by Various
"This is the bottom plate," Alec said. "It's tipped all right. Got to ease around to one side."
Again the cranes dragged and lifted and the massive tractor scraped along the bottom plate of the overturned pump. Suddenly the vehicle whipped forward. "Drop it," Troy yelled, and the carrier smashed to the basin floor.
They were alongside the main outlet tube, now tilted downwards on an angle towards the floor of the basin. Below them and under the curvature of the tube was the pile housing. The explosive had to be placed at the point where the pile housing, the pump base and the outlet tub met.
Currents of water still swirled around them and tugged at the two men. But it had much less force than during the downward descent. Alec unclamped the seat belt, then slammed his magnetic clamp suit boots against the outer plates of the carrier. His suit buoyancy dragged him into an awkward crouching position and he swayed and fought against both the upwards lift and the current swirl.
"Let's go," he said.
* * * * *
A hundred and seventeen feet above them, Hall and the crane operators could hear the hollow clang of the magneboots as the two engineers inched their way back alongside the tractor to a spot where the tractor hull touched the pump housing. Alec cut one foot loose from the vertical side of the tractor and slammed it against the pump base and then quickly shifted the other foot and began forcing his way down under the curve of the tube. Troy followed.
In the shelter of the base and tube, the current no longer pulled at them and it was only the suit buoyancy to battle. It took them three minutes to struggle their way to the juncture point. Alec wedged himself in with his back against the housing above him and carefully began unwinding the explosive belt he was wearing.
With his feet clamped on the vertical wall of the pump housing and knees locked in a skier's stance, Troy handed over the first of the magnetic clamps. Alec took it and carefully clamped the end of the plastic explosive belt against the pile housing. They worked slowly but steadily until the entire band of explosive was in place along a five-foot arc of the housing.
During the entire operation, neither man spoke and on shore, the listeners could hear only the heavy breathing of the pair and an occasional muffled sound of a clamp going into place.
When the plastic was locked down, Troy carefully unclipped a timer fused from his belt and handed it across. He spoke for the first time since they left the tractor. "It's set for seven minutes." In the wavering light of the murky waters, he saw Alec glance up at him and then gingerly insert the fuse into the explosive.
"Get moving," Alec ordered. Troy started inching his way back along the pump housing wall. Alec waited until Troy moved into the gloom and almost out of sight, then flipped the water-tight switch that activated the fuse. The device was armed. In seven minutes, if the pile didn't go critical before then, the charge would detonate--whether they were back on the surface or not.
He shoved himself free of the pile housing and followed Troy back along the wall of the base. At the hull of the tractor, he made the foot-at-a-time crossover and again fought suit and current to get back to the cab. The seconds ticked off into the first minute and into the second. Ahead, Troy had reached the aperture of the cab door and reached in to grasp the end of the steel safety belt. He hauled himself into the seat and looked back for Alec.
The other engineer had just reached the cab. He swung a leg over the sill and at that moment, a surge of current whipped his suit. He twisted, grabbed for a handhold and missed and shot up towards the surface. In that same instant, Troy shot up out of the seat, holding the end of the belt in one hand and grabbing for Alec's ankle with the other. He caught it and clutched. "Up, fast," he screamed.
The tractor snapped up under them and threw both men against the seat. Alec seized a control handle and hauled himself into the seat as the vehicle surged upwards. Under full power, it was whipping towards the surface and now, the water pressure was holding them down. The timer passed the four-minute mark when the six-ton carrier burst out of the water in a geyser of spray. The cable whipped and almost threw them from the cab. Then there was a spine-snapping side jerk as the Number One crane operator began smoking the cable pulling them to the shore.
Thirty seconds later the tractor slammed to the ground. Hall and the crane carrier driver were waiting. They reached in and jerked the two engineers from the seat and half carried them to the rear of the massive crane carrier. The operator had already leaped from his cab and was lying prone, face down on the ground.
Troy and Alec, together with Hall and the driver, stretched out alongside each other in the dubious shelter of the carrier and waited.
The seconds ticked off. A minute later, a small geyser of water shot up a few feet from the surface of the water and seconds later they heard a slight rumble. Then there was only the sound of their breathing and the rush of water in the river.
Hall jumped up first while the others were still scrambling to their feet. He raced to the radio after a hasty look at the river.
"Monitor," he called, "what's the story?"
"They got it, boss," monitor answered. "The pile is dead. You've got some hot material in the water but it's dissipating fast. All other pumps in good order."
Hall broke into a big smile. He walked back to where Troy and Alec were struggling out of their pressure suits.
In the distance, the director's copter was lifting from the ground and heading towards the riverbank. A few minutes later, while a new pump was being lowered into the bore hole, the copter took off en route to Spokane. The two junior engineers were aboard. When it landed at Region Six heliport, Alec jumped from the ramp and ran to the nearest building. He found a vidiphone and called home.
Carol's worried face appeared and then lighted when she saw her husband.
"Honey," Alec said, "You can go ahead and bathe the kid now."
He came out of the building to find Troy waiting. They grinned at each other. At that moment, Supervisor Morley Wilson came hurrying by.
"All right you two," he snarled, "so you've solved one little problem. Remember, you've got just nine days left to give me an answer on those new production units." He hurried away.
Troy gazed at Wilson's departing back.
"That's what I like about working for DivAg," he murmured. "Nothing ever changes."
* * *
Contents
COMBAT
By MACK REYNOLDS
An Alien landing on Earth might be readily misled, victimized by a one-sided viewpoint.
And then again ... it might be the Earthmen who were misled....
* * * * *
Henry Kuran answered a nod here and there, a called out greeting from a desk an aisle removed from the one along which he was progressing, finally made the far end of the room. He knocked at the door and pushed his way through before waiting a response.
There were three desks here. He didn't recognize two of the girls who looked up at his entry. One of them began to say something, but then Betty, whose desk dominated the entry to the inner sanctum, grinned a welcome at him and said, "Hank! How was Peru? We've been expecting you."
"Full of Incas," he grinned back. "Incas, Russkies and Chinks. A poor capitalist conquistador doesn't have a chance. Is the boss inside?"
"He's waiting for you, Hank. See you later."
Hank said, "Um-m-m," and when the door clicked in response to the button Betty touched, pushed his way into the inner office.
Morton Twombly, chief of the department, came to his feet, shook hands abruptly and motioned the other to a chair.
"How're things in Peru, Henry?" His voice didn't express too much real interest.
Hank said, "We were on the phone just a week ago, Mr. Twombly. It's about the same. No, the devil it is. The Chinese have just run in their new People's Car. They look something like our jeep station-wagons did fifteen years ago."
Twombly stirred in irritation. "I've heard about them."
Hank took his handkerchief fr
om his breast pocket and polished his rimless glasses. He said evenly, "They sell for just under two hundred dollars."
"Two hundred dollars?" Twombly twisted his face. "They can't transport them from China for that."
"Here we go again," Hank sighed. "They also can't sell pressure cookers for a dollar apiece, nor cameras with f.2 lenses for five bucks. Not to speak of the fact that the Czechs can't sell shoes for fifty cents a pair and, of course, the Russkies can't sell premium gasoline for five cents a gallon."
Twombly muttered, "They undercut our prices faster than we can vote through new subsidies. Where's it going to end Henry?"
"I don't know. Perhaps we should have thought a lot more about it ten or fifteen years ago when the best men our universities could turn out went into advertising, show business and sales--while the best men the Russkies and Chinese could turn out were going into science and industry." As a man who worked in the field Hank Kuran occasionally got bitter about these things, and didn't mind this opportunity of sounding off at the chief.
Hank added, "The height of achievement over there is to be elected to the Academy of Sciences. Our young people call scientists egg-heads, and their height of achievement is to become a TV singer or a movie star."
Morton Twombly shot his best field man a quick glance. "You sound as though you need a vacation, Henry."
Henry Kuran laughed. "Don't mind me, chief. I got into a hassle with the Hungarians last week and I'm in a bad frame of mind."
Twombly said, "Well, we didn't bring you back to Washington for a trade conference."
"I gathered that from your wire. What am I here for?"
Twombly pushed his chair back and came to his feet. It occurred to Hank Kuran that his chief had aged considerably since the forming of this department nearly ten years ago. The thought went through his mind, a general in the cold war. A general who's been in action for a decade, has never won more than a skirmish and is currently in full retreat.
Morton Twombly said, "I'm not sure I know. Come along."
They left the office by a back door and Hank was in unknown territory. Silently his chief led him through busy corridors, each one identical to the last, each sterile and cold in spite of the bustling. They came to a marine guarded door, were passed through, once again obviously expected.
The inner office contained but one desk occupied by a youthfully brisk army major. He gave Hank a one-two of the eyes and said, "Mr. Hennessey is expecting you, sir. This is Mr. Kuran?"
"That's correct," Twombly said. "I won't be needed." He turned to Hank Kuran. "I'll see you later, Henry." He shook hands.
Hank frowned at him. "You sound as though I'm being sent off to Siberia, or something."
The major looked up sharply, "What was that?"
Twombly made a motion with his hand, negatively. "Nothing. A joke. I'll see you later, Henry." He turned and left.
The major opened another door and ushered Hank into a room two or three times the size of Twombly's office. Hank formed a silent whistle and then suddenly knew where he was. This was the sanctum sanctorum of Sheridan Hennessey. Sheridan Hennessey, right arm, hatchetman, alter ego, one man brain trust--of two presidents in succession.
And there he was, seated in a heavy armchair. Hank had known of his illness, that the other had only recently risen from his hospital bed and against doctor's orders. But somehow he hadn't expected to see him this wasted. TV and newsreel cameramen had been kind.
However, the waste had not as yet extended to either eyes or voice. Sheridan Hennessey bit out, "That'll be all, Roy," and the major left them.
* * * * *
"Sit down," Hennessey said. "You're Henry Kuran. That's not a Russian name is it?"
Hank found a chair. "It was Kuranchov. My father Americanized it when he was married." He added, "About once every six months some Department of Justice or C.I.A. joker runs into the fact that my name was originally Russian and I'm investigated all over again."
Hennessey said, "But your Russian is perfect?"
"Yes, sir. My mother was English-Irish, but we lived in a community with quite a few Russian born emigrants. I learned the language."
"Good, Mr. Kuran, how would you like to die for your country?"
Hank Kuran looked at him for a long moment. He said slowly, "I'm thirty-two years old, healthy and reasonably adjusted and happy. I'd hate it."
The sick man snorted. "That's exactly the right answer. I don't trust heroes. Now, how much have you heard about the extraterrestrials?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You haven't heard the news broadcasts the past couple of days? How the devil could you have missed them?" Hennessey was scowling sourly at him.
Hank Kuran didn't know what the other was talking about. "Two days ago I was in the town of Machu Picchu in the Andes trying to peddle some mining equipment to the Peruvians. Peddle it, hell. I was practically trying to give it away, but it was still even-steven that the Hungarians would undersell me. Then I got a hurry-up wire from Morton Twombly to return to Washington soonest. I flew here in an Air Force jet. I haven't heard any news for two days or more."
"I'll have the major get you all the material we have to date and you can read it on the plane to England."
"Plane to England?" Hank said blankly. "Look, I'm in the Department of Economic Development of Neutral Nations, specializing in South America. What would I be doing in England?" He had an uneasy feeling of being crowded, and a suspicion that this was far from the first time Sheridan Hennessey had ridden roughshod over subordinates.
"First step on the way to Moscow," Hennessey snapped. "The major will give you details later. Let me brief you. The extraterrestrials landed a couple of days ago on Red Square in some sort of spaceship. Our Russkie friends clamped down a censorship on news. No photos at all as yet and all news releases have come from Tass."
Hank Kuran was bug-eying him.
Hennessey said, "I know. Most of the time I don't believe it myself. The extraterrestrials represent what the Russkies are calling a Galactic Confederation. So far as we can figure out, there is some sort of league, United Planets, or whatever you want to call it, of other star systems which have achieved a certain level of scientific development."
"Well ... well, why haven't they shown up before?"
"Possibly they have, through the ages. If so, they kept their presence secret, checked on our development and left." Hennessey snorted his indignation. "See here, Kuran, I have no details. All of our information comes from Tass, and you can imagine how inadequate that is. Now shut up while I tell you what little I do know."
Henry Kuran settled back into his chair, feeling limp. He'd had too many curves thrown at him in the past few minutes to assimilate.
"They evidently keep hands off until a planet develops interplanetary exploration and atomic power. And, of course, during the past few years our Russkie pals have not only set up a base on the Moon but have sent off their various expeditions to Venus and Mars."
"None of them made it," Hank said.
"Evidently they didn't have to. At any rate, the plenipotentiaries from the Galactic Confederation have arrived."
"Wanting what, sir?" Hank said.
"Wanting nothing but to help." Hennessey said. "Stop interrupting. Our time is limited. You're going to have to be on a jet for London in half an hour."
He noticed Hank Kuran's expression, and shook his head. "No, it's not farfetched. These other intelligent life forms must be familiar with what it takes to progress to the point of interplanetary travel. It takes species aggressiveness--besides intelligence. And they must have sense enough not to want the wrong kind of aggressiveness exploding into the stars. They don't want an equivalent of Attila bursting over the borders of the Roman Empire. They want to channel us, and they're willing to help, to direct our comparatively new science into paths that won't conflict with them. They want to bring us peacefully into their society of advanced life forms."
Sheridan Hennessey allowed himself a
rueful grimace. "That makes quite a speech, doesn't it? At any rate, that's the situation."
"Well, where do I come into this? I'm afraid I'm on the bewildered side."
"Yes. Well, damn it, they've landed in Moscow. They've evidently assumed the Soviet complex--the Soviet Union, China and the satellites--are the world's dominant power. Our conflicts, our controversies, are probably of little, if any, interest to them. Inadvertently, they've put a weapon in the hands of the Soviets that could well end this cold war we've been waging for more than twenty-five years now."
The president's right-hand man looked off into a corner of the room, unseeingly. "For more than a decade it's been a bloodless combat that we've been waging against the Russkies. The military machines, equally capable of complete destruction of the other, have been stymied Finally it's boiled down to an attempt to influence the neutrals, India, Africa, South America, to attempt to bring them into one camp or the other. Thus far, we've been able to contain them in spite of their recent successes. But given the prestige of being selected the dominant world power by the extraterrestrials and in possession of the science and industrial know-how from the stars, they'll have won the cold war over night."
His old eyes flared. "You want to know where you come in, eh? Fine. Your job is to get to these Galactic Confederation emissaries and put a bug in their bonnet. Get over to them that there's more than one major viewpoint on this planet. Get them to investigate our side of the matter."
"Get to them how? If the Russkies--"
Hennessey was tired. The flash of spirit was fading. He lifted a thin hand. "One of my assistants is crossing the Atlantic with you. He'll give you the details."
"But why me? I'm strictly a--"
"You're an unknown in Europe. Never connected with espionage. You speak Russian like a native. Morton Twombly says you're his best man. Your records show that you can think on your feet, and that's what we need above all."