The Breaking-strain
Although Barclay’s work furnished us with the means of tapping the
stores of energy which lie imprisoned within the atoms of elementary
matter, it did not place us immediately in a position to utilise these
immense forces for practical purposes. To tell the truth, we were
in much the same position as a savage to whom a dynamite cartridge
has been given, ready fitted with a detonator. We could liberate the
energy, but at first we could not bring it under control.
The next few weeks were spent in planning and building machine after
machine. All the best talent of Nordenholt’s group of engineers was
brought to bear on the problem; but time after time we had to admit
failure. Either the engines were too fragile for the power which they
employed or there was some radical defect in their construction which
could only be detected on trial. Thus the days passed in a series of
disappointments, until it seemed almost as though hope of success was
fading before our eyes.
During that period, Nordenholt himself grew visibly older. It was the
last lap in his great race against Time; and I think that this final
strain told on him more than any that had gone before. The mines of the
Area were still empty and silent; no fuel was coming forward to fill
the gaps in our ever-shrinking reserves; and within a very short period
the whole industry of the Area must collapse for want of coal.
His anxiety was marked by a total change in his habits. Hitherto,
he had sat in his office, directing from afar all the multitudinous
activities of the Area, aloof from direct contact with details. Now, I
noticed, he was continually about the machine-shops and factories in
which the new atomic engines were being constructed; he had frequent
consultations with his engineers and designers; he seemed to be
incapable of isolating himself from the progress which was very slowly
being made. Possibly he felt that in this last effort he must utilise
all the magnetic power of his personality to stimulate his craftsmen in
their labours.
Whatever his motives may have been, when I think of him in those last
days my memory always calls up a picture of that lean, dark figure
against a background of drawing-office or engineering-shop. I see him
discussing plans with his inventors, encouraging his workmen, watching
the trial of engine after engine. And after every failure I seem to
see him a little more weary, with a grimmer set in the lines about his
mouth and a heavier stoop in his shoulders, as though the weight of his
responsibilities was crushing him by degrees as the days went by.
Yet he never outwardly wavered in his belief in success. He knew--we
all knew--that the power was there if we could but find the means of
harnessing it. The uncertainty had gone; and all that remained was a
problem in chemistry and mechanics. But time was a vital factor to us;
and more than once I myself began to doubt whether we should succeed in
our efforts before it was too late.
* * * * *
At last came success. One of my most vivid memories of that time is the
scene in Beardmore’s yard when the Milne-Reid engine was tested for
the first time. Nordenholt and I had motored down from the University
to see the trial. By this time we were both familiar with the general
appearance of atomic engines; but to me, at least, the new machine
was a surprise. Its huge, distorted bulk seemed unlike anything which
I had seen before: the enormous barrel of the disintegration-chamber
overhung the main mass of machinery and gave it in some way a
far-off resemblance to a gigantic howitzer on its carriage; and this
resemblance was heightened by the absence of flywheels or any of the
usual fittings of an engine. Although I was an engineer, I could make
but little of this complex instrument, designed to utilise a power
greater than any I had ever dreamed of; and I listened eagerly to the
two inventors as they described its salient characteristics.
Nordenholt, who had seen the plans, seemed to pay little attention to
either Milne or Reid. He was evidently impatient for results and cared
little for the methods by which they were to be obtained, so long as
the machinery did its work.
The last cables were being attached to the engine as we stood beside
it; for Nordenholt had insisted on a test being made as soon as the
machine was completed. The workmen screwed up the connections, everyone
stood back a little, and then a switch was pushed home. Immediately the
whole misshapen bulk seemed to be galvanised into violent activity and
with a roar beyond the roof above us the torrent of escaping helium
and argon made its way through the exhaust-pipe. The needle of the
indicator dial jumped suddenly upward till it registered many thousands
of horse-power.
But we had seen all this before and had seen it, too, followed by a
collapse; so that we waited eagerly to learn how the engine would stand
the strain. For an hour we waited there, while the mechanics poured oil
continually into the tanks to keep the racing bearings from heating;
and still the machine ran smoothly and the thunder of the escape-pipe
roared above us. It was impossible to make oneself heard amid that
clangour; and we exchanged congratulations scribbled on odd pieces of
paper. After an hour, Milne shut off the disintegrator; and the great
engine slowly sank to rest.
All of us were still deafened by the sound of the exhaust; and it was
by dumb-show and a handshake that Nordenholt conveyed his thanks to the
two designers. I heard a faint cheer from the workmen.
Nordenholt did not stay long. Within a few minutes, he and I were
back in the motor, on the way home. As we went, I heard behind us the
tremendous blast of the escaping gases; they had restarted the engine;
and to my ears it sounded sweeter than any symphony, for it meant
safety to us all.
* * * * *
When we reached the University, I noticed that Nordenholt stepped from
the car with the air of an invalid. He seemed to have used up all
his forces in a last effort; and now he moved slowly and almost with
difficulty. At the Randolph Stair, he took my arm and leaned heavily on
me as we climbed a step at a time. When we reached the top, he seemed
out of breath. At last we reached his office and he dropped into his
chair at the desk with visible relief.
“It’s my heart, Jack,” he said, after a moment or two. “It’s been going
wrong for months; and I think it’s badly strained. I knew it was going;
and in ordinary circumstances I would have looked after myself; but it
wasn’t worth while, as things were. I simply couldn’t take things easy.
I had to work on until I saw daylight before me or dropped on the way.”
He paused, as though pulling his strength together. In the next room I
could hear Elsa’s typewriter clicking. Nordenholt heard it also; and
rose after a few minutes. He went to the door between the two rooms and
spoke to her, telling her the news of the engine.
“It’s success at last, Elsa. We’re through. Everything’s safe now.”
I heard her voice in reply; and then he closed the door and reseated
himself at the desk.
“It’s your turn now, Jack. I’ve done my part. I’m leaving the future in
your hands; and I believe you’ll make good. I wish I could help you;
but I’m done, now. I would only hamper you if I tried to do anything.”
I tried to say something reassuring, but the words faltered on my
lips. The sight of that drawn face was proof enough. Nordenholt had
driven his physical machine as ruthlessly as he had driven his factory
workers; and it was clear that he had overstrained his bodily powers.
His tremendous will had kept him on his feet until the moment of
success; but I could see now what it had cost him. He had drawn on his
vital capital; and with the accomplishment of his task a revulsion had
set in and the over-tired body was exacting its toll.
As I sat looking at him there, a great feeling of loneliness swept
over me. Here, before me, was the man upon whose strength I had leaned
for the past months, the mind which had seen so clearly, the will
which had held its line so tenaciously; and now, I felt, Nordenholt
was leaning on me in his turn. It seemed almost an inversion of the
course of Nature; and with the realisation of it, I felt a sense of an
enormous loss. In the next stages of the Area’s history, there would
be no Nordenholt to lean upon: I would have to stand on my own feet,
and I doubted my capacity. Almost without my recognising it, I had been
working always with Nordenholt in my mind, even in my own department.
I had carried out things boldly because I knew that ever in reserve
behind me were that brain and that will of his which could see further
and drive harder than I could dare; and I had relied unconsciously upon
him to steer me through my difficulties if they proved too great for my
own powers. And now, by the look on his face and the weariness of his
voice, I knew that I stood alone. I had no right to throw my burdens on
his shoulders any more.
And with a gulp in the throat, I remembered that he trusted me to go
forward. I suppose I ought to have felt some joy in the knowledge that
he had left the reconstruction in my hands; but any pride I had in this
was swallowed up in that devastating feeling of loss. With the collapse
of Nordenholt, something had gone out of my world, never to return. It
left me in some way maimed; and I felt as though the main source of my
strength had been cut away just when I most needed all my powers.
“You’ll do your best, Jack? The Area trusted us. Don’t let them down.”
I tried to tell him I would do my utmost; but I had difficulty in
finding words. I could see that he understood me, however.
“There’s one thing I’m sorry about--Elsa. She hasn’t come round yet.
But she will, in time. She hates me still, I know; and it’s a pity, for
I need her now, more than I ever did before. I’m a very sick man, Jack.
Luckily, this breach between us has let her stand on her own feet. She
doesn’t need me so much as she did.”
He fell silent; and for a time we sat without speaking. When he spoke
again, I could see the lines on which his thoughts had been running.
“If anything happens to me, Jack, you’ll look after Elsa, won’t you?
I’d like to know that she was all right. I know it’s hard as things
are; but you’ll do that for me, even though it tantalises you?”
I promised; and then I suggested telephoning for a doctor to look after
him.
“Not just now, Jack--I’m tired. I don’t want to be bothered answering
questions. I’m very tired.... And I’ve finished my work at last. We’ve
pulled through. I can take a rest.... Wake me in a quarter of an hour,
will you? I want a sleep badly.”
He leaned forward in his chair and rested his face on his arms. In a
moment he seemed to fall into slumber. I thought it was probably the
best thing for him at the time; and I turned to the fire and to my
thoughts.
I fell to thinking of all that had happened since first I met him;
and then I cast further back yet to the evening I had spent at
Wotherspoon’s house. How the disaster had developed step by step,
spreading its effects gradually and with slowly-increasing intensity
over wider and ever-wider areas. If only Wotherspoon had stuck to
chemistry and left bacteriology alone; if only he had chosen some other
organisms than the denitrifying bacteria; if only the fire-ball had not
come that night; if ... if ... if.... All the Might-have-beens rose
before me as I gazed at the flickerings in the fire. If only Elsa had
followed reason and not emotion ... if only.... And so the maddening
train of thought went on, minute by minute, while in the next room I
could hear the click of her typewriter. Emotion! After all I could not
pretend to scorn it, for what were my own feelings but emotion too?
The clock in the tower above me struck a quarter. Nordenholt did not
stir and I let him sleep on. It appeared to me that rest was what he
needed most.
It seemed curious how divorced I had become from the Past. The old life
had been swept away utterly and I found difficulty in recalling much of
it to mind. The meeting with Nordenholt, the founding of the Area, my
time with Elsa, London in its last days, the Reverend John: these were
the things which seemed burned into my memory. All that had gone before
was mirage, faint, unsubstantial, part of another existence. Even our
Fata Morgana was more real to me than that old life.
And with that I fell back into deeper gloom. I have not tried to
paint myself other than I am. I had never reached the height of pure
endeavour to which Nordenholt had attained, though sometimes, under
his influence, I came near it. And now, at the recollection of our
dream-city, I felt a keen pang. Why should I attempt to raise that
fabric to the skies, why should I wear myself out in toiling to erect
these halls and palaces through which I must wander alone? Why, indeed?
What was the population of the Area to me, after all? But even amid my
most bitter reflections I knew that I would do my best. Nordenholt had
trusted me.
A fresh chime from the great bell overhead roused me from my musings. I
went across to Nordenholt, not knowing whether to wake him or not. When
I reached his side, something in his attitude struck me. I touched his
hand and found it cold.
For a moment, I think I failed to recognise what had happened. Then I
shook him gently; and the truth broke upon my mind. That great engine
which had wrought so hard and so long would never move again. The brain
which had guided the fortunes of the Area up to the last moment had
sunk to its eternal rest.
It was some minutes before I was able to pull myself together after
the discovery. When I got my feelings under control, I was still badly
shaken; for otherwise I would never have done what I did do. I went
straight to the door and called Elsa. She was sitting at her desk and
she looked up at my voice.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Flint?”
“It’s.... Come here.... It’s Nordenholt; he....”
Before I had completed the sentence she had risen and passed me. I
think she must have seen something in my face which led her to expect
the worst news. She went up to the desk where Nordenholt was still
leaning with his face on his arms. Like me, she did not immediately
grasp what had happened.
“Uncle Stanley! What’s wrong? Aren’t you well?”
She rested her hand on his shoulder and shook him gently, just as I
had done. In the silence, I heard, far down the Clyde, the roaring of
the atomic engine--the great call sweeping across the Area and bearing
with it the news of Nordenholt’s final triumph. They were varying the
running of the machine and the waves of sound rose and fell like the
beating of gigantic wings above the city.
Suddenly she turned to me.
“What is it? You don’t mean he’s _dead_?”
I could only nod in answer; I could not find words. For an instant she
stood, leaning over him, and then she slipped down beside his chair and
put her arms round him.
“Oh, he’s dead. He’s dead. He’ll never speak to me again!... And I
hated him, I hated him.... I made it hard for him.... And now he can’t
tell me if he forgives me.... Oh, what shall I do, Jack? What shall I
do? Please help me. He was so good to me; and I hurt him so.... Oh,
please help me, Jack. Tell me he forgave me.... I’ve only got _you_
now....”