Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

mean?” she whispered. “We never saw you before.”

“No. But you took away my job. I was in the breadlines back in the thirties. I’m there again, and it’s your fault, you⁠—Got any prayers to say?”

A gibbering ran through Arch’s brain. He stood motionless, thinking through a lunatic mind-tilt that there must be some way to jump that gun, the heroes of stories always did it, that might⁠—

Someone moved out of the night into the wan radiance. An arm went about the man’s throat, another seized his gun wrist and snapped it down. The weapon went off, sounding like the crack of doom in the stillness.

They struggled on the slippery sidewalk, panting, the rain running over dimly glimpsed faces. Arch’s paralysis broke, he moved in and circled around, looking for a chance to help. There! Crouching, he got hold of the assassin’s ankle and clung.

There was a meaty smack above him, and the body sagged.

Elizabeth held her hand over her mouth, as if to force back a scream. “Mr. Horrisford,” she whispered.

“The same,” said the F.B.I. man. “That was a close one. You can be thankful you’re an object of suspicion, Arch. What was he after?”

Arch stared blankly at his rescuer. Slowly, meaning penetrated. “Unemployed⁠—” he mumbled. “Bitter about it⁠—”

“Yeah. I thought so. You may be having more trouble of that sort. This depression, people have someone concrete to blame.” Horrisford stuck the gun in his pocket and helped up his half-conscious victim. “Let’s get this one down to the lockup. Here, you support him while I put on some handcuffs.”

“But I wanted to help his kind,” said Arch feebly.

“You didn’t,” said Horrisford. “I’d better arrange for a police guard.”

Arch spent the following day in a nearly suicidal depression. Elizabeth tried to pull him out of it, failed, and went downtown after a fifth of whiskey. That helped. The hangover helped too. It’s hard to concentrate on remorse when ten thousand red-hot devils are building an annex to Hell in your skull. Toward evening, he was almost cheerful again. A certain case-hardening was setting in.

After dark, there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, Horrisford and a stranger stood there.

“Oh⁠—come in,” he said. “Excuse the mess. I⁠—haven’t been feeling so well.”

“Anyone here?” asked the agent.

“Just my wife.”

“She’ll be all right,” said the stranger impatiently. He was a big, stiff, gray-haired man. “Bring her in, please. This is important.”

They were settled in the living room before Horrisford performed the introductions. “Major General Brackney of Strategic Services.” Arch’s hand was wet as he acknowledged the handclasp.

“This is most irregular,” said the general. “However, we’ve put through a special check on you. A fast but very thorough check. In spite of your errors of judgment, the F.B.I. is convinced of your essential loyalty. Your discretion is another matter.”

“I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what you mean,” said Arch.

“Yes. You kept one secret for ten years,” said Horrisford. “The business of Mrs. Ramirez.”

Arch started. “How the deuce⁠—? That was a personal affair. I’ve never told a soul, not even my wife!”

“We have our little ways.” Horrisford grinned, humanly enough. “The point is that you could have gained somewhat by blabbing, but didn’t. It speaks well for you.”

General Brackney cleared his throat. “We want your help on a certain top-secret project,” he said. “You still know more about capacitite than anybody else. But if one word of this leaks out prematurely, it means war. Atomic war. It also means that all of us, and you particularly, will be crucified.”

“I⁠—”

“You’re an independent so-and-so, I realize. What we have in mind is a scheme to prevent such a war. We want you in on it both for your own value and because we can’t protect you forever from Soviet agents.” Brackney’s smile had no humor. “Didn’t know that, did you? It’s one reason you’re being co-opted, in spite of all you’ve done.

“I can’t say more till you take the oath, and once you’ve done that you’re under all the usual restrictions. Care to help out?”

Arch hesitated. He had little faith in government⁠ ⁠… any government. Still⁠—

Horrisford of the F.B.I. had saved his life.

“I’m game,” he said.

Elizabeth nodded. The oath was administered.

Brackney leaned back and lit a cigar. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come to the point.

“Offhand, it looks as if you’ve done a grave disservice to your country. It’s been pointed out in the press that transporting fuel is the major problem of logistics. In fact, for the Russians it’s the problem, since they can live off the countries they invade to a degree we can’t match. You’ve solved that for them, and once they convert their vehicles we can expect them to start rolling. They and their allies⁠—especially the Chinese. This discovery is going to make them a first-class power.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Arch thinly.

“However, we also know that the communist regimes are not popular. Look at the millions of refugees, look at all the prisoners who refused repatriation, look at the Ukrainian insurrection⁠—I needn’t elaborate. The trouble has been that the people aren’t armed. To say anything at home means the concentration camp.

“Now, then. Basically, the idea is this. We’ve got plants set up to turn out capacitite in trainload lots. We can, I think, make weapons capable of stopping a tank for a couple of dollars apiece. Do you agree?”

“Why⁠—yes,” said Arch. “I’ve been considering it lately. A rifle discharging its current through magnetic coils to drive a steel-jacketed bullet⁠—the bullet could be loaded with electricity too. Or a Buck Rogers energy gun: a hand weapon with a blower run off the capacitor, sucking in air at the rear and spewing it out between two electrodes like a gigantic arc-welding flame. Or⁠—yes, there are all kinds of possibilities.”

Brackney nodded with an air of satisfaction. “Good. I see you do have the kind of imagination we need.

“Now, we’ll be giving nothing away, because they already know how to make the stuff and can think up anything we can. But, we have