to shove off when we seen the krauts chasing you.” + 

“Thanks. I’d better rally with you, I guess⁠—find out where we are, and what’s the chance of getting back to my own outfit.” + 

“Damn slim, I’d say. Boches are all around us here, thicker than fleas on a dog.” + 

They approached the summit, were challenged, were accepted. They saw a gray-haired man⁠—an old man, for such a location⁠—seated calmly upon a rock, smoking a cigarette. His smartly-tailored uniform, which fitted perfectly his not-so-slender figure, was muddy and tattered. One leg of his breeches was torn half away, revealing a blood-soaked bandage. Although he was very evidently an officer, no insignia were visible. As Kinnison and the gunners approached, a first lieutenant⁠—practically spic-and-span⁠—spoke to the man on the rock. + 

“First thing to do is to settle the matter of rank,” he announced, crisply. “I’m First Lieutenant Randolph, of.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Rank, eh?” The seated one grinned and spat out the butt of his cigarette. “But then, it was important to me, too, when I was a first lieutenant⁠—about the time that you were born. Slayton, Major-General.” + 

“Oh⁠ ⁠… excuse me, sir.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Skip it. How many men you got, and what are they?” + 

“Seven, sir. We brought in a wire from Inf.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“A wire! Hellanddamnation, why haven’t you got it with you, then? Get it!” + 

The crestfallen officer disappeared; the general turned to Kinnison and the sergeant. + 

“Have you got any ammunition, sergeant?” + 

“Yes, sir. About thirty belts.” + 

“Thank God! We can use it, and you. As for you, Captain, I don’t know.⁠ ⁠…” + 

The wire came up. The general seized the instrument and cranked. + 

“Get me Spearmint⁠ ⁠… Spearmint? Slayton⁠—give me Weatherby⁠ ⁠… This is Slayton⁠ ⁠… yes, but⁠ ⁠… No, but I want⁠ ⁠… Hellanddamnation, Weatherby, shut up and let me talk⁠—don’t you know that this wire’s apt to be cut any second? We’re on top of Hill Fo-wer, Ni-yun, Sev-en⁠—that’s right⁠—about two hundred men; maybe three. Composite⁠—somebody, apparently, from half the outfits in France. Too fast and too far⁠—both flanks wide open⁠—cut off⁠ ⁠… Hello! Hello! Hello!” He dropped the instrument and turned to Kinnison. “You want to go back, Captain, and I need a runner⁠—bad. Want to try to get through?” + 

“Yes, sir.” + 

“First phone you come to, get Spearmint⁠—General Weatherby. Tell him Slayton says that we’re cut off, but the Germans aren’t in much force nor in good position, and for God’s sake to get some air and tanks in here to keep them from consolidating. Just a minute. Sergeant, what’s your name?” He studied the burly non-com minutely. + 

“Wells, sir.” + 

“What would you say ought to be done with the machine-guns?” + 

“Cover that ravine, there, first. Then set up to enfilade if they try to come up over there. Then, if I could find any more guns, I’d.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Enough. Second Lieutenant Wells, from now. G.H.Q. will confirm. Take charge of all the guns we have. Report when you have made disposition. Now, Kinnison, listen. I can probably hold out until tonight. The enemy doesn’t know yet that we’re here, but we are due for some action pretty quick now, and when they locate us⁠—if there aren’t too many of their own units here, too⁠—they’ll flatten this hill like a table. So tell Weatherby to throw a column in here as soon as it gets dark, and to advance Eight and Sixty, so as to consolidate this whole area. Got it?” + 

“Yes, sir.” + 

“Got a compass?” + 

“Yes, sir.” + 

“Pick up a tin hat and get going. A hair north of due west, about a kilometer and a half. Keep cover, because the going will be tough. Then you’ll come to a road. It’s a mess, but it’s ours⁠—or was, at last accounts⁠—so the worst of it will be over. On that road, which goes southwest, about two kilometers further, you’ll find a Post⁠—you’ll know it by the motorcycles and such. Phone from there. Luck!” + 

Bullets began to whine and the general dropped to the ground and crawled toward a coppice, bellowing orders as he went. Kinnison crawled, too, straight west, availing himself of all possible cover, until he encountered a sergeant-major reclining against the south side of a great tree. + 

“Cigarette, buddy?” that wight demanded. + 

“Sure. Take the pack. I’ve got another that’ll last me⁠—maybe more. But what the hell goes on here? Who ever heard of a major general getting far enough up front to get shot in the leg, and he talks as though he were figuring on licking the whole German army. Is the old bird nuts, or what?” + 

“Not so you would notice it. Didn’cha ever hear of ‘Hellandamnation’ Slayton? You will, buddy, you will. If Pershing doesn’t give him three stars after this, he’s crazier than hell. He ain’t supposed to be on combat at all⁠—he’s from G.H.Q. and can make or break anybody in the A.E.F. Out here on a look-see trip and couldn’t get back. But you got to hand it to him⁠—he’s getting things organized in great shape. I came in with him⁠—I’m about all that’s left of them that did⁠—just waiting for this breeze to die down, but its getting worse. We’d better duck⁠—over there!” + 

Bullets whistled and stormed, breaking more twigs and branches from the already shattered, practically denuded trees. The two slid precipitately into the indicated shell-hole, into stinking mud. Wells’ guns burst into action. + 

“Damn! I hated to do this,” the sergeant grumbled, “On accounta I just got half dry.” + 

“Wise me up,” Kinnison directed. “The more I know about things, the more apt I am to get through.” + 

“This is what is left of two battalions, and a lot of casuals. They made objective, but it turns out the outfits on their right and left couldn’t, leaving their flanks right out in the open air. Orders come in by blinker to rectify the line by falling back, but by then it couldn’t be done. Under observation.” + 

Kinnison nodded. He knew what a barrage would have done to a force trying to cross such open ground in daylight. + 

“One man could prob’ly make it, though, if he was careful and kept his eyes wide open,” the sergeant-major continued. “But you ain’t got no binoculars, have you?” + 

“No.” + 

“Get a pair easy enough. You saw them boots without any hobnails in ’em, sticking out from under some blankets?” + 

“Yes. I get you.” Kinnison knew that combat officers did not wear hobnails, and usually carried binoculars. “How come so many at once?” + 

“Just about all the officers that got this far. Conniving, my guess is, behind old Slayton’s back. Anyway, a kraut aviator spots ’em and dives. Our machine-guns got him, but not until after he heaved a bomb. Dead center. Christ, what a mess! But there’s six-seven good glasses in there. I’d grab one myself, but the general would see it⁠—he can see right through the lid of a mess-kit. Well, the boys have shut those krauts up, so I’ll hunt the old man up and tell him what I found out. Damn this mud!” + 

Kinnison emerged sinuously and snaked his way to a row of blanket covered forms. He lifted a blanket and gasped: then vomited up everything, it seemed, that he had eaten for days. But he had to have the binoculars. + 

He got them. + 

Then, still retching, white and shaken, he crept westward; availing himself of every possible item of cover. + 

For some time, from a point somewhere north of his route, a machine-gun had been intermittently at work. It was close; but the very loudness of its noise, confused as it was by resounding echoes, made it impossible to locate at all exactly the weapon’s position. Kinnison crept forward inchwise; scanning every foot of visible terrain through his powerful glass. He knew by the sound that it was German. More, since what he did not know about machine-guns could have been printed in bill-poster type upon the back of his hand, he knew that it was a Maxim, Model 1907⁠—a mean, mean gun. He deduced that it was doing plenty of damage to his fellows back on the hill, and that they had not been able to do much of anything about it. And it was beautifully hidden; even he, close as he must be, couldn’t see it. But damn it, there had to be a.⁠ ⁠… + 

Minute after minute, unmoving save for the traverse of his binoculars, he searched, and finally he found. A tiny plume⁠—the veriest wisp⁠—of vapor, rising from the surface of the brook. Steam! Steam from the cooling jacket of that Maxim 1907! And there was the tube! + 

Cautiously he moved around until he could trace that tube to its business end⁠—the carefully-hidden emplacement. There it was! He couldn’t maintain his westward course without them spotting him; nor could he go around far enough. And besides⁠ ⁠… and besides that, there would be at least a patrol, if it hadn’t gone up the hill already. And there were grenades available, right close.⁠ ⁠… + 

He crept up to one of the gruesome objects he had been avoiding, and when he crept away he half-carried, half-dragged three grenades in a canvas bag. He wormed his way to a certain boulder. He straightened up, pulled three pins, swung his arm three times. + 

Bang! Bam! Pow! The camouflage disappeared; so did the shrubbery for yards around. Kinnison had ducked behind the rock, but he ducked still deeper as a chunk of something, its force pretty well spent, clanged against his steel helmet. Another object thudded beside him⁠—a leg, gray-clad and wearing a heavy field boot! + 

Kinnison wanted to be sick again, but he had neither the time nor the contents. + 

And damn! What lousy throwing! He had never been any good at baseball, but he supposed that he could hit a thing as big as that gun-pit⁠—but not one of his grenades had gone in. The crew would probably be dead⁠—from concussion, if nothing else⁠—but the gun probably wasn’t even hurt. He would have to go over there and cripple it himself. + 

He went⁠—not exactly boldly⁠—forty-five in hand. The Germans looked dead. One of them sprawled on the parapet, right in his way. He gave the body a shove, watched it roll down the slope. As it rolled, however, it came to life and yelled; and at that yell there occurred a thing at which young Kinnison’s hair stood straight up inside his iron helmet. On the gray of the blasted hillside hitherto unseen gray forms moved; moved toward their howling comrade. And Kinnison, blessing for the first time in his life his inept throwing arm, hoped fervently that the Maxim was still in good working order. + 

A few seconds of inspection showed him that it was. The gun had practically a full belt and there was plenty more. He placed a box⁠—he would have no Number Two to help him here⁠—took hold of the grips, shoved off the safety, and squeezed the trip. The gun roared⁠—what a gorgeous, what a heavenly racket that Maxim made! He traversed until he could see where the bullets were striking: then swung the stream of metal to and fro. One belt and the Germans were completely disorganized; two belts and he could see no signs of life. + 

He pulled the Maxim’s block and threw it away; shot the water-jacket full of holes. That gun was done. Nor had he increased his own hazard. Unless more Germans came very soon, nobody would ever know who had done what, or to whom. + 

He slithered away; resumed earnestly his westward course: going as fast as⁠—sometimes a trifle faster than⁠—caution would permit. But there were no more alarms. He crossed the dangerously open ground; sulked rapidly through the frightfully shattered wood. He reached the road, strode along it around the first bend, and stopped, appalled. He had heard of such things, but he had never seen one; and mere description has always been and always will be completely inadequate. Now he was walking right into it⁠—the thing he was to see in nightmare for all the rest of his ninety-six years of life. + 

Actually, there was very little to see. The road ended abruptly. What had been a road, what had been wheatfields and farms, what had been woods, were practically indistinguishable, one from the other; were fantastically and impossibly the same. The entire area had been churned. Worse⁠—it was as though the ground and its every surface object had been run through a gargantuan mill and spewed abroad. Splinters of wood, riven chunks of metal, a few scraps of bloody flesh. Kinnison screamed, then, and ran; ran back and around that blasted acreage. And as he ran, his mind built up pictures; pictures which became only the more vivid because of his frantic efforts to wipe them out. + 

That road, the night before, had been one of the world’s most heavily traveled highways. Motorcycles, trucks, bicycles. Ambulances. Kitchens. Staff-cars and other automobiles. Guns; from seventy-fives up to the big boys, whose tremendous weight drove their wide caterpillar treads inches deep into solid ground. Horses. Mules. And people⁠—especially people⁠—like himself. Solid columns of men, marching as fast as they could step⁠—there weren’t trucks enough to haul them all. That road had been crowded⁠—jammed. Like State and Madison at noon, only more so. Over-jammed with all the personnel, all the instrumentation and incidentalia, all the weaponry, of war. + 

And upon that teeming, seething highway there had descended a rain of steel-encased high explosive. Possibly some gas, but probably not. The German High Command had given orders to pulverize that particular area at that particular time; and hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of German guns, in a micrometrically-synchronized symphony of firepower, had pulverized it. Just that. Literally. Precisely. No road remained; no farm, no field, no building, no tree or shrub. The bits of flesh might have come from horse or man or mule; few indeed were the scraps of metal which retained enough of their original shape to show what they had once been. + 

Kinnison ran⁠—or staggered⁠—around that obscene blot and struggled back to the road. It was shell-pocked, but passable. He hoped that the shell-holes would decrease in number as he went along, but they did not. The enemy had put this whole road out of service. And that farm, the P.C., ought to be around the next bend. + 

It was, but it was no longer a Post of Command. Either by directed fire⁠—star-shell illumination⁠—or by uncannily accurate chart-work, they had put some heavy shell exactly where they would do the most damage. The buildings were gone; the cellar in which the P.C. had been was now a gaping crater. Parts of motorcycles and of staff cars littered the ground. Stark tree trunks⁠—all bare of leaves, some riven of all except the largest branches, a few stripped even of bark⁠—stood gauntly. In a crotch of one, Kinnison saw with rising horror, hung the limp and shattered naked torso of a man; blown completely out of his clothes. + 

Shells were⁠—had been, right along⁠—coming over occasionally. Big ones, but high; headed for targets well to the west. Nothing close enough to worry about. Two ambulances, a couple of hundred meters apart, were coming; working their way along the road, between the holes. The first one slowed⁠ ⁠… stopped. + 

“Seen anybody⁠—Look out! Duck!” + 

Kinnison had already heard that unmistakable, unforgettable screech, was already diving headlong into the nearest hole. There was a crash as though the world were falling apart. Something smote him; seemed to drive him bodily into the ground. His light went out. When he recovered consciousness he was lying upon a stretcher; two men were bending over him. + 

“What hit me?” he gasped. “Am I⁠ ⁠… ?” He stopped. He was afraid to ask: afraid even to try to move, lest he should find that he didn’t have any arms or legs. + 

“A wheel, and maybe some of the axle, of the other ambulance, is all,” one of the men assured him. “Nothing much; you’re practically as good as ever. Shoulder and arm bunged up a little and something⁠—maybe shrapnel, though⁠—poked you in the guts. But we’ve got you all fixed up, so take it easy and.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“What we want to know is,” his partner interrupted, “Is there anybody else alive up here?” + 

“Uh-huh,” Kinnison shook his head. + 

“OK. Just wanted to be sure. Lots of business back there, and it won’t do any harm to have a doctor look at you.” + 

“Get me to a phone, as fast as you can,” Kinnison directed, in a voice which he thought was strong and full of authority, but which in fact was neither. “I’ve got an important message for General Weatherby, at Spearmint.” + 

“Better tell us what it is, hadn’t you?” The ambulance was now jolting along what had been the road. “They’ve got phones at the hospital where we’re going, but you might faint or something before we get there.” + 

Kinnison told, but fought to retain what consciousness he had. Throughout that long, rough ride he fought. He won. He himself spoke to General Weatherby⁠—the doctors, knowing him to be a Captain of Aviation and realizing that his message should go direct, helped him telephone. He himself received the General’s sizzlingly sulphurous assurance that relief would be sent and that that quadruply-qualified line would be rectified that night. + 

Then someone jabbed him with a needle and he lapsed into a dizzy, fuzzy coma, from which he did not emerge completely for weeks. He had lucid intervals at times, but he did not, at the time or ever, know surely what was real and what was fantasy. + 

There were doctors, doctors, doctors; operations, operations, operations. There were hospital tents, into which quiet men were carried; from which still quieter men were removed. There was a larger hospital, built of wood. There was a machine that buzzed and white-clad men who studied films and papers. There were scraps of conversation. + 

“Belly wounds are bad,” Kinnison thought⁠—he was never sure⁠—that he heard one of them say. “And such contusions and multiple and compound fractures as those don’t help a bit. Prognosis unfavorable⁠—distinctly so⁠—but we’ll soon see what we can do. Interesting case⁠ ⁠… fascinating. What would you do, Doctor, if you were doing it?” + 

“I’d let it alone!” A younger, stronger voice declared, fervently. “Multiple perforations, infection, extravasation, oedema⁠—uh-uh! I am watching, Doctor, and learning!” + 

Another interlude, and another. Another. And others. Until finally, orders were given which Kinnison did not hear at all. + 

“Adrenalin! Massage! Massage hell out of him!” + 

Kinnison again came to⁠—partially to, rather⁠—anguished in every fiber of his being. Somebody was sticking barbed arrows into every square inch of his skin; somebody else was pounding and mauling him all over, taking particular pains to pummel and to wrench at all the places where he hurt the worst. He yelled at the top of his voice; yelled and swore bitterly: “Quit it!” being the expurgated gist of his luridly profane protests. He did not make nearly as much noise as he supposed, but he made enough. + 

“Thank God!” Kinnison heard a lighter, softer voice. Surprised, he stopped swearing and tried to stare. He couldn’t see very well, either, but he was pretty sure that there was a middle-aged woman there. There was, and her eyes were not dry. “He is going to live, after all!” + 

As the days passed, he began really to sleep, naturally and deeply. + 

He grew hungrier and hungrier, and they would not give him enough to eat. He was by turns sullen, angry, and morose. + 

In short, he was convalescent. + 

For Captain Ralph K. Kinnison, the war was over. + 

V + 

1941 + 

Chubby, brownette Eunice Kinnison sat in a rocker, reading the Sunday papers and listening to her radio. Her husband Ralph lay sprawled upon the davenport, smoking a cigarette and reading the current issue of Extraordinary Stories against an unheard background of music. Mentally, he was far from Tellus, flitting in his super-dreadnaught through parsec after parsec of vacuous space. + 

The music broke off without warning and there blared out an announcement which yanked Ralph Kinnison back to Earth with a violence almost physical. He jumped up, jammed his hands into his pockets. + 

“Pearl Harbor!” he blurted. “How in.⁠ ⁠… How could they have let them get that far?” + 

“But Frank!” the woman gasped. She had not worried much about her husband; but Frank, her son.⁠ ⁠… “He’ll have to go.⁠ ⁠…” Her voice died away. + 

“Not a chance in the world.” Kinnison did not speak to soothe, but as though from sure knowledge. “Designing Engineer for Lockwood? He’ll want to, all right, but anyone who was ever even exposed to a course in aeronautical engineering will sit this war out.” + 

“But they say it can’t last very long. It can’t, can it?” + 

“I’ll say it can. Loose talk. Five years minimum is my guess⁠—not that my guess is any better than anybody else’s.” + 

He prowled around the room. His somber expression did not lighten. + 

“I knew it,” the woman said at length. “You, too⁠—even after the last one.⁠ ⁠… You haven’t said anything, so I thought, perhaps.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“I know I didn’t. There was always the chance that we wouldn’t get drawn into it. If you say so, though, I’ll stay home.” + 

“Am I apt to? I let you go when you were really in danger.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“What do you mean by that crack?” he interrupted. + 

“Regulations. One year too old⁠—Thank Heaven!” + 

“So what? They’ll need technical experts, bad. They’ll make exceptions.” + 

“Possibly. Desk jobs. Desk officers don’t get killed in action⁠—or even wounded. Why, perhaps, with the children all grown up and married, we won’t even have to be separated.” + 

“Another angle⁠—financial.” + 

“Pooh! Who cares about that? Besides, for a man out of a job.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“From you, I’ll let that one pass. Thanks, Eunie⁠—you’re an ace. I’ll shoot ’em a wire.” + 

The telegram was sent. The Kinnisons waited. And waited. Until, about the middle of January, beautifully-phrased and beautifully-mimeographed letters began to arrive. + 

“The War Department recognizes the value of your previous military experience and appreciates your willingness once again to take up arms in defense of the country⁠ ⁠… Veteran Officer’s Questionnaire⁠ ⁠… please fill out completely⁠ ⁠… Form 191A⁠ ⁠… Form 170 in duplicate⁠ ⁠… Form 315.⁠ ⁠… Impossible to forecast the extent to which the War Department may ultimately utilize the services which you and thousands of others have so generously offered⁠ ⁠… Form⁠ ⁠… Form.⁠ ⁠… Not to be construed as meaning that you have been permanently rejected⁠ ⁠… Form⁠ ⁠… Advise you that while at the present time the War Department is unable to use you.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Wouldn’t that fry you to a crisp?” Kinnison demanded. “What in hell have they got in their heads⁠—sawdust? They think that because I’m fifty one years old I’ve got one foot in the grave⁠—I’ll bet four dollars that I’m in better shape than that cursed Major General and his whole damned staff!” + 

“I don’t doubt it, dear.” Eunice’s smile was, however, mostly of relief. “But here’s an ad⁠—it’s been running for a week.” + 

“Chemical Engineers⁠ ⁠… shell loading plant⁠ ⁠… within seventy-five miles of Townville⁠ ⁠… over five years experience⁠ ⁠… organic chemistry⁠ ⁠… technology⁠ ⁠… explosives.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“They want you,” Eunice declared, soberly. + 

“Well, I’m a Ph. D. in Organic. I’ve had more than five years experience in both organic chemistry and technology. If I don’t know something about explosives I did a smart job of fooling Dean Montrose, back at Gosh Whatta University. I’ll write ’em a letter.” + 

He wrote. He filled out a form. The telephone rang. + 

“Kinnison speaking⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠… Dr. Sumner? Oh, yes, Chief Chemist.⁠ ⁠… That’s it⁠—one year over age, so I thought.⁠ ⁠… Oh, that’s a minor matter. We won’t starve. If you can’t pay a hundred and fifty I’ll come for a hundred, or seventy five, or fifty.⁠ ⁠… That’s all right, too. I’m well enough known in my own field so that a title of Junior Chemical Engineer wouldn’t hurt me a bit⁠ ⁠… OK, I’ll see you about one o’clock⁠ ⁠… Stoner and Black, Inc., Operators, Entwhistle Ordnance Plant, Entwhistle, Missikota.⁠ ⁠… What! Well, maybe I could, at that.⁠ ⁠… Goodbye.” + 

He turned to his wife. “You know what? They want me to come down right away and go to work. Hot Dog! Am I glad that I told that louse Hendricks exactly where he could stick that job of mine!” + 

“He must have known that you wouldn’t sign a straight-salary contract after getting a share of the profits so long. Maybe he believed what you always say just before or just after kicking somebody’s teeth down their throats; that you’re so meek and mild⁠—a regular Milquetoast. Do you really think that they’ll want you back, after the war?” It was clear that Eunice was somewhat concerned concerning Kinnison’s joblessness; but Kinnison was not. + 

“Probably. That’s the gossip. And I’ll come back⁠—when hell freezes over.” His square jaw tightened. “I’ve heard of outfits stupid enough to let their technical brains go because they could sell⁠—for a while⁠—anything they produced, but I didn’t know that I was working for one. Maybe I’m not exactly a Timid Soul, but you’ll have to admit that I never kicked anybody’s teeth out unless they tried to kick mine out first.” + 

Entwhistle Ordnance Plant covered twenty-odd square miles of more or less level land. Ninety-nine percent of its area was “Inside the fence.” Most of the buildings within that restricted area, while in reality enormous, were dwarfed by the vast spaces separating them; for safety-distances are not small when T.N.T. and tetryl by the ton are involved. Those structures were built of concrete, steel, glass, transite, and tile. + 

“Outside the Fence” was different. This was the Administration Area. Its buildings were tremendous wooden barracks, relatively close together, packed with the executive, clerical, and professional personnel appropriate to an organization employing over twenty thousand men and women. + 

Well inside the fence, but a safety-distance short of the One Line⁠—Loading Line Number One⁠—was a long, low building, quite inadequately named the Chemical Laboratory. “Inadequately” in that the Chief Chemist, a highly capable⁠—if more than a little cantankerous⁠—Explosives Engineer, had already gathered into his Chemical Section most of Development, most of Engineering, and all of Physics, Weights and Measures, and Weather. + 

One room of the Chemical Laboratory⁠—in the corner most distant from Administration⁠—was separated from the rest of the building by a sixteen-inch wall of concrete and steel extending from foundation to roof without a door, window, or other opening. This was the laboratory of the Chemical Engineers, the boys who played with explosives high and low; any explosion occurring therein could not affect the Chemical Laboratory proper or its personnel. + 

Entwhistle’s main roads were paved; but in February of 1942, such minor items as sidewalks existed only on the blueprints. Entwhistle’s soil contained much clay, and at that time the mud was approximately six inches deep. Hence, since there were neither inside doors nor sidewalks, it was only natural that the technologists did not visit at all frequently the polished-tile cleanliness of the Laboratory. It was also natural enough for the far larger group to refer to the segregated ones as exiles and outcasts; and that some witty chemist applied to that isolated place the name “Siberia.” + 

The name stuck. More, the Engineers seized it and acclaimed it. They were Siberians, and proud of it, and Siberians they remained; long after Entwhistle’s mud turned into dust. And within the year the Siberians were to become well and favorably known in every ordnance plant in the country, to many high executives who had no idea of how the name originated. + 

Kinnison became a Siberian as enthusiastically as the youngest man there. The term “youngest” is used in its exact sense, for not one of them was a recent graduate. Each had had at least five years of responsible experience, and “Cappy” Sumner kept on building. He hired extravagantly and fired ruthlessly⁠—to the minds of some, senselessly. But he knew what he was doing. He knew explosives, and he knew men. He was not liked, but he was respected. His building was good. + 

Being one of the only two “old” men there⁠—and the other did not stay long⁠—Kinnison, as a Junior Chemical Engineer, was not at first accepted without reserve. Apparently he did not notice that fact, but went quietly about his assigned duties. He was meticulously careful with, but very evidently not in any fear of, the materials with which he worked. He pelleted and tested tracer, igniter, and incendiary compositions; he took his turn at burning out rejects. Whenever asked, he went out on the lines with any one of them. + 

His experimental tetryls always “miked” to size, his T.N.T. melt-pours⁠—introductory to loading forty-millimeter on the Three Line⁠—came out solid, free from checks and cavitations. It became evident to those young but keen minds that he, alone of them all, was on familiar ground. They began to discuss their problems with him. Out of his years of technological experience, and by bringing everyone present into the discussion, he either helped them directly or helped them to help themselves. His stature grew. + 

Black-haired, black-eyed “Tug” Tugwell, two hundred pounds of ex-football-player in charge of tracer on the Seven Line, called him “Uncle” Ralph, and the habit spread. And in a couple of weeks⁠—at about the same time that “Injun” Abernathy was slightly injured by being blown through a door by a minor explosion of his igniter on the Eight line⁠—he was promoted to full Chemical Engineer; a promotion which went unnoticed, since it involved only changes in title and salary. + 

Three weeks later, however, he was made Senior Chemical Engineer, in charge of Melt-Pour. At this there was a celebration, led by “Blondie” Wanacek, a sulphuric-acid expert handling tetryl on the Two. Kinnison searched minutely for signs of jealousy or antagonism, but could find none. He went blithely to work on the Six line, where they wanted to start pouring twenty-pound fragmentation bombs, ably assisted by Tug and by two new men. One of these was “Doc” or “Bart” Barton, who, the grapevine said, had been hired by Cappy to be his Assistant. His motto, like that of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, was to run and find out, and he did so with glee and abandon. He was a good egg. So was the other newcomer, “Charley” Charlevoix, a prematurely gray paint-and-lacquer expert who had also made the Siberian grade. + 

A few months later, Sumner called Kinnison into the office. The latter went, wondering what the old hard-shell was going to cry about now; for to be called into that office meant only one thing⁠—censure. + 

“Kinnison, I like your work,” the Chief Chemist began, gruffly, and Kinnison’s mouth almost dropped open. “Anybody who ever got a Ph. D. under Montrose would have to know explosives, and the F.B.I. report on you showed that you had brains, ability, and guts. But none of that explains how you can get along so well with those damned Siberians. I want to make you Assistant Chief and put you in charge of Siberia. Formally, I mean⁠—actually, you have been for months.” + 

“Why, no⁠ ⁠… I didn’t.⁠ ⁠… Besides, how about Barton? He’s too good a man to kick in the teeth that way.” + 

“Admitted.” This did surprise Kinnison. He had never thought that the irascible and tempestuous Chief would ever confess to a mistake. This was a Cappy he had never known. “I discussed it with him yesterday. He’s a damned good man⁠—but it’s decidedly questionable whether he has got whatever it is that made Tugwell, Wanacek and Charlevoix work straight through for seventy two hours, napping now and then on benches and grabbing coffee and sandwiches when they could, until they got that frag bomb straightened out.” + 

Sumner did not mention the fact that Kinnison had worked straight through, too. That was taken for granted. + 

“Well, I don’t know.” Kinnison’s head was spinning. “I’d like to check with Barton first. OK?” + 

“I expected that. OK.” + 

Kinnison found Barton and led him out behind the testing shed. + 

“Bart, Cappy tells me that he figures on kicking you in the face by making me Assistant and that you OK’d it. One word and I’ll tell the old buzzard just where to stick the job and exactly where to go to do it.” + 

“Reaction, perfect. Yield, one hundred percent.” Barton stuck out his hand. “Otherwise, I would tell him all that myself and more. As it is, Uncle Ralph, smooth out the ruffled plumage. They’d go to hell for you, wading in standing straight up⁠—they might do the same with me in the driver’s seat, and they might not. Why take a chance? You’re it. Some things about the deal I don’t like, of course⁠—but at that, it makes me about the only man working for Stoner and Black who can get a release any time a good permanent job breaks. I’ll stick until then. OK?” It was unnecessary for Barton to add that as long as he was there he would really work. + 

“I’ll say it’s OK!” and Kinnison reported to Sumner. + 

“All right, Chief, I’ll try it⁠—if you can square it with the Siberians.” + 

“That will not be too difficult.” + 

Nor was it. The Siberians’ reaction brought a lump to Kinnison’s throat. + 

“Ralph the First, Czar of Siberia!” they yelled. “Long live the Czar! Kowtow, serfs and vassals, to Czar Ralph the First!” + 

Kinnison was still glowing when he got home that night, to the Government Housing Project and to the three-room “mansionette” in which he and Eunice lived. He would never forget the events of that day. + 

“What a gang! What a gang! But listen, ace⁠—they work under their own power⁠—you couldn’t keep those kids from working. Why should I get the credit for what they do?” + 

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Eunice wrinkled her forehead⁠—and her nose⁠—but the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Are you quite sure that you haven’t had anything to do with it? But supper is ready⁠—let’s eat.” + 

More months passed. Work went on. Absorbing work, and highly varied; the details of which are of no importance here. Paul Jones, a big, hard, top-drawer chicle technologist, set up the Four line to pour demolition blocks. Frederick Hinton came in, qualified as a Siberian, and went to work on Antipersonnel mines. + 

Kinnison was promoted again: to Chief Chemist. He and Sumner had never been friendly; he made no effort to find out why Cappy had quit, or had been terminated, whichever it was. This promotion made no difference. Barton, now Assistant, ran the whole Chemical Section save for one unit⁠—Siberia⁠—and did a superlative job. The Chief Chemist’s secretary worked for Barton, not for Kinnison. Kinnison was the Czar of Siberia. + 

The Antipersonnel mines had been giving trouble. Too many men were being killed by prematures, and nobody could find out why. The problem was handed to Siberia. Hinton tackled it, missed, and called for help. The Siberians rallied round. Kinnison loaded and tested mines. So did Paul and Tug and Blondie. Kinnison was testing, out in the Firing Area, when he was called to Administration to attend a Staff Meeting. Hinton relieved him. He had not reached the gate, however, when a guard car flagged him down. + 

“Sorry, sir, but there has been an accident at Pit Five and you are needed out there.” + 

“Accident! Fred Hinton! Is he⁠ ⁠… ?” + 

“I’m afraid so, sir.” + 

It is a harrowing thing to have to help gather up what fragments can be found of one of your best friends. Kinnison was white and sick as he got back to the firing station, just in time to hear the Chief Safety Officer say: + 

“Must have been carelessness⁠—rank carelessness. I warned this man Hinton myself, on one occasion.” + 

“Carelessness, hell!” Kinnison blazed. “You had the guts to warn me once, too, and I’ve forgotten more about safety in explosives than you ever will know. Fred Hinton was not careless⁠—if I hadn’t been called in, that would have been me.” + 

“What is it, then?” + 

“I don’t know⁠—yet. I tell you now, though, Major Moulton, that I will know, and the minute I find out I’ll talk to you again.” + 

He went back to Siberia, where he found Tug and Paul, faces still tear-streaked, staring at something that looked like a small piece of wire. + 

“This is it, Uncle Ralph,” Tug said, brokenly. “Don’t see how it could be, but it is.” + 

“What is what?” Kinnison demanded. + 

“Firing pin. Brittle. When you pull the safety, the force of the spring must break it off at this constricted section here.” + 

“But damn it, Tug, it doesn’t make sense. It’s tension⁠ ⁠… but wait⁠—there’d be some horizontal component, at that. But they’d have to be brittle as glass.” + 

“I know it. It doesn’t seem to make much sense. But we were there, you know⁠—and I assembled every one of those God damned mines myself. Nothing else could possibly have made that mine go off just when it did.” + 

“OK, Tug. We’ll test ’em. Call Bart in⁠—he can have the scale-lab boys rig us up a gadget by the time we can get some more of those pins in off the line.” + 

They tested a hundred, under the normal tension of the spring, and three of them broke. They tested another hundred. Five broke. They stared at each other. + 

“That’s it.” Kinnison declared. “But this will stink to high Heaven⁠—have Inspection break out a new lot and we’ll test a thousand.” + 

Of that thousand pins, thirty two broke. + 

“Bart, will you dictate a one-page preliminary report to Vera and rush it over to Building One as fast as you can? I’ll go over and tell Moulton a few things.” + 

Major Moulton was, as usual, “in conference,” but Kinnison was in no mood to wait. + 

“Tell him,” he instructed the Major’s private secretary, who had barred his way, “that either he will talk to me right now or I will call District Safety over his head. I’ll give him sixty seconds to decide which.” + 

Moulton decided to see him. “I’m very busy, Doctor Kinnison, but.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“I don’t give a swivel-eyed tinker’s damn how busy you are. I told you that the minute I found out what was the matter with the M2 mine I’d talk to you again. Here I am. Brittle firing pins. Three and two-tenths percent defective. So I’m.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Very irregular, Doctor. The matter will have to go through channels.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Not this one. The formal report is going through channels, but as I started to tell you, this is an emergency report to you as Chief of Safety. Since the defect is not covered by specs, neither Process nor Ordnance can reject except by test, and whoever does the testing will very probably be killed. Therefore, as every employee of Stoner and Black is not only authorized but positively instructed to do upon discovering an unsafe condition, I am reporting it direct to Safety. Since my whiskers are a trifle longer than an operator’s, I am reporting it direct to the Head of the Safety Division; and I am telling you that if you don’t do something about it damned quick⁠—stop production and slap a hold order on all the M2AP’s you can reach⁠—I’ll call District and make you personally responsible for every premature that occurs from now on.” + 

Since any safety man, anywhere, would much rather stop a process than authorize one, and since this particular safety man loved to throw his weight around, Kinnison was surprised that Moulton did not act instantly. The fact that he did not so act should have, but did not, give the naive Kinnison much information as to conditions existing Outside the Fence. + 

“But they need those mines very badly; they are an item of very heavy production. If we stop them⁠ ⁠… how long? Have you any suggestions?” + 

“Yes. Call District and have them rush through a change of spec⁠—include heat-treat and a modified Charpy test. In the meantime, we can get back into full production tomorrow if you have District slap a hundred-per-cent inspection onto those pins.” + 

“Excellent! We can do that⁠—very fine work, Doctor! Miss Morgan, get District at once!” + 

This, too, should have warned Kinnison, but it did not. He went back to the Laboratory. + 

Tempus fugited. + 

Orders came to get ready to load M67 H.E., A.T. (105 m/m High Explosive, Armor Tearing) shell on the Nine, and the Siberians went joyously to work upon the new load. The explosive was to be a mixture of T.N.T. and a polysyllabic compound, everything about which was highly confidential and restricted. + 

“But what the hell’s so hush-hush about that stuff?” demanded Blondie, who, with five or six others, was crowding around the Czar’s desk. Unlike the days of Cappy Sumner, the private office of the Chief Chemist was now as much Siberia as Siberia itself. “The Germans developed it originally, didn’t they?” + 

“Yes, and the Italians used it against the Ethiopians⁠—which was why their bombs were so effective. But it says ‘hush-hush,’ so that’s the way it will be. And if you talk in your sleep, Blondie, tell Betty not to listen.” + 

The Siberians worked. The M67 was put into production. It was such a success that orders for it came in faster than they could be filled. Production was speeded up. Small cavitations began to appear. Nothing serious, since they passed Inspection. Nevertheless, Kinnison protested, in a formal report, receipt of which was formally acknowledged. + 

General Somebody-or-other, Entwhistle’s Commanding Officer, whom none of the Siberians had ever met, was transferred to more active duty, and a colonel⁠—Snodgrass or some such name⁠—took his place. Ordnance got a new Chief Inspector. + 

An M67, Entwhistle loaded, prematured in a gun-barrel, killing twenty seven men. Kinnison protested again, verbally this time, at a staff meeting. He was assured⁠—verbally⁠—that a formal and thorough investigation was being made. Later he was informed⁠—verbally and without witnesses⁠—that the investigation had been completed and that the loading was not at fault. A new Commanding Officer⁠—Lieutenant-Colonel Franklin⁠—appeared. + 

The Siberians, too busy to do more than glance at newspapers, paid very little attention to a glider-crash in which several notables were killed. They heard that an investigation was being made, but even the Czar did not know until later that Washington had for once acted fast in correcting a bad situation; that Inspection, which had been under Production, was summarily divorced therefrom. And gossip spread abroad that Stillman, then Head of the Inspection Division, was not a big enough man for the job. Thus it was an entirely unsuspecting Kinnison who was called into the innermost private office of Thomas Keller, the Superintendent of Production. + 

“Kinnison, how in hell do you handle those Siberians? I never saw anything like them before in my life.” + 

“No, and you never will again. Nothing on Earth except a war could get them together or hold them together. I don’t ‘handle’ them⁠—they can’t be ‘handled.’ I give them a job to do and let them do it. I back them up. That’s all.” + 

“Umngpf.” Keller grunted. “That’s a hell of a formula⁠—if I want anything done right I’ve got to do it myself. But whatever your system is, it works. But what I wanted to talk to you about is, how’d you like to be Head of the Inspection Division, which would be enlarged to include your present Chemical Section?” + 

“Huh?” Kinnison demanded, dumbfounded. + 

“At a salary well up on the confidential scale.” Keller wrote a figure upon a piece of paper, showed it to his visitor, then burned it in an ashtray. + 

Kinnison whistled. “I’d like it⁠—for more reasons than that. But I didn’t know that you⁠—or have you already checked with the General and Mr. Black?” + 

“Naturally,” came the smooth reply. “In fact, I suggested it to them and have their approval. Perhaps you are curious to know why?” + 

“I certainly am.” + 

“For two reasons. First, because you have developed a crew of technical experts that is the envy of every technical man in the country. Second, you and your Siberians have done every job I ever asked you to, and done it fast. As a Division Head, you will no longer be under me, but I am right, I think, in assuming that you will work with me just as efficiently as you do now?” + 

“I can’t think of any reason why I wouldn’t.” This reply was made in all honesty; but later, when he came to understand what Keller had meant, how bitterly Kinnison was to regret its making! + 

He moved into Stillman’s office, and found there what he thought was ample reason for his predecessor’s failure to make good. To his way of thinking it was tremendously over-staffed, particularly with Assistant Chief Inspectors. Delegation of authority, so widely preached throughout Entwhistle Ordnance Plant, had not been given even lip service here. Stillman had not made a habit of visiting the lines; nor did the Chief Line Inspectors, the boys who really knew what was going on, ever visit him. They reported to the Assistants, who reported to Stillman, who handed down his Jovian pronouncements. + 

Kinnison set out, deliberately this time, to mold his key Chief Line Inspectors into just such a group as the Siberians already were. He released the Assistants to more productive work; retaining of Stillman’s office staff only a few clerks and his private secretary, one Celeste de St. Aubin, a dynamic, vivacious⁠—at times explosive⁠—brunette. He gave the boys on the Lines full authority; the few who could not handle the load he replaced with men who could. At first the Chief Line Inspectors simply could not believe; but after the affair of the forty millimeter, in which Kinnison rammed the decision of his subordinate past Keller, past the General, past Stoner and Black, and clear up to the Commanding Officer before he made it stick, they were his to a man. + 

Others of his Section Heads, however, remained aloof. Pettler, whose Technical Section was now part of Inspection, and Wilson, of Gages, were two of those who talked largely and glowingly, but acted obstructively if they acted at all. As weeks went on, Kinnison became wiser and wiser, but made no sign. One day, during a lull, his secretary hung out the “In Conference” sign and went into Kinnison’s private office. + 

“There isn’t a reference to any such Investigation anywhere in Central Files.” She paused, as if to add something, then turned to leave. + 

“As you were, Celeste. Sit down. I expected that. Suppressed⁠—if made at all. You’re a smart girl, Celeste, and you know the ropes. You know that you can talk to me, don’t you?” + 

“Yes, but this is⁠ ⁠… well, the word is going around that they are going to break you, just as they have broken every other good man on the Reservation.” + 

“I expected that, too.” The words were quiet enough, but the man’s jaw tightened. “Also, I know how they are going to do it.” + 

“How?” + 

“This speedup on the Nine. They know that I won’t stand still for the kind of casts that Keller’s new procedure, which goes into effect tonight, is going to produce⁠ ⁠… and this new C.O. probably will.” + 

Silence fell, broken by the secretary. + 

“General Sanford, our first C.O., was a soldier, and a good one,” she declared finally. “So was Colonel Snodgrass. Lieutenant Colonel Franklin wasn’t; but he was too much of a man to do the dir⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Dirty work,” dryly. “Exactly. Go on.” + 

“And Stoner, the New York half⁠—ninety five percent, really⁠—of Stoner and Black, Inc., is a Big Time Operator. So we get this damned nincompoop of a major, who doesn’t know a f-u-s-e from a f-u-z-e, direct from a Wall Street desk.” + 

“So what?” One must have heard Ralph Kinnison say those two words to realize how much meaning they can be made to carry. + 

“So what!” the girl blazed, wringing her hands. “Ever since you have been over here I have been expecting you to blow up⁠—to smash something⁠—in spite of the dozens of times you have told me ‘a fighter can not slug effectively, Celeste, until he gets both feet firmly planted.’ When⁠—when⁠—are you going to get your feet planted?” + 

“Never, I’m afraid,” he said glumly, and she stared. “So I’ll have to start slugging with at least one foot in the air.” + 

That startled her. “Explain, please?” + 

“I wanted proof. Stuff that I could take to the District⁠—that I could use to tack some hides out flat on a barn door with. Do I get it? I do not. Not a shred. Neither can you. What chance do you think there is of ever getting any real proof?” + 

“Very little,” Celeste admitted. “But you can at least smash Pettler, Wilson, and that crowd. How I hate those slimy snakes! I wish that you could smash Tom Keller, the poisonous moron!” + 

“Not so much moron⁠—although he acts like one at times⁠—as an ignorant puppet with a head swelled three sizes too big for his hat. But you can quit yapping about slugging⁠—fireworks are due to start at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, when Drake is going to reject tonight’s run of shell.” + 

“Really? But I don’t see how either Pettler or Wilson come in.” + 

“They don’t. A fight with those small fry⁠—even smashing them⁠—wouldn’t make enough noise. Keller.” + 

“Keller!” Celeste squealed. “But you’ll.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“I know I’ll get fired. So what? By tackling him I can raise enough hell so that the Big Shots will have to cut out at least some of the rough stuff. You’ll probably get fired too, you know⁠—you’ve been too close to me for your own good.” + 

“Not me.” She shook her head vigorously. “The minute they terminate you, I quit. Poof! Who cares? Besides, I can get a better job in Townville.” + 

“Without leaving the Project. That’s what I figured. It’s the boys I’m worried about. I’ve been getting them ready for this for weeks.” + 

“But they will quit, too. Your Siberians⁠—your Inspectors⁠—of a surety they will quit, every one!” + 

“They won’t release them; and what Stoner and Black will do to them, even after the war, if they quit without releases, shouldn’t be done to a dog. They won’t quit, either⁠—at least if they don’t try to push them around too much. Keller’s mouth is watering to get hold of Siberia, but he’ll never make it, nor any one of his stooges.⁠ ⁠… I’d better dictate a memorandum to Black on that now, while I’m calm and collected; telling him what he’ll have to do to keep my boys from tearing Entwhistle apart.” + 

“But do you think he will pay any attention to it?” + 

“I’ll say he will!” Kinnison snorted. “Don’t kid yourself about Black, Celeste. He’s a smart man, and before this is done he’ll know that he’ll have to keep his nose clean.” + 

“But you⁠—how can you do it?” Celeste marveled. “Me, I would urge them on. Few would have the patriotism.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Patriotism, hell! If that were all, I would have stirred up a revolution long ago. It’s for the boys, in years to come. They’ve got to keep their noses clean, too. Get your notebook, please, and take this down. Rough draft⁠—I’m going to polish it up until it has teeth and claws in every line.” + 

And that evening, after supper, he informed Eunice of all the new developments. + 

“Is it still OK with you,” he concluded, “for me to get myself fired off of this high-salaried job of mine?” + 

“Certainly. Being you, how can you do anything else? Oh, how I wish I could wring their necks!” That conversation went on and on, but additional details are not necessary here. + 

Shortly after two o’clock of the following afternoon, Celeste took a call; and listened shamelessly. + 

“Kinnison speaking.” + 

“Tug, Uncle Ralph. The casts sectioned just like we thought they would. Dead ringers for Plate D. So Drake hung a red ticket on every tray. Piddy was right there, waiting, and started to raise hell. So I chipped in, and he beat it so fast that I looked to see his coattail catch fire. Drake didn’t quite like to call you, so I did. If Piddy keeps on going at the rate he left here, he’ll be in Keller’s office in nothing flat.” + 

“OK, Tug. Tell Drake that the shell he rejected are going to stay rejected, and to come in right now with his report. Would you like to come along?” + 

“Would I!” Tugwell hung up and: + 

“But do you want him here, Doc?” Celeste asked, anxiously, without considering whether or not her boss would approve of her eavesdropping. + 

“I certainly do. If I can keep Tug from blowing his top, the rest of the boys will stay in line.” + 

A few minutes later Tugwell strode in, bringing with him Drake, the Chief Line Inspector of the Nine Line. Shortly thereafter the office door was wrenched open. Keller had come to Kinnison, accompanied by the Superintendent whom the Siberians referred to, somewhat contemptuously, as “Piddy.” + 

“Damn your soul, Kinnison, come out here⁠—I want to talk to you!” Keller roared, and doors snapped open up and down the long corridor. + 

“Shut up, you God damned louse!” This from Tugwell, who, black eyes almost emitting sparks, was striding purposefully forward. “I’ll sock you so damned hard that.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Pipe down, Tug, I’ll handle this.” Kinnison’s voice was not loud, but it had then a peculiarly carrying and immensely authoritative quality. “Verbally or physically; however he wants to have it.” + 

He turned to Keller, who had jumped backward into the hall to avoid the young Siberian. + 

“As for you, Keller, if you had the brains that God gave bastard geese in Ireland, you would have had this conference in private. Since you started it in public, however, I’ll finish it in public. How you came to pick me for a yes-man I’ll never know⁠—just one more measure of your stupidity, I suppose.” + 

“Those shell are perfect!” Keller shouted. “Tell Drake here to pass them, right now. If you don’t, by God I’ll.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Shut up!” Kinnison’s voice cut. “I’ll do the talking⁠—you listen. The spec says quote shall be free from objectionable cavitation unquote. The Line Inspectors, who know their stuff, say that those cavitations are objectionable. So do the Chemical Engineers. Therefore, as far as I am concerned, they are objectionable. Those shell are rejected, and they will stay rejected.” + 

“That’s what you think,” Keller raged. “But there’ll be a new Head of Inspection, who will pass them, tomorrow morning!” + 

“In that you may be half right. When you get done licking Black’s boots, tell him that I am in my office.” + 

Kinnison reentered his suite. Keller, swearing, strode away with Piddy. Doors clicked shut. + 

“I am going to quit, Uncle Ralph, law or no law!” Tugwell stormed. “They’ll run that bunch of crap through, and then.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Will you promise not to quit until they do?” Kinnison asked, quietly. + 

“Huh?” “What?” Tugwell’s eyes⁠—and Celeste’s⁠—were pools of astonishment. Celeste, being on the inside, understood first. + 

“Oh⁠—to keep his nose clean⁠—I see!” she exclaimed. + 

“Exactly. Those shell will not be accepted, nor any like them. On the surface, we got licked. I will get fired. You will find, however, that we won this particular battle. And if you boys stay here and hang together and keep on slugging you can win a lot more.” + 

“Maybe, if we raise enough hell, we can make them fire us, too?” Drake suggested. + 

“I doubt it. But unless I’m wrong, you can just about write your own ticket from now on, if you play it straight.” Kinnison grinned to himself, at something which the young people could not see. + 

“You told me what Stoner and Black would do to us,” Tugwell said, intensely. “What I’m afraid of is that they’ll do it to you.” + 

“They can’t. Not a chance in the world,” Kinnison assured him. “You fellows are young⁠—not established. But I’m well-enough known in my own field so that if they tried to blackball me they’d just get themselves laughed at, and they know it. So beat it back to the Nine, you kids, and hang red tickets on everything that doesn’t cross-section up to standard. Tell the gang goodbye for me⁠—I’ll keep you posted.” + 

In less than an hour Kinnison was called into the Office of the President. He was completely at ease; Black was not. + 

“It has been decided to⁠ ⁠… uh⁠ ⁠… ask for your resignation,” the President announced at last. + 

“Save your breath,” Kinnison advised. “I came down here to do a job, and the only way you can keep me from doing that job is to fire me.” + 

“That was not⁠ ⁠… uh⁠ ⁠… entirely unexpected. A difficulty arose, however, in deciding what reason to put on your termination papers.” + 

“I can well believe that. You can put down anything you like,” Kinnison shrugged, “with one exception. Any implication of incompetence and you’ll have to prove it in court.” + 

“Incompatibility, say?” + 

“OK.” + 

“Miss Briggs⁠—‘Incompatibility with the highest echelon of Stoner and Black, Inc.,’ please. You may as well wait, Dr. Kinnison; it will take only a moment.” + 

“Fine. I’ve got a couple of things to say. First, I know as well as you do that you’re between Scylla and Charybdis⁠—damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” + 

“Certainly not! Ridiculous!” Black blustered, but his eyes wavered. “Where did you get such a preposterous idea? What do you mean?” + 

“If you ram those substandard HEAT shell through, you are going to have some more prematures. Not many⁠—the stuff is actually almost good enough⁠—one in ten thousand, say: perhaps one in fifty thousand. But you know damned well that you can’t afford any. What my Siberians and Inspectors know about you and Keller and Piddy and the Nine Line would be enough; but to cap the climax that brainless jackal of yours let the cat completely out of the bag this afternoon, and everybody in Building One was listening. One more premature would blow Entwhistle wide open⁠—would start something that not all the politicians in Washington could stop. On the other hand, if you scrap those lots and go back to pouring good loads, your Mr. Stoner, of New York and Washington, will be very unhappy and will scream bloody murder. I’m sure, however, that you won’t offer any Plate D loads to Ordnance⁠—in view of the temper of my boys and girls, and the number of people who heard your dumb stooge give you away, you won’t dare to. In fact, I told some of my people that you wouldn’t; that you are a smart enough operator to keep your nose clean.” + 

“You told them!” Black shouted, in anger and dismay. + 

“Yes? Why not?” The words were innocent enough, but Kinnison’s expression was full of meaning. “I don’t want to seem trite, but you are just beginning to find out that honesty and loyalty are a hell of a hard team to beat.” + 

“Get out! Take these termination papers and get out!” + 

And Doctor Ralph K. Kinnison, head high, strode out of President Black’s office and out of Entwhistle Ordnance Plant. + 

VI + 

19⁠—? + 

“Theodore K. Kinnison!” a crisp, clear voice snapped from the speaker of an apparently cold, ordinary-enough-looking radio-television set. + 

A burly young man caught his breath sharply as he leaped to the instrument and pressed an inconspicuous button. + 

“Theodore K. Kinnison acknowledging!” The plate remained dark, but he knew that he was being scanned. + 

“Operation Bullfinch!” the speaker blatted. + 

Kinnison gulped. “Operation Bullfinch⁠—Off!” he managed to say. + 

“Off!” + 

He pushed the button again and turned to face the tall, trim honey-blonde who stood tensely poised in the archway. Her eyes were wide and protesting; both hands clutched at her throat. + 

“Uh-huh, sweets, they’re coming⁠—over the Pole,” he gritted. “Two hours, more or less.” + 

“Oh, Ted!” She threw herself into his arms. They kissed, then broke away. + 

The man picked up two large suitcases, already packed⁠—everything else, including food and water, had been in the car for weeks⁠—and made strides. The girl rushed after him, not bothering even to close the door of the apartment, scooping up en passant a leggy boy of four and a chubby, curly-haired girl of two or thereabouts. They ran across the lawn toward a big, low-slung sedan. + 

“Sure you got your caffeine tablets?” he demanded as they ran. + 

“Uh-huh.” + 

“You’ll need ’em. Drive like the devil⁠—stay ahead! You can⁠—this heap has got the legs of a centipede and you’ve got plenty of gas and oil. Eleven hundred miles from anywhere and a population of one-tenth per square mile⁠—you’ll be safe there if anybody is.” + 

“It isn’t us I’m worried about⁠—it’s you!” she panted. “Technos’ wives get a few minutes’ notice ahead of the H-blast⁠—I’ll be ahead of the rush and I’ll stay ahead. It’s you, Ted⁠—you!” + 

“Don’t worry, keed. That popcycle of mine has got legs, too, and there won’t be so much traffic, the way I’m going.” + 

“Oh, blast! I didn’t mean that, and you know it!” + 

They were at the car. While he jammed the two bags into an exactly-fitting space, she tossed the children into the front seat, slid lithely under the wheel, and started the engine. + 

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart. I’ll be back.” He kissed her and the little girl, the while shaking hands with his son. “Kidlets, you and mother are going out to visit Granddad Kinnison, like we told you all about. Lots of fun. I’ll be along later. Now, Lady Lead-Foot, scram⁠—and shovel on the coal!” + 

The heavy vehicle backed and swung; gravel flew as the accelerator-pedal hit the floor. + 

Kinnison galloped across the alley and opened the door of a small garage, revealing a long, squat motorcycle. Two deft passes of his hands and two of his three spotlights were no longer white⁠—one flashed a brilliant purple, the other a searing blue. He dropped a perforated metal box into a hanger and flipped a switch⁠—a peculiarly-toned siren began its ululating shriek. He took the alley turn at an angle of forty-five degrees; burned the pavement toward Diversey. + 

The light was red. No matter⁠—everybody had stopped⁠—that siren could be heard for miles. He barreled into the intersection; his step-plate ground the concrete as he made a screaming left turn. + 

A siren⁠—creeping up from behind. City tone. Two red spots⁠—city cop⁠—so soon⁠—good! He cut his gun a trifle, the other bike came alongside. + 

“Is this it?” the uniformed rider yelled, over the coughing thunder of the competing exhausts. + 

“Yes!” Kinnison yelled back. “Clear Diversey to the Outer Drive, and the Drive south to Gary and north to Waukegan. Snap it up!” + 

The white-and-black motorcycle slowed; shot over toward the curb. The officer reached for his microphone. + 

Kinnison sped on. At Cicero Avenue, although he had a green light, traffic was so heavy that he had to slow down; at Pulaski two policemen waved him through a red. Beyond Sacramento nothing moved on wheels. + 

Seventy⁠ ⁠… seventy five⁠ ⁠… he took the bridge at eighty, both wheels in air for forty feet. Eighty five⁠ ⁠… ninety⁠ ⁠… that was about all he could do and keep the heap on so rough a road. Also, he did not have Diversey all to himself any more; blue-and-purple-flashing bikes were coming in from every side-street. He slowed to a conservative fifty and went into close formation with the other riders. + 

The H-blast⁠—the citywide warning for the planned and supposedly orderly evacuation of all Chicago⁠—sounded, but Kinnison did not hear it. + 

Across the Park, edging over to the left so that the boys going south would have room to make the turn⁠—even such riders as those need some room to make a turn at fifty miles per hour! + 

Under the viaduct⁠—biting brakes and squealing tires at that sharp, narrow, right-angle left turn⁠—north on the wide, smooth Drive! + 

That highway was made for speed. So were those machines. Each rider, as he got into the flat, lay down along his tank, tucked his chin behind the crossbar, and twisted both throttles out against their stops. They were in a hurry. They had a long way to go; and if they did not get there in time to stop those transpolar atomic missiles, all hell would be out for noon. + 

Why was all this necessary? This organization, this haste, this split-second timing, this citywide exhibition of insane hippodrome riding? Why were not all these motorcycle-racers stationed permanently at their posts, so as to be ready for any emergency? Because America, being a democracy, could not strike first, but had to wait⁠—wait in instant readiness⁠—until she was actually attacked. Because every good Techno in America had his assigned place in some American Defense Plan; of which Operation Bullfinch was only one. Because, without the presence of those Technos at their everyday jobs, all ordinary technological work in America would perforce have stopped. + 

A branch road curved away to the right. Scarcely slowing down, Kinnison bulleted into the turn and through an open, heavily-guarded gate. Here his mount and his lights were passwords enough: the real test would come later. He approached a towering structure of alloy⁠—jammed on his brakes⁠—stopped beside a soldier who, as soon as Kinnison jumped off, mounted the motorcycle and drove it away. + 

Kinnison dashed up to an apparently blank wall, turned his back upon four commissioned officers holding cocked forty-fives at the ready, and fitted his right eye into a cup. Unlike fingerprints, retinal patterns cannot be imitated, duplicated, or altered; any imposter would have died instantly, without arrest or question. For every man who belonged aboard that rocket had been checked and tested⁠—how he had been checked and tested!⁠—since one spy, in any one of those Technos’ chairs, could wreak damage untellable. + 

The port snapped open. Kinnison climbed a ladder into the large, but crowded, Operations Room. + 

“Hi, Teddy!” a yell arose. + 

“Hi, Walt! Hi-ya, Red! What-ho, Baldy!” and so on. These men were friends of old. + 

“Where are they?” he demanded. “Is our stuff getting away? Lemme take a peek at the Ball!” + 

“I’ll say it is! OK, Ted, squeeze in here!” + 

He squeezed in. It was not a ball, but a hemisphere, slightly oblate and centered approximately by the North Pole. A multitude of red dots moved slowly⁠—a hundred miles upon that map was a small distance⁠—northward over Canada; a closer-packed, less numerous group of yellowish-greens, already on the American side of the Pole, was coming south. + 

As had been expected, the Americans had more missiles than did the enemy. The other belief, that America had more adequate defenses and better-trained, more highly skilled defenders, would soon be put to test. + 

A string of blue lights blazed across the continent, from Nome through Skagway and Wallaston and Churchill and Kaniapiskau to Belle Isle; America’s First Line of Defense. Regulars all. Ambers almost blanketed those blues; their combat rockets were already grabbing altitude. The Second Line, from Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver across to Halifax, also showed solid green, with some flashes of amber. Part Regulars; part National Guard. + 

Chicago was in the Third Line, all National Guard, extending from San Francisco to New York. Green⁠—alert and operating. So were the Fourth, the Fifth, and the Sixth. Operation Bullfinch was clicking; on schedule to the second. + 

A bell clanged; the men sprang to their stations and strapped down. Every chair was occupied. Combat Rocket Number One Oh Six Eight Five, full-powered by the disintegrating nuclei of unstable isotopes, took off with a whooshing roar which even her thick walls could not mute. + 

The Technos, crushed down into their form-fitting cushions by three G’s of acceleration, clenched their teeth and took it. + 

Higher! Faster! The rocket shivered and trembled as it hit the wall at the velocity of sound, but it did not pause. + 

Higher! Faster! Higher! Fifty miles high. One hundred⁠ ⁠… five hundred⁠ ⁠… a thousand⁠ ⁠… fifteen hundred⁠ ⁠… two thousand! Half a radius⁠—the designated altitude at which the Chicago Contingent would go into action. + 

Acceleration was cut to zero. The Technos, breathing deeply in relief, donned peculiarly-goggled helmets and set up their panels. + 

Kinnison stared into his plate with everything he could put into his optic nerve. This was not like the Ball, in which the lights were electronically placed, automatically controlled, clear, sharp, and steady. This was radar. A radar considerably different from that of 1948, of course, and greatly improved, but still pitifully inadequate in dealing with objects separated by hundreds of miles and traveling at velocities of thousands of miles per hour! + 

Nor was this like the practice cruises, in which the targets had been harmless barrels or equally harmless dirigible rockets. This was the real thing; the targets today would be lethal objects indeed. Practice gunnery, with only a place in the Proficiency List at stake, had been exciting enough: this was too exciting⁠—much too exciting⁠—for the keenness of brain and the quickness and steadiness of eye and of hand so soon to be required. + 

A target? Or was it? Yes⁠—three or four of them! + 

“Target One⁠—Zone Ten,” a quiet voice spoke into Kinnison’s ear and one of the white specks upon his plate turned yellowish green. The same words, the same lights, were heard and seen by the eleven other Technos of Sector A, of which Kinnison, by virtue of standing at the top of his Combat Rocket’s Proficiency List, was Sector Chief. He knew that the voice was that of Sector A’s Fire Control Officer, whose duty it was to determine, from courses, velocities, and all other data to be had from ground and lofty observers, the order in which his Sector’s targets should be eliminated. And Sector A, an imaginary but sharply-defined cone, was in normal maneuvering the hottest part of the sky. Fire Control’s “Zone Ten” had informed him that the object was at extreme range and hence there would be plenty of time. Nevertheless: + 

“Lawrence⁠—two! Doyle⁠—one! Drummond⁠—stand by with three!” he snapped, at the first word. + 

In the instant of hearing his name each Techno stabbed down a series of studs and there flowed into his ears a rapid stream of figures⁠—the up-to-the-second data from every point of observation as to every element of motion of his target. He punched the figures into his calculator, which would correct automatically for the motion of his own vessel⁠—glanced once at the printed solution of the problem⁠—tramped down upon a pedal once, twice, or three times, depending upon the number of projectiles he had been directed to handle. + 

Kinnison had ordered Lawrence, a better shot than Doyle, to launch two torpedoes; neither of which, at such long range, was expected to strike its mark. His second, however, should come close; so close that the instantaneous data sent back to both screens⁠—and to Kinnison’s⁠—by the torpedo itself would make the target a sitting duck for Doyle, the less proficient follower. + 

Drummond, Kinnison’s Number Three, would not launch his missiles unless Doyle missed. Nor could both Drummond and Harper, Kinnison’s Number Two, be “out” at once. One of the two had to be “in” at all times, to take Kinnison’s place in charge of the Sector if the Chief were ordered out. For while Kinnison could order either Harper or Drummond on target, he could not send himself. He could go out only when ordered to do so by Fire Control: Sector Chiefs were reserved for emergency use only. + 

“Target Two⁠—Zone Nine,” Fire Control said. + 

“Carney, two. French, one. Day, stand by with three!” Kinnison ordered. + 

“Damn it⁠—missed!” This from Doyle. “Buck fever⁠—no end.” + 

“OK, boy⁠—that’s why we’re starting so soon. I’m shaking like a vibrator myself. We’ll get over it.⁠ ⁠…” + 

The point of light which represented Target One bulged slightly and went out. Drummond had connected and was back “in.” + 

“Target Three⁠—Zone Eight. Four⁠—eight,” Fire Control remarked. + 

“Target Three⁠—Higgins and Green; Harper stand by. Four⁠—Case and Santos: Lawrence.” + 

After a minute or two of actual combat the Technos of Sector A began to steady down. Standby men were no longer required and were no longer assigned. + 

“Target Forty-one⁠—six,” said Fire Control; and: + 

“Lawrence, two. Doyle, two,” ordered Kinnison. This was routine enough, but in a moment: + 

“Ted!” Lawrence snapped. “Missed⁠—wide⁠—both barrels. Forty-one’s dodging⁠—manned or directed⁠—coming like hell⁠—watch it, Doyle⁠—watch it!” + 

“Kinnison, take it!” Fire Control barked, voice now neither low nor steady, and without waiting to see whether Doyle would hit or miss. “It’s in Zone Three already⁠—collision course!” + 

“Harper! Take over!” + 

Kinnison got the data, solved the equations, launched five torpedoes at fifty gravities of acceleration. One⁠ ⁠… two⁠—three-four-five; the last three as close together as they could fly without setting off their proximity fuzes. + 

Communications and mathematics and the electronic brains of calculating machines had done all that they could do; the rest was up to human skill, to the perfection of coordination and the speed of reaction of human mind, nerve, and muscle. + 

Kinnison’s glance darted from plate to panel to computer-tape to meter to galvanometer and back to plate; his left hand moved in tiny arcs the knobs whose rotation varied the intensities of two mutually perpendicular components of his torpedoes’ drives. He listened attentively to the reports of triangulating observers, now giving him data covering his own missiles, as well as the target object. The fingers of his right hand punched almost constantly the keys of his computer; he corrected almost constantly his torpedoes’ course. + 

“Up a hair,” he decided. “Left about a point.” + 

The target moved away from its predicted path. + 

Down two⁠—left three⁠—down a hair⁠—Right! The thing was almost through Zone Two; was blasting into Zone One. + 

He thought for a second that his first torp was going to connect. It almost did⁠—only a last-instant, full-powered side thrust enabled the target to evade it. Two numbers flashed white upon his plate; his actual error, exact to the foot of distance and to the degree on the clock, measured and transmitted back to his board by instruments in his torpedo. + 

Working with instantaneous and exact data, and because the enemy had so little time in which to act, Kinnison’s second projectile made a very near miss indeed. His third was a graze; so close that its proximity fuze functioned, detonating the cyclonite-packed warhead. Kinnison knew that his third went off, because the error-figures vanished, almost in the instant of their coming into being, as its detecting and transmitting instruments were destroyed. That one detonation might have been enough; but Kinnison had had one glimpse of his error⁠—how small it was!⁠—and had a fraction of a second of time. Hence Four and Five slammed home; dead center. Whatever that target had been, it was no longer a threat. + 

“Kinnison, in,” he reported briefly to Fire Control, and took over from Harper the direction of the activities of Sector A. + 

The battle went on. Kinnison sent Harper and Drummond out time after time. He himself was given three more targets. The first wave of the enemy⁠—what was left of it⁠—passed. Sector A went into action, again at extreme range, upon the second. Its remains, too, plunged downward and onward toward the distant ground. + 

The third wave was really tough. Not that it was actually any worse than the first two had been, but the CR10685 was no longer getting the data which her Technos ought to have to do a good job; and every man aboard her knew why. Some enemy stuff had got through, of course; and the observatories, both on the ground and above it⁠—the eye of the whole American Defense⁠—had suffered heavily. + 

Nevertheless, Kinnison and his fellows were not too perturbed. Such a condition was not entirely unexpected. They were now veterans; they had been tried and had not been found wanting. They had come unscathed through a bath of fire the like of which the world had never before known. Give them any kind of computation at all⁠—or no computation at all except old CR10685’s own radar and their own torps, of which they still had plenty⁠—and they could and would take care of anything that could be thrown at them. + 

The third wave passed. Targets became fewer and fewer. Action slowed down⁠ ⁠… stopped. + 

The Technos, even the Sector Chiefs, knew nothing whatever of the progress of the battle as a whole. They did not know where their rocket was, or whether it was going north, east, south, or west. They knew when it was going up or down only by the “seats of their pants.” They did not even know the nature of the targets they destroyed, since upon their plates all targets looked alike⁠—small, bright, greenish-yellow spots. Hence: + 

“Give us the dope, Pete, if we’ve got a minute to spare,” Kinnison begged of his Fire Control Officer. “You know more than we do⁠—give!” + 

“It’s coming in now,” came the prompt reply. “Six of those targets that did such fancy dodging were atomics, aimed at the Lines. Five were dirigibles, with our number on ’em. You fellows did a swell job. Very little of their stuff got through⁠—not enough, they say, to do much damage to a country as big as the U.S.A. On the other hand, they stopped scarcely any of ours⁠—they apparently didn’t have anything to compare with you Technos. + 

“But all hell seems to be busting loose, all over the world. Our east and west coasts are both being attacked, they say; but are holding. Operation Daisy and Operation Fairfield are clicking, just like we did. Europe, they say, is going to hell⁠—everybody is taking potshots at everybody else. One report says that the South American nations are bombing each other⁠ ⁠… Asia, too⁠ ⁠… nothing definite; as straight dope comes in I’ll relay it to you. + 

“We came through in very good shape, considering⁠ ⁠… losses less than anticipated, only seven percent. The First Line⁠—as you know already⁠—took a God-awful shellacking; in fact, the Churchill-Belcher section was practically wiped out, which was what lost us about all of our Observation.⁠ ⁠… We are now just about over the southern end of Hudson Bay, heading down and south to join in making a vertical Fleet Formation⁠ ⁠… no more waves coming, but they say to expect attacks from low-flying combat rockets⁠—there goes the alert! On your toes, fellows⁠—but there isn’t a thing on Sector A’s screen.⁠ ⁠…” + 

There wasn’t. Since the CR10685 was diving downward and southward, there wouldn’t be. Nevertheless, some observer aboard that rocket saw that atomic missile coming. Some Fire Control Officer yelled orders; some Technos did their best⁠—and failed. + 

And such is the violence of nuclear fission; so utterly incomprehensible is its speed, that Theodore K. Kinnison died without realizing that anything whatever was happening to his ship or to him. + 

Gharlane of Eddore looked upon ruined Earth, his handiwork, and found it good. Knowing that it would be many of hundreds of Tellurian years before that planet would again require his personal attention, he went elsewhere; to Rigel Four, to Palain Seven, and to the solar system of Velantia, where he found that his creatures the Overlords were not progressing according to schedule. He spent quite a little time there, then searched minutely and fruitlessly for evidence of inimical activity within the Innermost Circle. + 

And upon far Arisia a momentous decision was made: the time had come to curb sharply the hitherto unhampered Eddorians. + 

“We are ready, then, to war openly upon them?” Eukonidor asked, somewhat doubtfully. “Again to cleanse the planet Tellus of dangerous radioactives and of too-noxious forms of life is of course a simple matter. From our protected areas in North America a strong but democratic government can spread to cover the world. That government can be extended easily enough to include Mars and Venus. But Gharlane, who is to operate as Roger, who has already planted, in the Adepts of North Polar Jupiter, the seeds of the Jovian Wars.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Your visualization is sound, youth. Think on.” + 

“Those interplanetary wars are of course inevitable, and will serve to strengthen and to unify the government of the Inner Planets⁠ ⁠… provided that Gharlane does not interfere.⁠ ⁠… Oh, I see. Gharlane will not at first know; since a zone of compulsion will be held upon him. When he or some Eddorian fusion perceives that compulsion and breaks it⁠—at some such time of high stress as the Nevian incident⁠—it will be too late. Our fusions will be operating. Roger will be allowed to perform only such acts as will be for Civilization’s eventual good. Nevia was selected as Prime Operator because of its location in a small region of the galaxy which is almost devoid of solid iron and because of its watery nature; its aquatic forms of life being precisely those in which the Eddorians are least interested. They will be given partial neutralization of inertia; they will be able to attain velocities a few times greater than that of light. That covers the situation, I think?” + 

“Very good, Eukonidor,” the Elders approved. “A concise and accurate summation.” + 

Hundreds of Tellurian years passed. The aftermath. Reconstruction. Advancement. One world⁠—two worlds⁠—three worlds⁠—united, harmonious, friendly. The Jovian Wars. A solid, unshakeable union. + 

Nor did any Eddorian know that such fantastically rapid progress was being made. Indeed, Gharlane knew, as he drove his immense ship of space toward Sol, that he would find Tellus inhabited by peoples little above savagery. + 

And it should be noted in passing that not once, throughout all those centuries, did a man named Kinnison marry a girl with red-bronze-auburn hair and gold-flecked, tawny eyes. + 