The other assented with an apologetic shrug. Phil let it sink in. This
was Morton Opperly who had worked on the Manhattan Project, whose name
had appeared beside Einstein's on the Physicists' Covenant, who had
tried unsuccessfully to get himself jailed for refusal to do research
during World War III, who had become a legend. Phil had always vaguely
assumed he'd died years ago.
He gazed at the renowned physicist in happy awe. The question that rose
effortlessly to his lips was a testimony to Opperly's ability to create
an atmosphere of unlimited free discussion unknown since 1940.
"Mr. Opperly, what are orthos?"
"Orthos? That could be short for any number of scientific terms, Phil,
but I bet you mean the ones that shoot. Those are ortho-fissionables.
Trouble with ordinary fissionables--or fissionables under ordinary
circumstances--is that the fragments and neutrons shoot off in
all directions and the critical mass is large. But if you get the
fissionable atoms all lined up with their axis of spin pointing in the
same direction, then they all split in the same place and every neutron
hits the nucleus of the atom next to it. Because of that last fact,
the neutrons are all used up and the critical mass becomes minute. Half
the fragments fly in one direction, half in the other, making it a very
nasty and convenient weapon, except it has to backfire."
"How do you get the atoms lined up?" Phil asked eagerly.
"Temperature near absolute zero and an electric field," Opperly said,
touching a button beside the doorway. "Simplest thing in the world.
The new insulators can hold a gun magazine at one degree Kelvin for
weeks, and carry enough fissionable pellets to give rapid fire, with
the effect of a steady beam, for more than a minute. Planning to make
yourself an ortho in your home workshop, Phil? I'm afraid they don't
sell that kit. Everything I've been telling you is top security, death
penalty and all that. But I'm getting so senile I don't understand
security regulations. I'm apt to babble anything. I keep telling Bobbie
T. he'll have to have me orthocuted some day, but like everyone else he
refuses to take me seriously. That's the trick they used on me in WW3
and they've never forgot it."
"Bobbie T.?"
Opperly made another of his apologetic grimaces. "Barnes. President
Robert T. Barnes. We were charter members of the Midwest Starship
Society. Of course he was just a shaver then and now he's a besotted,
scripture quoting fox, but shared dreams have a way of linking people
permanently. I drop in on him now and then and flash my Starship badge.
He's one of my pipelines to what's happening in the world, though the
security services don't tell him too much. That's how I learned about
the green cat."
Phil was nerving himself to ask Opperly just what he'd learned, when he
heard footsteps behind him.
The man who looked like a brother of the girl with hoofs was standing
in the gateway.
Just then the door of the mansion opened, revealing a scholarly
appearing man whose face was twitching with excitement and nervousness.
His coat had two bulging brief case pockets, while his vest was crammed
with enough microbooks to make up a dozen encyclopedias, plus two
micronotebooks with stylus, and a fountain pen besides. His hair was
graying and thin, and he wore ancient pince-nez that twitched with his
nose.
"Dr. Opperly!" He greeted in a high-pitched voice that expressed both
fluster and delight. "You come at a whirling moment!"
"That's the way I like them, Hugo," Opperly told him. "Where's Garnett?"
But the other was looking at Phil, who decided the twitch was
permanent. At the moment its owner was using it to express inquiry and
mild apprehension.
"Oh," Opperly said casually, "this is Phil Gish of the press." His
eyes twinkled. "Of the U. S. Newsmoon, in fact. Phil, this is Hugo
Frobisher, Ph.Ch.--Chancellor of Philosophy, you know, the new higher
degree. I'm just a lowly Ph.D. myself."
But Frobisher was beaming at Phil as if he were a donor with a $100,000
check. "This is most gratifying, Mr. Gish," he breathed. Then he
whipped out a micronotebook and poised on its white field the stylus
whose movements would be reproduced on one ten thousandth of the space
on the tape inside. "The U. S. Newsmoon, you say?"
At that moment the man at the gate came clumping up behind them. Phil
felt a gust of uneasiness, but the newcomer merely treated them all
to a big, innocent grin that brought out all the handsomeness of his
faun-like face.
"Me press, too," he announced happily. "Introducing to each you Dion da
Silva. Much delight."
Frobisher seemed about to melt with gratification, though da Silva's
gaiety was undoubtedly generally contagious. "What paper?" Frobisher
asked.
Phil noted that Opperly was studying the newcomer intently. The latter
was having trouble with Frobisher's question.
"Mean what?" he countered, drawing his shaggy eyebrows together in a
frown.
"_La Prensa_," Opperly supplied suddenly. "Mr. da Silva represents _La
Prensa_."
"Is so. Thank you," da Silva confirmed.
Phil could have sworn that Opperly had never seen da Silva before and
that da Silva had never heard of _La Prensa_.
However, Frobisher seemed to accept the explanation. "Come in, come
in, gentlemen," he urged, fluttering backward. "I'm sure you'll first
want to tour our little establishment and have a peek at all our
projects. Story background, you know."
"I'm sure they'll want to go straight to Garnett and get the story
itself," Opperly assured him. "Where is Winston anyway, Hugo?"
"To tell the truth, I haven't the faintest idea of Dr. Garnett's
whereabouts," Frobisher replied with prim satisfaction. "Things have
been popping everywhere since this morning. In every project. We'd have
to tour the Foundation to find him in any case."
Opperly flashed Phil a look of humorous resignation. Dion da Silva
pressed past Phil, flashing his wide white teeth at everyone and
saying, "Is fine, fine." Phil's spirits rose. He felt certain that he
was getting nearer to Lucky.