_A madman can be prevented from
bomb-throwing--but a mad world?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, November 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It did Col. Hal Gascoigne no good whatsoever to know that he was the
only man aboard Satellite Vehicle 1. No good at all. He had stopped
reminding himself of the fact some time back.
And now, as he sat sweating in the perfectly balanced air in front of
the bombardier board, one of the men spoke to him again:
"Colonel, sir--"
Gascoigne swung around in the seat, and the sergeant--Gascoigne could
almost remember the man's name--threw him a snappy Air Force salute.
"Well?"
"Bomb one is primed, sir. Your orders?"
"My orders?" Gascoigne said wonderingly. But the man was already
gone. Gascoigne couldn't actually _see_ the sergeant leave the control
cabin, but he was no longer in it.
While he tried to remember, another voice rang in the cabin, as flat
and razzy as all voices sound on an intercom.
"Radar room. On target."
A regular, meaningless peeping. The timing circuit had cut in.
Or had it? There was nobody in the radar room. There was nobody in
the bomb hold, either. There had never been anybody on board SV-1 but
Gascoigne, not since he had relieved Grinnell--and Grinnell had flown
the station up here in the first place.