"No." The President was icily alert. He pointed to the big map. There
were no red pin-points that would indicate rockets or bombs coming from
the European continent. "The Chamber is gone. Undeniably gone."
A new pattern of bomb-bursts came from above. "Chicago must be
destroyed by now," said the President harshly. He pointed to a
blacked-out area on the ground-glass screen above. "There are no
detector tubes left above us. But look--orange lights. Thousands of
them coming from the sea on the Maryland coast. And look there, to the
right. One--two--fifteen thousand bombers coming!"
Hoshawk nodded as if he had known it all the time. "Sure. He has men
in those planes. Live men who can observe and act independently. He's
throwing hundreds of thousands of planes and submarine tractors and
mobile bomb-throwers at us--all operated by men. And Forgacs himself is
here, leading them. We're whipped, Sire! Where is your civilization
now?"
* * * * *
Wadsworth was calm. He was taking it like a man, anyway. He threw a
lever and poised at the great keyboard, then his mutant fingers began
to work in blurred movement.
Hoshawk watched the screen above. The Atlantic filled with long trains
of red lights that arose from their American bases and streamed
eastward.
Hoshawk blinked. "You're firing everything. And you've locked the
controls."
Wadsworth didn't look up. "In five minutes," he said, "there won't be
an ounce of explosive left in any emplacement in America."
"But that's--" Hoshawk started to say "foolish," but he changed it.
"That won't help, Sire. Forgacs' equipment is all over here, now."
But Wadsworth leaned back. Their golden explosive screen showed no
longer on the Map. Already some of the emplacements had ceased to spew
out red lights, and the tail-ends of their trains were disappearing to
the east.
Hoshawk shuddered as he saw that now America was completely defenseless.
But Wadsworth spoke into his transmitter. "Radio. Give me special
frequency three-hundred-eighty-one thousand, six hundred kilocycles.
Clear all air-lines."
"Yes, sire."
The President pressed the scrambler button and then spoke. The words
came out of the amplifier. "Three tons of butter unloaded a fast curve
day before tomorrow because the baby was yelling for its morning
high-ball. The soap-suds are thick enough for whipping but who knows
where or when."
The President leaned back and smiled. "That's an order to all sixteen
thousand mutants over the country to be on the alert at their
predetermined stations."