V
At Dr. Mallory's suggestion, I did not tell my men too much about our
plans. "With so much at stake, O'Shea," he said, "the less they know
the better it will be."
But they did not ask to know much. They were good men; they trusted me.
And if they chafed a little at the enforced idleness of the next week,
the rest must have been a welcome surcease from months of fighting.
Only one man failed to share their calm acceptance of my orders.
Krassner. He told me, sulkily, "There's something going on around here,
O'Shea. And, damn it, I have a right to know what it is. As a fellow
officer--"
"I respect your brevet, Krassner," I told him somewhat curtly, "but for
the present I must ask you to remember that you are attached to this
division through courtesy only, and have no authority. In a few more
days, now, I will be at liberty to explain everything."
He had to be satisfied with that. Though it was the nature of the
man to be snoopy; several times he was observed prowling around the
grounds, searching some clue as to Doctor Mallory's well-concealed
secret.
He was chasing a will-o'-the-wisp, of course. A man might have searched
for months without finding the entrance to Mallory's underground
workshops. Mallory admitted Wilson and St. Cloud, my lieutenants, to
his confidence. He took us to the cavern wherein was being constructed
the spaceship.
The gateway to the depths was that which appeared to be a
photographer's dark-room. Once inside, Mallory pressed certain carved
ornaments, the entire farther wall slid back, and there stretched
before us a smooth, well-lighted passage leading downward at a gentle
incline.
We must have followed this more than a half mile before we debouched
into the main cavern; a mighty, vaulted chamber, a huge bubble of
emptiness blown in the solid mountain centuries ago when Earth was in
the travail of making.
But it was not this natural wonder that made me gasp. I had seen
others; I had, indeed, once taken refuge for four weeks with the Ninth
Artillery in Luray. That which brought an exclamation to my lips was
the shimmering monster braced on an exoskeleton of girders in the
middle of the chamber. A gigantic, tear-shaped rocketship, stern jets
lifted some feet off the ground, streamlined nose pointing at the roof
of the cave.
About it, in and around it, sweating men fretted, worried, labored,
like so many restless bees. Here the brief chatter of a riveting
machine woke snarling echoes as a final plate was welded into place;
there a master electrician wove an intricate network of wires into some
obscure purpose. In still another place, a strong-thewed gang trundled
seemingly endless trains of supplies into the ship's capacious holds.
Dr. Mallory smiled at the expressions on our faces, and there was
pardonable pride in his smile.
"There, my friends," he said quietly, "is the _Jefferson_."
"_Jefferson?_" repeated Maureen wonderingly.
"Named for him who, in our country's infancy, wrote down in blazing
words the principles on which all democracy is based. The inherent
right of men to enjoy life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Once his words showed us the way. Now his name shall lead us to a new
civilization."
"Amen!" said Danny Wilson piously. Then, "Now can we have a look at
her? I mean _him_, Doctor?"
Knowing every nook and cranny, berth and hold, turret and gun-chamber
of the _Jefferson_ as I do now, it is hard to remember my feelings
on that day when first I strode her permalloy decks. Even so, I can
recall the vast wonder that engulfed me as Dr. Mallory led us through
the ship, pointing out the engines, the control-rooms, the Spartan
simplicity of the living quarters, the well-equipped kitchen and
compact storage bins. There was much I did not understand until long
afterward. Permalloy itself was a novelty to me. The metal had been
invented, Mallory said, by a German scientist. One of the old school. A
Doktor Eric von Adlund.
"I do not know what has become of him. Perhaps he, like the other
peace-loving great of his race, has long since been liquidated by the
Totalitarians."
* * * * *
So said Dr. Mallory sadly. And he tried to explain the operation of the
small, inconceivably powerful, atomic motors, the invention of Frazier
Wrenn. It was a concept so novel, yet so simple, that it staggered
us all. But I could see how, without first having a knowledge of the
heretofore unknown element _inektron (the spelling of this important
word seems to have confused Brian O'Shea. In the manuscript it is
incomprehensibly scribbled. Dr. Winslow suggests the philological
similarity of such words as_ "inertron" _and_ "inactron"? _NSB_) man
might never have discovered the long-sought power of the atom.
St. Cloud, frankly at sea as regarded scientific matters, was delighted
with the military efficiency of the ship. I could see his fingers
yearning for the lanyard of one of the rotor-guns installed in the fore
and aft turrets. He liked, too, the foreman who came over to meet us.
"How many men have you working here below?" he asked.
Myers, the supervisor, told him twenty-three. "And there are twenty
women topside," he grinned. "Doc says we're going to a brutal frontier.
But if the women can stand it, we can. A man can do lots of impossible
things with his wife at his side."
I understood, then, the number of girls I had seen above ground, and
regretted my hasty judgment of Dr. Mallory's character. I might have
realized that he did nothing without purpose. He had seen--as I saw
now--that without something, some_one_, to fight for, the men of our
little colony-to-be could easily lose heart. He was assuring our
venture against all eventualities.
I was glad, suddenly, that Maureen was beside me. I wondered if she
felt the same way.
Danny Wilson voiced a problem that had puzzled me.
"But this cavern, Doctor? Aren't you like the man who, in his spare
time, built a yacht in his cellar? How are we ever going to get this
monster out of here?"
Mallory said placidly, "When the hour comes, we will burst from this
cavern like a moth from its chrysalis. You have not yet witnessed the
power of our atomic beams.
"One thrust of blinding energy from the forward jets and we will shear
an exit through the tons of solid rock and earth that now conceal us.
Before we leave--" He looked at me significantly. "--we will destroy
the buildings above ground. Including that one, sealed chamber that no
man must ever open.
"The Totalitarians will have no way of guessing who we were, what we
did here, or where we have gone. And even if they should guess, they
would be powerless to follow us."
His voice was low, vibrant, anticipatory.
"Your men and mine, Brian O'Shea, we hundred odd will establish the
first base on Luna. Then there will be other trips to Earth, gathering
more converts to our cause. The day will come when we will match our
conquerors in strength. And then--"
I said thoughtfully, "One more thing, Doctor. The _Jefferson_ is
supplied with water and provisions, yes. But if our number grows, we
will need our own farms and granaries. How are we to grow food in the
lightless grottoes of the moon?"
He nodded sagely.
"All that has been provided for, Brian, lad. I have overlooked nothing.
Chemical culture is possible. Trust me to take care of that problem
when it arises."
Danny Wilson coughed apologetically. He said, "We do, Doc. But--but
I think I know what's in the back of Brian's mind. Suppose something
should--I mean--if anything might happen to you--?"
"That, too, I have considered. There is a complete scientific library
in the aft turret. Science is no secret to the man who can read and
think."
Danny's face lighted. He said beautifully, "A library! Golly! Books!
I haven't seen a book for nigh onto fifteen years. Except Field Code
manuals. There hasn't been much time for reading lately."
"And that," said Mallory darkly, "is perhaps the greatest catastrophe
of this war. Reading men, thinking men, are happy men. They are not
concerned with the lust for conquest of anything save the unknown. Yes,
Wilson, there are books. And for those who seek light entertainment
there are even volumes of fiction. Magazines for amusement."
"Magazines?" I said, puzzled. "Magazines for amusement? I don't see
anything funny in an armament warehouse."
Mallory sighed.
"Forgive me, O'Shea. I had forgotten your youth. There was a time, when
you were a toddling child, when 'magazines' were not always ammunition
bins. Publishers used to issue monthly periodicals, printed on paper,
bound in bright jackets, filled with stories. Exciting adventures in
sports, the West, tales of crime and its detection, fictionized hazards
as to the future of the world--
"Ah, but that was long ago. That was when paper was cheap and common.
When the vast mills of Norway and Denmark and Canada poured endless
rolls of pulp into our country."
Danny said eagerly, "I'd like to see some of these here 'magazines,'
Doc. Could I?"
"You may. Myers will help you select some from the storage bin, Wilson.
And now, my friends, if you are ready to return to the surface--?"
* * * * *
That, as I recall, was on the 29th day of July, 1963. Yes, I know
it was that day, because that was the date of the fall of Santa Fé.
We watched that battle through our televises; it was triumphantly
broadcast--a braggart deed in keeping with their boastful ways--by the
Toties.
Albuquerque having fallen, General Bornot, commander of the Army of
the West, had withdrawn his forces to the old capital of New Mexico,
there to make a last, desperate stand.
It was a valiant, but doomed, defense. The very fact that intimate
details of the battle were televised shows how vastly superior the
Totie forces were; their airplanes could fly without hindrance over our
lines, spying out resources, reserves, and the pitifully weak remnants
of our Army.
Like our own demolished Eastern army, the westerners were a motley
crew. I saw French, English, Scandinavian and Canadian uniforms; loyal
Sikhs from India fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with kilted Scots;
swarthy refugees from Totie Mexico and Guatemala defending futile
breaches beside blonde, fair-skinned Icelanders.
The main body of attackers stormed up from captive Albuquerque to the
south; these were the trained warriors of Japan, the yellow horde that
had ravaged California, Arizona and Utah and pressed eastward to meet
Kievinovski's command. The Russians came down from the north, cutting
off any avenue of escape through Taos. ("Once," Dr. Mallory told us
sadly, "Taos was the artistic center of the United States. Now but one
pigment flows there; the red of blood.") And Schneider's Army of the
Mississippi had swept westward through Arkansas and Oklahoma, leaving
nothing but waste and desolation behind them, to meet the other armies
at this last defense post of democratic gallantry.
It was no battle at all, really; it was a slaughter. Our army had
refortified old Fort Marcy, earthworks built by General Kearny more
than a hundred years ago. Two divisions were quartered in the Garita,
the old Spanish headquarters. Thus they lay, more than four thousand
Democratic troops--waiting behind breastworks of earth and 'dobe for
the attack of armies whose artillery was built to blast steel and
concrete pill-boxes out of existence.
Even so, the gallantry of their defense turned the blood in my veins
to electricity. They did not wait for the Toties to attack; they
carried the fight to the enemy. With the first, tentative shot from the
besiegers there came an answering blast from the besiezed. Then the
bedlam was on.
Stream upon endless stream, the Toties flooded into the city. As they
did so, we--and the enemy--discovered that the spying televise had
not told the whole story. Windows opened to expose spitting, snarling
machine guns. Doorways gaped to expose light fieldpieces that poured
fiery death into the Toties. Fake walls split miraculously, from them
charged concealed troops of Americans, faces grim, guns flaming,
roaring, bayonets flashing.
Guerrilla warfare became the order of the day. At street barricades
powder and flame were forgotten as men met face to face, looked with
stark eyes upon dripping steel. Americans and their allies fell, but
for each of them fell two, three, a half dozen of the invaders. The
scream of explosives was deafening, the street pictured on the metallic
screen before us was a shambles of blood; bodies lay asprawl like the
forgotten toys of a careless child.
And--the televise screen went blank!
Danny Wilson loosed a great cry of joy. "They're licked!" he roared.
"The dog-whelped cowards are licked! I never knew of them to turn off a
televised victory--"
For five glorious minutes we shared his hope. Then the broadcast was
resumed, after a murmured comment about a "technical difficulty in
transmission"--and when again our eyes looked upon the streets of Santa
Fé, the picture had changed.
Once more it was aircraft that had won the day. In the face of
impending disaster, the Toties had loosed the full power of their air
armada against the beleaguered forces. It did not matter to them that
their thermite bombs fell amongst their men as well as ours; that was a
hazard their hirelings had been trained to accept. Burst after flaming
burst rocked the streets of old Santa Fé, broken bodies were flung
brutally against shattered walls, doorways and windows emptied--and
there were no more defenders. Only fresh, unending troops of Toties
filling the gaps left by their fellows.
* * * * *
I saw the Garita fall, a flaming shambles; I saw an airplane swoop low
over breastworks hastily flung up at the _Puenta de Los Hidalgos_ and
wipe out a company of Americans. I heard the biting rasp of machine gun
fire, the staccato bark of anti-aircraft; once the visiplate before us
whirled giddily for an instant as the plane in which our broadcaster
rode narrowly escaped disaster.
I saw the last great moment of Fort Marcy; the fall of the gates and
the horde of snarling Toties that rushed in, bayonetting all before
them; I saw the bayonet wielded that slashed the rope holding the
American flag to the flagpost. I saw the man who turned and raced to
that flagpost, grasped the ropes and held them taut as, for a moment
longer, the tattered ensign whipped out through the smoke and flame.
Then I saw the bullet that found this unknown hero's breast; saw him
cough and loose his grasp, slip earthward as the flag above him tumbled
to the dirt. There was a look of hurt surprise in his eyes. Then I saw
no more, because my eyes were wet. And Dr. Mallory said, "There is
nothing more to see--"
And turned off the televise.
* * * * *
Yes, that was the 29th day of July, 1963. I remember it well. For it
was after that I asked Mallory, "Do we go now? There is no reason to
delay."
And he said, "We will leave in five days. By that time all will be in
readiness. And the third of August will be a day of good omen. It was
on that day, centuries ago, that a humble Portuguese sailorman with a
great dream sailed westward to the Indies and found a new world.
"Like Chistofero Colon, we will select that date to set our course for
New America--"
Maureen's hand tightened on mine. Krassner, who had been watching the
televise silently, gaped at us.
"New course? Go? Go where?"
"Skip it--!" I began. But Dr. Mallory stopped me. "No, I think it is
well the men should be told now, O'Shea. My helpers know. Your men, who
must be the fighters of our party, should be told where they are going."
And he told them. It came as a stunning blow. Some of them looked
frightened; some, to be quite truthful, simply did not understand.
Others were openly incredulous. Among these was Krassner. He
epostulated, "But--but, O'Shea, this old fool must be insane! Flight to
the Moon! Absurd!"
His eyes narrowed.
"There's more to it than that. This is a trick of some kind I'll bet
it's tied up with that mysterious invention you've got hidden in your
closet--"