Oh, it was safe enough now. Until the hydrogen reaction could turn the
ordinary cobalt sheathing into the deadly isotope-60, it was just such
stuff as was used to alloy magnets and make cobalt glass. It was even
more valuable as a museum piece than as the highly purified metal.
Score one for the Company. They'd put a stop to that danger. Nobody
would have a chance to arm it and send it off now. No small war would
find it more useful than the bomb it would need--and no principality
would risk the Company's wrath in using it. And while the conspiracy
might have planes and helicopters, the fissionable material was too
rigidly under Company control for them to have a chance. The Super
Hell-bomb would never go off. And that was something that might mean
more to the Company's credit than anything else.
Maybe it was possible that in this controversy _both_ sides were right.
And, of course, there was the obvious corollary.
I continued my wandering, looking at the exhibits, the rubble of the
museum's previous history. The cast of the Pompeiian gladiator, caught
by the cinder-fall in full flight, his straining body reproduced to
every contorted line by the incandescent ashes that had encased him.
The carefully chipped and labeled samples from the lava flows of the
past two centuries. The awe-inspiring photographs of Vesuvius in
eruption.
But something about the bomb casing kept bothering me. I wandered
around a bit longer and then turned back to the main exhibit. The big
casing stretched upward and downward, with narrow stairs leading down
to the lower level at its base. It was on the staircase I'd noticed
something before. Now I hesitated, trying to spot whatever it was.
There was a hint of something down there. Finally, I shrugged and went
down to inspect it more closely.
* * * * *
Lying at the base was a heavy radiation glove. A used, workman's glove,
dirty with grease. And as my eyes darted up, I could see that the bolts
on the lower servicing hatches were half-unscrewed.
Radiation gloves and tampering with the casing!
There were two doors to the pit for the bomb casing, but either one was
better than risking the stairs again where someone might see me. Or so
I figured. If they found I'd learned anything....
I grabbed for the nearer door, threw it open. I knew it was a mistake
when the voice reached my ears.
"--after hitting the Home office with a Thousand-kiloton bomb.
It's going to take fast work. Now the schedule I've figured out so
far--God's damnation! How did you get in here, Wills?"
It was Slovetski, leaning across a table, staring at me. Around the
table were Benedetto and four or five others I did not recognize. All
of them looked at me as though I were the Antichrist, popped out of the
marble at St. Peter's Basilica on Easter Sunday.
The spark was a raging flame in Slovetski's eyes. Benedetto dell'Angela
said sharply, "Wait!" He strode over to me, half shielding me from
Slovetski. "Explain this, Thomas," he demanded.
"I thought this was the hall door," I stammered, spilling the first
words I could while I tried to find any excuse....
"Wills! I tell you, answer me!"
I said, "Look, did you expect me to carry a bell and cry unclean? I
didn't mean to break in. I'll go at once...."
In a voice that shook, Slovetski said: "Wait one moment." He pressed a
bell-button on the wall; we all stood there silent, the five of them
staring at me, me wishing I was dead.
There was a patter of feet outside, and Rena peered in. She saw me and
her hand went to her heart.
"Tom! But--"