Dr. Salva Gordy looked at the radioactive smear that
had been Detroit. Then he looked down at the boiling
anthill. Why not, he thought excitedly, why not?...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gordy survived the Three-Hour War, even though Detroit didn't; he was
on his way to Washington, with his blueprints and models in his bag,
when the bombs struck.
He had left his wife behind in the city, and not even a trace of her
body was ever found. The children, of course, weren't as lucky as that.
Their summer camp was less than twenty miles away, and unfortunately
in the direction of the prevailing wind. But they were not in any pain
until the last few days of the month they had left to live. Gordy
managed to fight his way back through the snarled, frantic airline
controls to them. Even though he knew they would certainly die of
radiation sickness, and they suspected it, there was still a whole
blessed week of companionship before the pain got too bad.
That was about all the companionship Gordy had for the whole year of
1960.
He came back to Detroit, as soon as the radioactivity had died down;
he had nowhere else to go. He found a house on the outskirts of the
city, and tried to locate someone to buy it from. But the Emergency
Administration laughed at him. "Move in, if you're crazy enough to
stay."
When Gordy thought about it all, it occurred to him that he was in
a sort of state of shock. His fine, trained mind almost stopped
functioning. He ate and slept, and when it grew cold he shivered and
built fires, and that was all. The War Department wrote him two or
three times, and finally a government man came around to ask what had
happened to the things that Gordy had promised to bring to Washington.
But he looked queerly at the pink, hairless mice that fed unmolested in
the filthy kitchen, and he stood a careful distance away from Gordy's
hairy face and torn clothes.
He said, "The Secretary sent me here, Mr. Gordy. He takes a personal
interest in your discovery."
Gordy shook his head. "The Secretary is dead," he said. "They were all
killed when Washington went."
"There's a new Secretary," the man explained. He puffed on his
cigarette and tossed it into the patch Gordy was scrabbling into a
truck garden. "Arnold Cavanagh. He knows a great deal about you, and he
told me, 'If Salva Gordy has a weapon, we must have it. Our strength
has been shattered. Tell Gordy we need his help'."
Gordy crossed his hands like a lean Buddha.
"I haven't got a weapon," he said.
"You have something that can be used as a weapon. You wrote to
Washington, before the War came, and said--"
"The War is over," said Salva Gordy. The government man sighed, and
tried again, but in the end he went away. He never came back. The
thing, Gordy thought, was undoubtedly written off as a crackpot idea
after the man made his report; it was exactly that kind of a discovery,
anyhow.
* * * * *
It was May when John de Terry appeared. Gordy was spading his garden.
"Give me something to eat," said the voice behind Gordy's back.
Salva Gordy turned around and saw the small, dirty man who spoke. He
rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "You'll have to work for
it," he said.
"All right." The newcomer set down his pack. "My name is John de Terry.
I used to live here in Detroit."