Nerves

by Lester Del Rey

  “I suppose the others have all gone?” Palmer asked.

  Morgan nodded. “They pulled out fifteen minutes ago. They got what they came for. Oh, most of them are honest, Allan. Even Shenkler believes the rot he keeps ranting. But that accident’s going to make it a lot easier for them to go along with all the voters in their states who are agitating for the bill. It was a tough break.”

  “Maybe. At least the Guilden papers won’t have pictures of the accident. I’m that much ahead,” Palmer told him. “Call it a calculated risk. When you told me last night they were planning this inspection I couldn’t guess whether it was better now or later. I still don’t know, and it’s a little late to change our minds. Bourbon?”

  At Morgan’s nod, he poured the drinks, mixing his own with a touch of color to make it stronger in appearance than fact.

  “What’s on your mind, Phil?” he asked.

  Morgan laughed. It was a rich, warm laugh that he was accused of having spent years perfecting, but too easy to be anything but his own. It fitted the soft voice and the Southern drawl that could take on a heavy accent when he campaigned in the back counties. “Getting elected again,” he admitted easily. “And at the same time keeping a bunch of fools from wrecking us because they’re whipped up right now. What happens if the bill doesn’t get passed out of committee, Allan? Say for a couple of years?”

  It would kill it, Palmer knew. The Croton accident and the discoveries of other contamination had played into the hands of the relatively few real bigots. With two years more to go, the plants would be policed, the people would begin to feel safe again, and the whole movement would die away like most crazes. It was the answer, of course– the quiet, indirect answer that had saved the country repeatedly from some folly, while the papers screamed at the faults of the system that made it possible. And Morgan was head of the committee that would have to submit the bill with recommendations to Congress.

  “I’m listening,” Palmer said. “But can you get away with it?”

  Morgan studied the glass, running the whiskey around in a little swirl that made its beads dance in the sunlight. He shook his head slowly. “Phil, you may not believe it, but I happen to believe the country’s welfare is more important than I am. If my bottling it up would kill the bill, I’d do it. But to keep it bottled, I have to get re-elected four months from now. That would give us the two years. I’m lucky, in a way. Mississippi’s still pretty much an agricultural state, and we don’t have much atomic stuff there. So maybe the voters would go along with me if I forgot to report the bill out.”

  He took another swallow and sighed, either from pleasure or from his own thoughts. “Maybe! But I don’t know. Unless I can go back to them and show them I’m doing something for them that means more than any old bill like this. That’s where you come in.”

  “How?”

  “Mind you, I’m not guaranteeing I can swing it. If things really get hot enough, they can force the bill onto the floor, no matter what I try! All I can promise is to try to keep it from a vote.”

  “I know all that,” Palmer agreed. He’d been making the reservations as a matter of course.

  “Got a copy of that little old house organ of yours?”

  Palmer found one on his desk and handed it across, wondering if Morgan realized the little old house organ was the leading scientific paper in the field. Then he blinked as he saw the article the politician was pointing to. Either Morgan knew a lot more about mathematics and engineering than he’d suspected or the man had someone on his side who did.

  “Takes a long time to clear the land of the weevil down home,” Morgan said. “This claims a way to do it in four months. And in four months, if I show the farmers the land free and ready to use again, they’ll vote me in even if they see me spit on Lee’s picture or find out I’ve turned atheist. I can get the money for it– don’t worry about that. And I can get ‘em to give me 100,000 acres for the experiment. All I need is enough of this to treat that much territory and I’ll kill the bill.”

  The manager studied the map Morgan gave him, estimating the amount. Enough to make a full converter load — two converters to be sure. “But it isn’t in production yet,” he protested. “Jorgenson ran a test, and he’s worked out the engineering techniques for the converters. We can’t guarantee conversion efficiency, or —”

  “Get me even a quarter of it to start, with the rest coming, and I’ll still make out.”

  Palmer studied it again. He’d wanted to talk about it to Hokusai and consult with some of the other men. But there’d be no time. If it was to do any good in Morgan’s election it would have to start feeding into supply dumps almost at once. “Let me call in Jorgenson and talk it over,” he suggested. “If we can do it at all, I’ll start changing the converters at once and we’ll run an extra shift tonight. Okay?”

  “Your word’s all I want.” Morgan stood up, finished the last of the whiskey and held out his hand. “And now I’d better get back to my colleagues before they smell something.”

  Palmer watched him go and stood staring at the paper. He shrugged finally and ordered Thelma to locate Jorgenson for him. The mathematics here was beyond his knowledge of modern converter technology; he would have to depend on his production engineer. There was no time for the study others would need in order to form an opinion.

  For the hundredth time he cursed the fact that Kellar was dead. The man had been his chief competitor, and had threatened to become more than that. But he’d been a genius, the only man who ever combined engineering talent with the ability to think in the pure mathematics of the abstract scientist and do both by an almost instinctive reaction. He’d have given a lot to be able to call Kellar up and get a snap judgment. But Kellar was dead and the only man who’d ever worked under him was Jorgenson.

  Jorgenson was there almost at once, seeming to fill the room. He listened as Palmer outlined the situation. “It’ll be a tough job,” he said in his slow voice. “This requires a pretty radical change in the converter set-ups, and I’d have to spend a couple of hours briefing my foremen. What converters?”

  “You pick them. They’re all clean except Number One and Number Six.”

  “Three and Four, then. It’ll be tough enough running two at once on a new project, but I guess I can do it. It’s going to cost for some of the materials I’ll need, though.”

  Palmer grinned wryly. It always cost, and if the engineers had a free hand the costs would make profit impossible for the next ten years on any process. But for once the price didn’t matter. Jorgenson couldn’t spend even a fraction of what success in this would be worth. “Forget the cost, Jorgenson. Do whatever you have to and we’ll flange up some kind of accounting later.” Then he paused. “If you want to run it.”

  The huge engineer scowled at him. “Of course I want to run it. Why not?”

  “Because you’ll be working with a buch of men who’ve just seen one accident already today. They’ll be tired from that, from the shift they’ve already put in and from wondering what will happen to them when the committee report goes in. Those men aren’t normal workers now, and don’t forget it. I can give you twice the number you’ll need, to ease the work, but I can’t give you fresh, unworried men. Do you still want it?”

  “I’ll run it.”

  Then Jorgenson paused, hesitating over a decision. Finally his enormous shoulders hunched. “Look, Palmer, I’ve been over that math a hundred times and I’ve run six trial lots in the tank. There isn’t a thing I can find wrong anywhere. But since this came out, I’d better mention that there’s one vote against the process. Only one– nobody else has been worried. But I figure you should know.”

  “I should,” Palmer agreed. “Who was it?”

  “Just an amateur — makes a hobby of atomics, I guess. But he claimed we might get Isotope R.”

  Palmer felt the skin along his back quiver. The possible existence of Isotope R was enough to make every man in the country get behind the bill, perhaps including M
organ. Sometimes he’d had nightmares of word of it reaching the Guilden press, but so far those who knew about it were the last ones who would leak it to such a place.

  “An amateur, and he knows about that?” he asked sharply.

  “His old man was in the business,” Jorgenson answered. He scowled again, then shrugged once more. “Look, I’ve been over these figures again since he brought it up. If I thought there was a chance in a billion of R getting mixed up in it you couldn’t hire me to touch it. It’s not the first time that has come up.”

  In that the man was right. Palmer had missed his chance at a highly desirable process once simply because a professor had written in suggesting a possible chain that might lead to the dreaded isotope. The small plants that competed weakly with him had run it off with no difficulty and now used it as the backbone of their businesses.

  He stared at the chart that showed his outlets again, and then out at the plant. If it meant only the loss of revenue he’d still call a halt until he could have every figure rechecked fifty times more. But this time he was gambling a vague, probably ridiculous fear on the part of someone who was an amateur against the fate of all the plants, and perhaps of any orderly civilization for the next decade.

  “All right,” he said at last. “Run it.”

  But he was reaching for the phone before Jorgenson was through the door. “Give me Ferrel,” he told the operator.

  He had no business asking the man to stay on for the late shift, of course. But he made no move to cancel the call. There was no logic in his decision but he’d learned to follow his hunches when they were this strong.

  At least the men would feel better, knowing that Doc was there. They had learned to trust themselves to him. And right now they needed all the comfort they could get.

  Chapter 4

  The whistle indicating the end of a shift had sounded as Ferrel finished his hasty supper and headed back toward his office. The cafeteria was filling with the usual five-o’clock rush, but now there was a further bustle as those who would be on the graveyard shift headed for it. It wasn’t hard now to spot the family men; they were busy with discussions of the amount of overtime they’d draw, while the bachelors were the ones grumbling and swearing at broken dates and ruined plans. If there was any tension left from the day it didn’t show, but that was no proof it wasn’t there.

  He let himself in through the side door. Blake was sitting on a corner of his desk checking through the few memos of the day.

  Blake shook his head solemnly, making clucking noises with his tongue. “You’re getting old, Doc. Taking a coffee break at this time. And you’ve forgotten that memo for disinfection of the showers. They’re going to need new blood at the top here if this keeps up.” Then he stood up, grinning. “Come on, we’ve still got that celebration to take care of.”

  “I’m sorry, Blake. Not a chance now.” He’d forgotten their tenth anniversary completely, but it was too late to back out on his agreement with Palmer now. “The plant’s on overtime, and I’ve been elected to the graveyard shift. Some rush order for Three and Four.”

  Blake frowned. “Why can’t Jenkins swing it alone? Anne’s been counting on you and Emma.”

  “This happens to be my job. As a matter of fact, though, Jenkins will be staying on with me.”

  Blake sighed and gave up. “Anne’s gonna be disappointed, but she ought to know how it goes. If you get off early, you and Emma drop out and say hello, even if it’s after midnight. Well, take it easy.”

  “‘Night.” Ferrel watched him leave and smiled affectionately. Some day Dick would be out of medical school, and Blake would make a good man for him to start under and begin the same old grind upward. First, like young Jenkins, Dick would be filled with his mission to humanity, tense and uncertain, but somehow things would roll along through Blake’s stage and up, probably to Doc’s own level where the same old problems were solved in the same old way, and life settled down into a comfortable routine with only an occasional bad day, like this one.

  There were worse lives, certainly, even though it wasn’t like the mass of murders, kidnapings and applied miracles in the movie he’d seen recently on television, where chrome-plated converters covered with pretty neon tubes were mysteriously blowing up every second day and men were brought in with blue flames all over them, cured instantly — to dash out and quench the flame barehanded.

  For a moment he wondered whether such films helped create the average man’s fear of atomics or simply mirrored it. Probably a little of both he decided as he dropped into his chair.

  Then he heard Jenkins out in the surgery, puttering around with quick, nervous little sounds. Never do to let the boy find him loafing back here when the possible fate of the world so obviously hung on his alertness. Young doctors had to be disillusioned slowly or they became bitter and their work suffered. Yet in spite of his amusement at Jenkins’ nervousness, he couldn’t help envying the thinfaced young man’s erect shoulders and flat stomach. Blake might be right; maybe he was growing old.

  Jenkins straightened a wrinkle on his white jacket fussily and looked up. “I’ve been getting the surgery ready for instant use, Dr. Ferrel. Do you think it’s safe to keep only Miss Dodd and one male attendant here? Shouldn’t we have more than the legally required minimum staff?”

  “Dodd’s a one-woman staff,” Ferrel said. “Expecting more accidents tonight?”

  “No, sir, not exactly. But do you know what they’re running off?”

  “No.” Farrel hadn’t asked Palmer; he’d learned long ago that he couldn’t keep up with the atomic engineering developments, and had stopped trying. “Something new for the army?”

  “Worse than that, sir. They’re making their first commercial run of Natomic Isotope 713 in both Number Three and Four converters at once.”

  “So? Seems to me I did hear something about that. Had to do with killing off the boll weevils, didn’t it?” Ferrel was vaguely familiar with the process of sowing radioactive dust in a circle outside the weevil area to isolate the pest, then gradually moving inward from the border. Used with proper precautions it had slowly killed off the weevil and driven it back into half the territory once occupied.

  Jenkins managed to look disappointed, surprised and slightly superior. “There was an article on it in the Natomic Weekly Ray of last issue, Dr. Ferrel. You probably know that the trouble with Natomic Isotope 544, which they’ve been using, was its half-life of over four months. It made the land sowed useless for planting the next year, so they had to move slowly. Isotope-713 has a half-life of less than a week and reaches safe limits in about four months, so they’ll be able to isolate whole strips of hundreds of miles during the winter and still have the land usable by spring. Field tests with pilot runs have been highly successful and we’ve just got a huge order from a state that wants immediate delivery.”

  “After the legislature waited six months debating whether to use it or not,” Ferrel hazarded out of long experience. “Ummm, sounds good if they can sow enough earthworms after them to keep the ground in good condition. But what’s the worry?”

  Jenkins shook his head indignantly. “I’m not worried. I simply think we should take every possible precaution and be ready for any accident; after all, they’re working on something new, and a half-life of a week is rather strong, don’t you think? Besides, I looked over some of the reaction charts in the article and — What was that?”

  From somewhere to the left of the Infirmary, a muffled growl was being accompanied by ground tremors; then it gave way to a steady hissing, barely audible through the insulated walls of the building. Ferrel listened a moment and shrugged.

  “Nothing to worry about, Jenkins; you’ll hear it a dozen times a year. Ever since I joined the staff here, Hokusai’s been bugs about getting an atomic fuel that can be used in rockets. He isn’t satisfied with the progress they’ve made on the space station — wants to see real payloads carried up. Some day you’ll probably see the little guy brought in here mi
nus his head but so far he hasn’t found anything with the right kick that he can control. What about the reaction charts on I-713?”

  “Nothing definite, I guess.” Jenkins turned reluctantly away from the sound, still frowning. “I know it worked in small lots but there’s something about one of the intermediate steps I distrust, sir. I thought I recognized…I tried to speak to Jorgenson and you can guess what happened. He wouldn’t discuss it.”

  Seeing the boy’s face whiten over tensed jaw muscles. Ferrel held back his smile and nodded slowly. If that was what had led to Jorgenson’s outburst it was understandable enough. But the whole picture didn’t make sense. Jenkins’ pride would have been wounded, but hardly as much as seemed to be the case. There was something funny behind it and some day Ferrel would have to find what it was; little things like that could ruin a man’s steadiness with the instruments if he kept them to himself. Meantime the subject was best dropped.

  The telephone girl’s heavily syllabalized voice cut into his thoughts from the paging speaker. “Dr. Ferrel! Dr. Ferrel wanted on the telephone. Dr. Ferrel, please!”

  Jenkins’ face went completely white. His eyes darted to his superior. Doc grunted. “Probably Palmer’s bored and wants to tell me how he made out with the union. Or about his grandson. He thinks the child’s a genius because he knows a couple of words now.”

  But inside the office he stopped to wipe his hands free of perspiration before answering. There was something contagious about Jenkins’ suppressed fears. And Palmer’s face on the phone’s little viewer was all wrong. He was wearing a set smile like a mask. Ferrel suspected that there was someone else in the office out of sight of the pickup.