"This time there will be," Jeffrey said confidently.
"But--"
"We'll win," Jeffrey repeated. "We _must_ win." And Hoshawk caught a
flash of something deep in his eyes. Hoshawk could not quite identify
it, and yet he knew it spoke of the inner wisdom and conviction of the
young. And in that direction, Hoshawk reasoned, lay their weakness.
"There'll be trickery from Forgacs," Hoshawk predicted.
"Quite possible," said Wadsworth. "I don't trust him, myself. He
challenged on a technicality."
Hoshawk was gratified to hear a worried note in the President's voice.
"He claimed we violated the Agreement of 2118," he said, probing, "by
keeping scientific discoveries to ourselves."
Wadsworth answered quietly, "Then he challenged because he himself had
secrets that he believed more potent."
"Nevertheless," said Hoshawk, "a few hundred men trained in the use of
tanks--"
Jeffrey shook his head. "And revert to the primitive," he pointed out.
"If the world is ever to get away from that kind of war, this is the
time to prove it."
"And if we lose, we do so at the expense of a hemisphere."
"That's true," Jeffrey said calmly. "But if we should win by using men
and destroying lives, we would do so at the expense of a civilization.
By the act of reverting to the use of human fighters, we would convince
the world that war could not be fought electronically."
They reached the door of the Chamber. The President shook hands with
Iraola and with Hoshawk.
"Wish me luck," he said lightly.
They inclined their heads, and when they looked up, the President was
seated on a beryllium stool that traveled a three-quarter circle before
the great bank of keys like the keyboard of a giant organ. He pulled
on a glass helmet and adjusted the sonic amplifiers to his mastoids.
He flicked the oxygen valve open and shut, and then looked at it and
listened intently.
Hoshawk saw an instant's doubt on the President's face. Hoshawk
wondered if the valve was leaking, and frowned. The Chamber had been
tested exhaustively, but with hundreds of thousands of circuits,
cut-backs, by-passes, and relays, it was possible the oxygen valve had
been overlooked.
* * * * *
Jeffrey strapped himself into the chair. The chronometer showed five
minutes before the Hour. The President looked at the huge curved map
of the Atlantic, now aglow with light above the big keyboard. His eyes
swept the thousands of ivory keys and he rubbed his hands together for
a final limbering of his fingers.
He spoke, and his intent voice came to them through the amplifier:
"HHQ."
"North America is completely evacuated, Sire, to the Polar ice-cap.
There is now no human being on the continent. The Hunyas refused our
request to declare New York an open city, and it was evacuated thirty
minutes ago."
The President called for a chronometer check. The instrument in the
Chamber had lost two hundredths of a second, and Hoshawk could see that
Jeffrey was making a mental note of that. He was forced to admit that
the young mutant was thorough.
There were two minutes left. Jeffrey sat straight before the great
keyboard, poised an instant, and then his incredibly facile fingers
played the keys, flashing from one bank to the next, shooting the chair
to right and to left, while he watched the map above him and the great
bank of lights on each side. Then he leaned back, relaxed.
Hoshawk was glad now they were playing it safe. Jeffrey had insisted on
the Midwest Chamber in preference to the Pacific or Atlantic station.
For this was modern war. There would be only one person killed. This
was a war of electronics, deadly and final, but no one would be
actually killed but the losing President. That was decreed by the
Six-Continent Council.
It was one minute before the hour. The President pressed a key.