"I hoped I might persuade you."
"Another would merely follow--!"
"And them."
"But--duty!"
"To whom is duty?"
A head appeared in the round mouth of the tunnel. Learned, the
journalist, grinned like an imp. "Nasty crawl," he yelled. "Hope
they've got that thing well insulated. Otherwise--I'm unsexed--or
hotter than radium myself!" He saw the stranger, and halfway down on
the ladder stood still. His eyes, ordinarily shrewd and compassionate,
showed first a little amazement--and then twinkled. "A ringer! You
would pull one like that, colonel! The American press wants to know who
he is!" Learned chuckled and dropped to the metal floor. Strode the two
steps forward. Gave his name. Held out his hand. Explained himself.
"You're a physicist, I take it?"
"My name is Chris." The dark eyes were luminous and kind.
"Chris who?"
The colonel took the journalist's arm in a hand like steel and
whispered.
Learned, also, grew pale. He stared first at the colonel and then,
uneasily, he eyed the stranger. Twice, the gleam of sardonic doubt
shone. And twice, with all his will and concentration, he endeavored to
make some satirical reply: to say, skeptically, that this would be the
greatest interview in two millenniums.
Or to ask how things were in the Blue Up Yonder.
He failed. He--too--abruptly knew. The resources of his training
abandoned him--left but the residue of naked personality. His tongue
circled his lips. He gave the stranger another uncertain glance, a
hopeful glance--and suddenly, on the impulse, took out his cigarettes
and offered them.