He went out into the cool darkness, then hurried down to the bar on the
corner and went in to use the men's room. Then he came out, crossed the
street, and climbed aboard his little motor-bike.
Thoughts drifted lazily through his mind as he chugged contentedly
homeward....
* * * * *
Thoughts--and memories. They were cruising along peacefully at 40,000
feet. Morrow felt as if he were molded into the snug rear cockpit, an
integral part of the tons of sleek, deadly metal that was the old F-94
jet-fighter. But he'd experienced that feeling so often it no longer
mattered, then.
Before him was the familiar maze of instrument dials and signal
lights and switches crammed around a glowing, green-blotched radar
scope. Around him was the clear, transparent canopy, with the round
crash-helmet of Smitty's head poking up from the front cockpit ahead of
him. Below, off the edge of the razor-thin wing, was the criss-crossed
gray surface of the Arctic ice-pack. The sky was an intense blue-black
sprinkled with the hard, bright sparks of stars.
There were faint, rhythmic sounds around him. Familiar sounds. The
warm, dry air blowing through his flight suit, circulating over his
body. The air pushing into his face-mask. The rolling motion of the
seat-cushions, massaging his backside with mechanical dispassion.
Then the flat, metallic voice in his earphones. "_Forty-three degrees
left. Contact in five minutes!_"
"_Roger!_" Smitty's voice answered.
The ship tilted gently. Centrifugal force pressed Morrow against his
seat. The world turned slowly beneath them. Forty-three degrees.
Two minutes later, a bright spark appeared on his radar scope. "_Air
spotted!_" he spoke into his mike. "_Two degrees right!_"
"_Over to you!_" the metallic voice from ground radar answered. And the
jet shifted slightly. Two degrees.
"_Contact in two minutes_," Morrow chanted. "_One-thirty ... One ...
Thirty--_"
"_Contact!_" Smitty's voice cracked.
The F-94 whipped over into a turn. The force of two gravities shoved
Morrow down in his seat.
For a brief moment--a breathless, eternal moment, all of two
seconds--another F-94 exactly like theirs appeared directly before
them. Long enough for red lights to glow and camera guns to record a
direct hit. The practice mission was completed--almost.
Then Smitty snap-rolled the ship, missing the other ship almost by
inches. The g's piled up, cramming Morrow down in his seat, pulling at
his facial muscles. Then his vision cleared and he straightened up,
bruised and somewhat battered.
It was the old bomber-interceptor game. That other F-94 could have been
an enemy bomber, plowing toward American cities with a load of atomic
death--
Smitty turned his head and looked back. His eyes crinkled into a smile
under the green glaze of his goggles.
Smitty. Captain Daniel Purcell Smith, then--or "D.P." Smith, which
were also the initials for "Displaced Person." A cool, thoughtful, and
smart jet-fighter pilot in those days, and a darned good guy. They had
taken Seattle apart at the seams on their one furlough, preferring the
devilment of their own companionship to going home to Mom's apple pie.
Morrow's telegram had made sense, all right. The words _scramble_ and
_May Day_ were fighter-lingo; _scramble_ meant _let's go! we've a fight
on our hands_, and _May Day_ meant _I'm in trouble!_
He was in trouble, certainly. The mechanism he'd developed was, in
itself, plenty of trouble.
And it was a special kind of trouble--the kind in which the only person
he could dare trust had to be someone like Smitty. The Air Force
camaraderie which existed between them had never quite faded out. Even
after they'd been mustered back into civilian status, after Morrow had
signed a government engineering contract and Smitty had gone on to
commercial flying, they had kept in touch with each other. Diverging
interests hadn't pulled them apart; the old school ties, the old
trustworthiness was still there. An odd letter every few months or so,
a postcard at Christmas....
He was fortunate to know a man like Smitty, Morrow knew. He couldn't
have carried out his plan alone.
He reached home, stored his motor-bike in the garage, and walked into
the living room. He snapped on the light and stood there for a moment,
gazing across the room at his littered writing desk. If he were going
to carry out his plan, there was one thing he'd have to do himself.
People weren't going to like it. Good engineers were scarce.
He walked across the room, sat down at the desk, and crammed a sheet of
Western Electronics stationery into his portable typewriter. He paused,
lighted a cigarette, and then grimly proceeded to write his letter of
resignation.
* * * * *
"It's a mechanism that floats in the Earth's field of gravity," Morrow
began--
They were seated in a secluded booth in the modernistic restaurant at
the Newark Airport. Through the wall-length observation window, they
could look down on the airfield; a giant stratoliner was rolling up
before the building, the bright spot-lights glistening off the silvery
arcs of its six big turbo-props. White-uniformed linemen were pushing
the steps up to the side of its fat hull as the door slid open and a
pert stewardess poked her head out. Beyond the gleaming sky-monster, in
the pitch darkness of early morning, the runway lights twinkled in rows
and patterns of red, yellow, blue and green sparks.
Morrow spoke quietly and succinctly, pausing only for a sip of
coffee or a pull on his cigarette, and gave a concise briefing of
his discovery and its implications. The dishes of an early breakfast
had been cleared away, so no waitress bothered them and the few other
patrons in the restaurant were out of ear-shot.
Across from him, ex-Captain D.P. Smith sprawled laconically on the
cushioned seat, listening. The expression on his lean, brown face was
thoughtful, intent. He sipped his coffee and flicked the ashes of his
cigarette into the saucer.
He was a small, slender man dressed in a conservative, pin-stripe
business suit. There was nothing dare-devil about his attitude, nor
were his movements deft or quick. He was slow, cautious; his attitude
was a reserved calmness.
It was immediately noticeable. His carefully groomed black hair and
his small, black mustache gave his features a mischievous look. There
was something satanic about his small stature, his long hands, and his
lean, handsome appearance. One would expect a bright, hand-painted tie
and a roving, speculative eye. His utter calmness and reserve seemed
incongruous.
Only the faint, white scar along his jawline might have indicated a
devil-may-care experience. Morrow had mentioned it, remembering that
Smitty had written about the crash last year--he was making a pass over
a field, spreading bug-killer spray over a farmer's potato crop, when
a sudden down-draft caught his plane and he couldn't pull up in time
to avoid the neighboring orchard. He'd crashed through the apple trees,
snapping them like kindling. The plane was completely demolished.
_When I woke up_, he'd written, _they had me spread out on a silver
tray with an apple in my mouth!_
Crop-dusting was a hard, dangerous job. The pilots did most of their
flying before dawn or in early afternoon, when the air was calm; but
they had to fly at other times, too, to make enough to meet expenses.
They'd take off in small, worn-out planes, loaded beyond safety flight
limits with bug-killer, and fly to some farmer's fields. Then they'd
make passes back and forth over the fields, flying below-treetop,
leap-frogging barbed-wire fences, zooming under telephone lines, and
dodging trees and farm buildings, their eyes stinging as the spray
billowed back into the cockpit.
The pay they received was small, mostly because there were so many
skilled pilots looking for work and so few civilian flying jobs. Smitty
could easily reenlist in the Air Force, of course, but they wouldn't
give him a flying job; at thirty-two, he was too old for military
flying. They took the eighteen-year-olds for that. And Smitty wouldn't
reenlist to sit behind a desk.
So he dusted crops. It was no job for a dare-devil, either. A pilot had
to know his limitations, the limitations of his plane, and what he was
doing every second.
* * * * *
"--And that's the situation," Morrow concluded. "If the mechanism isn't
destroyed, it'll plunge the world into atomic war. If it is destroyed,
it'll be lost to mankind for the next several hundred years--until
somebody else stumbles across it."
"In short," Smitty resumed, "if we got it now, we have atomic war. If
we don't have it for the next few centuries, we _will_ have atomic war."
"I'm afraid so," Morrow affirmed. "Unless they manage to develop a
world civilization and government without it."
Smitty shook his head. "They need something like this gravity machine
to pull people closer together, to get them to know more about one
another. Otherwise, any world government scheme is likely to be a
fizz--unless it's established by force!"
"That'd amount to world dictatorship."
Smitty shrugged. "All right, so we've got this thing. If we keep it, we
get atomic war. If we don't, maybe our grand-children get atomic war.
That it?"
Morrow nodded.
"So you must have some plan up your sleeve!" Smitty grinned at him,
shrewdly. "You wouldn't drag me all the way up here just to listen to a
hard-luck story."
Morrow's eyes narrowed. "Smitty, the only reason this would cause an
atomic war now is because the world situation is so tense--"
"True!"
"--But the world situation isn't always going to be this way! Sooner
or later, something will happen to change it. Something's bound to
change it! This is a modern, fast-moving world--things happen fast!"
"So?" Smitty raised his brows, querulously.
"Well, it's bound to change within our lifetime! And when it does, we
may have an opportunity to reveal this discovery. All we have to do is
wait, keep it secret, test it and develop it, and turn it loose when
the time is ripe!"
"Un-huh," Smitty grunted. "And who's going to pay for it?"
"I've got seven thousand in the bank--"
"And I've got three!" Smitty frowned scornfully. "How far do you think
we'd get on ten thousand bucks, chum?"
"As far as we'll need to get," Morrow retorted. "We aren't trying
to finance a mass-production scheme, remember. This is strictly
experimental work."
"What would the retail cost amount to on that mechanism you built?" he
asked dubiously.
Morrow scratched his jaw, reflectively. "Retail cost it'd run to around
three hundred dollars."
"So we make a bunch of those mechanisms. Now, what do we test 'em for?"
"For their use as a means of air transportation," Morrow answered.
"Primarily, that is--there are probably a good many other
possibilities."
"So how do we test 'em?" Smitty persisted. "How do you test any flight
mechanism? You take it up in a plane, turn it on, and see how it works!
So for thorough tests, including high-altitude performance, we'll need
a plane with a pressurized cabin, big enough to hold our test equipment
and the mechanisms. At the present market rates, you won't buy a plane
like that for much less than fifteen thousand dollars!"
Morrow was shaking his head, patiently. "We can't do it that way," he
said. "But we can afford the cheap plastic materials they're using
in small private planes, now, and build a ship especially for the
mechanisms. Then we can test it for low-altitude performance and, if it
works, gradually extend our tests on up to eight or ten thousand feet--"
"And if the mechanisms fail, we crash! That'd be sheer suicide--"
"Not necessarily. If they work at low altitude, they'll be dependable
in saving us from a crash. And we can install a main and auxiliary
system of mechanisms, so if one fails we can cut in another."
Smitty paused, thinking it over. He gave a slow, grudging nod. "It
might work, at that. It just might. But you realize what sort of
predicament this will put us in, don't you?"
"Such as what?" Morrow prompted cautiously.
"Such as supposing somebody finds out about it," Smitty replied. "Most
people have a pretty strong feeling about patriotism these days. We
have something that qualifies as a good secret weapon. They aren't
going to like the way we neglect to inform the government about it."
"Uh huh. Men have been lynched for less," Morrow agreed. "We'll just
have to see to it that nobody does find out about it. We can start
out small, in almost any place that's relatively isolated--a deserted
farm-house would do, I suppose--and build our ship. Then we'd have
to make our flights at night, until we're fairly sure of the ship.
After that, we could set out to find a permanent base--one hidden off
somewhere in the desert or mountains, where nobody will notice us. Then
we'll fly our equipment out there and set up shop."
"What about power? If we set up near a power line, there'll be the
company linemen coming around."
"I think a gas-engine generator will suffice," Morrow refuted. "We can
haul gas to our deserted farm-house by car, then fly it out to our shop
at night."
"What if somebody asks questions when we buy or lease this land, 'way
off in the middle of nowhere?"
Morrow grinned. "If it's 'off in the middle of nowhere,' why should we
buy it? Nobody'll know we're there!" He finished the last of his coffee
and shoved his cup aside. "You've been flying over the Southwest for
quite some time, Smitty. I'm hoping you can find the sort of isolated
spot we'll need."
"There are places in that desert country where no white man's ever
walked," Smitty confirmed. "They're still finding old Indian ruins
nobody knew existed. But you know we could get arrested for all this,
don't you?"
"Umm," Morrow ummed. "Building an experimental aircraft without
authorization _is_ unlawful, isn't it!"
"It's a federal offense!" Smitty exclaimed tersely. "Also, flying
without a license is a federal offense--and you don't have one. And
using government land without permission is a federal offense. And
you'll have to quit your job with Western Electronics, won't you? What
about your government contract?"
"I've given them two-weeks' notice," Morrow explained. "I'm allowed
that. Of course, engineers are scarce--so scarce that by quitting my
job here for no good reason, I'm getting myself blackballed out of
every other company in the industry. None of 'em will hire me after
that."
Smitty frowned concernedly. "Did you have to do it that way? I
mean--suppose you just disappeared?"
Morrow shook his head. "There'd be federal investigators swarming
around here three-deep!" he said. "I repeat, chum--engineers are
scarce! And they don't like strange things happening to engineers
who've been working on top-secret material. They catch more enemy
agents that way."
"You sure they won't investigate you for quitting?" Smitty's gaze was
thoughtful.
"I don't think so. In the next two weeks, I think I can convince them
that I've simply turned out to be a stinker." Morrow grinned sourly.
"They'll be glad to get rid of me, then."
"So you'll be ready to leave in two weeks." Smitty's tone was
non-committal. "Then I'd better hop the next plane out this morning and
start hunting up our base of operations."
"Don't you want to come out to Westerton and see the mechanism?"
"Uh-uh! Less we do to arouse suspicion, the better. I'll wire you, of
course, when I find something. Have you got a gun?"
"Gun?" Morrow started. "No. Why should I?"
"Good." Smitty grinned lazily. "Don't carry one. They're too damned
dangerous."
"I agree," Morrow said quietly. "It hadn't even occurred to me."
* * * * *
The train rattled and squealed through the hot summer afternoon, dust
and foul-smelling smoke drifting back through the open coach windows.
Morrow huddled in the corner of his seat and stared miserably out at
the moving landscape.
_Have you got a gun?_ The words echoed through his mind. Of course he
didn't have a gun. He had never thought about it. Why should he need a
gun?
But the answer was obvious. The secret of the gravity-control mechanism
was precious.
Certain individuals, should they learn about it, would stop at nothing
to get it. Including murder.
And if the government learned about it, they'd dump him into prison and
throw the key away!
Thus, anyone who happened to find out about it would do one of two
things--try to steal it or inform the authorities about it. Either one
would mean catastrophe.
And there was only one sure way to keep anyone's mouth shut. Kill them!
Morrow knew he couldn't do that--he didn't have that sort of mentality.
Nor could he stand by and let anyone else do it, not even Smitty.
But that was what Smitty had meant: he wouldn't stand by and let it
happen, either.
Besides, any murder would bring on an investigation. They couldn't hide
from that. So it boiled down to the simple fact that if anyone found
out what they were doing, they'd be finished. Dead men don't talk, but
they get a lot of other people curious.
Somehow, they had to keep it secret. They couldn't afford to let anyone
find out about it.
And that could be disastrous. There had to be some alternative choice,
in case anything like that should happen. There had to be an out.
Without one, they'd be trapped.
They had to admit that some day, somehow, it _would_ happen. Someone
_would_ find them out. And they had to be prepared to handle it. It
would have to be handled in some way that didn't involve murder.
What other way _was_ there?
There had to be some other way. _Had_ to. Morrow chewed down his
fingernails as the train lurched and rattled onward....
They pulled into Westerton with a hissing roar of steam and jolted to a
stop beside the station. Morrow climbed down from the coach, wearily,
and strode through the station to the street. It was late afternoon,
but it was still hot. He pulled off his tie, stuffed it into his coat
pocket, and unfastened his collar. Then he pulled off his coat, threw
it over his shoulder, and rolled up his sleeves. That was better. Now
for a bite to eat.
He strolled down the shady side of Railroad Avenue toward Switzer's
Cafe.
_Beyond the law!_ his footsteps rang on the sidewalk. _Beyond the law,
beyond the law--_
Suppose someone did find them out? They could ask no one to protect
their interests. There'd be no help from the authorities. They'd have
to protect themselves--against anyone and everyone! How could they do
that without guns, without the possibility of killing someone? They
couldn't accept defeat that easily. The secret was too important to the
future of mankind!
But what could they _do_?
_Beyond the law! Beyond the law--_
"Bill! Hey, wait up!"
* * * * *
Morrow stopped as if someone had jerked him back on a string. He
whirled toward the sound of the voice before his mind had recognized it.
Gwyn came trotting down the street toward him, swinging a tennis racket
in her hand. She was dressed in a white, short-skirted tennis suit. She
stopped beside him, breathlessly, and put her arm through his. "Where
you going?"
"Switzer's," he said. "Join me in a sandwich?"
"Okay." They strolled onward. Her skirt rippled over her smooth thighs,
accentuating her tanned, slender legs. "I go on the four o'clock shift
tomorrow. Want to come down at midnight and walk me home?"
"At _midnight_?" he taunted.
"Sure! It's the witching hour!" She wrinkled her nose up at him,
teasingly. "What're you all dressed up in your suit for? Going
somewhere?"
"Had to go to Newark today," he said. "To meet someone."
"Oh! Don't they even let you alone on Sundays?"
"Sometimes, honey." He grinned. "When are you going swimming with me
again?"
"Well, if you want to _swim_--" She broke off and gazed up at him with
mocking cynicism. Suddenly, her gaze went past him and she tugged at
his arm. "Oh! Wait a second."
She guided him into the little newsstand and left him by the cigar
counter, going on over to the magazine racks. Morrow stood back and
admired her firm, shapely posterior.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, pulling out a magazine. She fished some change
from the little purse on her belt and passed it to the newsstand
operator. "Okay, let's go."
"What've you got there?" Morrow asked.
"You can see it after I have," she retorted. "Why don't you buy one
yourself, for a change?"
She flipped through the magazine's pages as they walked along. Morrow
took her elbow, guided her around a telephone pole, and maintained a
discreet silence.
As they seated themselves in a booth, Gwyn closed the magazine and slid
it across to him. Smiling, Morrow glanced down at it--then stiffened,
staring at the cover illustration.
It was no more than a typical science-fiction cover. The setting
was a typical street scene at night--some dark side-street in the
metropolitan section of some city like New York. In the foreground
stood a young man....
But from there on, it was nothing ordinary. The young man was slumped
back against the wall of a building as if he were trying to mold
himself right into it. The expression on his face was one of mixed
surprise, incredulity, and fear. It showed plainly that he knew no one
else would believe him if he told what he was seeing; and furthermore,
he didn't believe it himself.
In the background, farther up the street, a group of people were
emerging from a doorway. A beautiful girl was in the lead, and behind
her came creatures that looked like men with blue skins, except that
they had tentacles instead of arms. The light of a street lamp revealed
the skin-tight garments they were wearing, and the octopus-armed men
had transparent helmets over their hairless heads. The girl wore a
helmet that was thrown back.
And before them was a tall, gleaming rocket ship, standing on its
tail-fins in the middle of the street!
And the young onlooker _didn't believe it_!
"She _is_ pretty, isn't she!" Gwyn's acid tones cut through his
thoughts.
Morrow noticed, then, that the cover-girl's costume was not only
skin-tight, but there wasn't much of it. He grinned wordlessly, then
thumbed through the rest of the magazine. Its pages hardly registered
on his mind. He was beginning to form an idea....
* * * * *
By the end of the following week, Morrow had convinced everyone at the
labs that he was a heel. But that wasn't all. He also _felt_ like a
heel.
It began the first day, with Borgesdorf. Alec Borgesdorf was chief of
the Research Division. He sent word for Morrow to drop into his office.
When Morrow walked in, he saw his letter of resignation on the desk.
Borgesdorf was grinning and frowning at the same time.
"What the hell _is_ this, Bill?" he asked good-naturedly.
"What's it look like, 'Greetings from the President?'" Morrow retorted.
Borgesdorf's grin faltered. His frown turned to amazement. "Well holy
cow, Bill!" he exclaimed. "What's the trouble? Why're you quitting?"
"I'm quitting this whole blasted mess!" Morrow said flatly. "Does that
answer your question?"
"Wh--well, yes, if you say so. But--you know what this means, Bill!
_Why?_"