Cue for Quiet

into that airlesscabin I could smell the fans and the generals and the Federal Buildingall over again.

  "Hello, Mr. Miller," he smiled. "Nice trip?"

  "Swell trip," I told him. "Join the Navy and see the world through apiece of plywood nailed over a porthole."

  When he sat down on the edge of the chair he was fussy about thecrease in his pants. "Mr. Miller, whenever you are above decks, day ornight, you will please keep your face concealed with that helmet, orits equivalent, no matter how uncomfortable the weather. Please."

  "Since when have I been above decks? Since when have I been out ofthis two-by-four shack?"

  "The shack," he said, "could be smaller, and the weather could behotter. We'll see that while you're aboard you'll have the freedom ofthe deck after sunset. And you won't if things go right, be aboardmuch longer."

  My ears went up at that. "No?"

  "On the deck, upstairs"--he Was no Navy man, or maybe that was theimpression he wanted to give--"are racks of rockets of various sizes.You might have noticed them when you came aboard. No? Well, they havebeen armed; some with electrical proximity fuses, some withmechanical timing devices, and some have both. They will be sentsingly, or in pairs, or in salvos, at a target some little distanceaway. Your job will be the obvious one. Do you think you can do it?"

  "Suppose I don't?"

  He stood up. "Then that's what we want to know. Ready?"

  I stretched. "As ready as I'll ever be. Let's go and take the air."

  "Forget something?" He pointed at the helmet, hanging back of thedoor.

  I didn't like it, but I put it on, and he took me up, up to the rocketracks on the prow. Even through the dark lenses the sun was oddlybright. Smith pointed off to port, where a battered old hull withouteven a deckhouse or a mast hobbled painfully in the trough of the sea.

  "Target."

  He jerked a thumb at the racks.

  "Rockets."

  I knew what they were. I'd seen enough of them sail over my head.

  "Ready?"

  * * * * *

  Yes, I was ready. He made a careless flick of his hand and an orderwas barked behind me. A clatter and a swoosh, and a cylinder arcedgracefully, catching me almost by surprise. I felt that familiartightening behind my eyes, that familiar tensing and hunching of myshoulders. The propellant was taking the rocket almost out of sightwhen the fuse fired it. "Wham!"

  Caught that one in midair. Try another. Another "whoosh," and another"wham."

  * * * * *

  Then they tried it in pairs. Both of the flying darning-needles blewtogether, in an eccentric sweep of flame. Four, maybe five or sixpairs I knocked down short of the target, some so close to us that Iimagined I could feel the concussion. They switched to salvos of adozen at a time and they blew almost in unison. They emptied the racksthat way, and I was grimly amused at the queer expression of theofficer in charge as the enlisted men refilled the maws of the gapingracks. Smith, the old man, nudged me a little harder than necessary.

  "All racks, salvo."

  All at once. I tried for a cool breath in that sweaty helmet. "Ready!"

  I couldn't pick out any individual sounds. The racks vomited lightningand thunder far too fast for that. The rumble and roar bored itselfinto a remote corner of my brain while I watched that barnacled hulkand concentrated. I couldn't attempt to think of each rocket, or eachshot, individually, so I was forced to try to erect a mental wall andsay to myself, "Nothing gets past that line _there_."

  And nothing did. Just like slamming into a stone wall, every rocketblew up its thrumming roar far short of the target. The racks finallypumped themselves dry, and through the smoke Smith grasped my armtighter than I liked. I couldn't hear what he was saying, deafened aswe all were by the blasts. He steered me back to the cabin and Iflipped off drops of sweat with the helmet. I turned unexpectedly andcaught the old man staring at me.

  "Now what's the matter with you?"

  * * * * *

  He shook his head and sat down heavily. "You know, Miller, or Pete, ifyou don't mind, I still don't actually believe what I've just seen."

  I borrowed a light from the ubiquitous Stein. His expression told mehe'd seen the matinee.

  "I don't believe it either, and I'm the one that put on the show." Iblew smoke in the air and gave back the lighter. "But that's neitherhere nor there. When do I get out of this Black Hole of Calcutta?"

  "Well...." Smith was undecided. "Where would you like to spend sometime when we're through with all this?"

  That I hadn't expected. "You mean I have a choice?"

  Noncommittally, "Up to a point. How about some island somewhere? Or inthe States? Cold or warm? How, for instance, would you feel about Guamor--"

  "Watched by the whole Mounted Police?" He nodded.

  I didn't care. "Just someplace where no one will bother me; some placewhere I can play some records of the Boston Pops or Victor Herbert;"(and I guess the nervous strain of all that mental effort in all thenoise and smoke was fighting a delaying action) "someplace where I canget all the beer I want, because it looks like I'm going to needplenty. Someplace where I can sit around and take things easy and havesomeone to--" I cut it short.

  He was one of the understanding Smiths, at that. "Yes," he nodded, "wecan probably arrange that, too. It may not be...." What else could hesay, or what other way was there to say it?

  "One more thing," he went on; "one more ... demonstration. This willtake some little time to prepare." That, to me, meant one thing, and Iliked it not at all. He beat me to the punch.

  * * * * *

  "This should be what is called the pay-off, the final edition. Comethrough on this one, and you'll be better off than the gold in FortKnox. Anything you want, anything that money or goodwill can buy,anything within the resources of a great--and, I assure you, agrateful--nation. Everything--"

  "--everything," I finished for him, "except the right to go down tothe corner store for a magazine. Everything except what better thanme have called the pursuit of happiness."

  * * * * *

  He knew that was true. "But which is more important; your happiness,or the freedom and happiness of a hundred and seventy millions? Peter,if things political don't change, perhaps the freedom and happiness ofover two billion, which, I believe, is the population of this backwardplanet."

  "Yeah." The cigarette was dry, and I stubbed it in an ashtray. "Andall this hangs on one person--me. That's your story." My mouth wasdry, too.

  His smile, I'm afraid, was more than just a little forced. "That's mystory, and we're all stuck with it; you, me, all of us. No, you stayhere, Stein. Let's see if we can get this over once and for all."Lines came and went on his forehead, as he felt for words.

  "Let's try it this way: for the first time in written history as weknow it one single deadly new weapon can change the course of theworld, perhaps even change the physical course of that world, and thepeople who in the future will live in it. Speaking personally, as aman and as a reasonable facsimile of a technician, I find it extremelyhard, almost impossible, to believe that at the exact psychic momentan apparent complete nullification of that weapon has appeared."

  I grunted. "Maybe."

  "Maybe. That's what we want to find out. Could you, Peter, if you werein my place, or you in your own place, get a good night's sleeptonight or any other night knowing that problem might have an answerwithout doing anything about it? Or are you one of these people whobelieve that there is no problem, that all things will solvethemselves? Do you believe that, Stein? Do you think that PeterAmbrose Miller thinks that way?"

  No, Stein didn't think that way, and Miller didn't think that way. Weall knew that.

  "All right," and he rubbed the back of his neck with a tired hand. "Wehave that weapon now. We, meaning the United States, and the wholewide world, from Andorra to Zanzibar. Now means today, in my lexicon.Tomorro
w, and I mean tomorrow, or tomorrow of next year or the yearafter that, who will be the one to use that weapon? Do you know,Peter? Do you know?"

  There was no need for an answer to that.

  "And neither does anyone else. Peter, you're insurance. You're thecheapest and best insurance I know of. If! There's that big if. Ihate that word. I always have, and I'm going to eliminate 'if,' as faras Peter Ambrose Miller is concerned. Right?"

  Of course he was right. Hiroshima could just as well have been Memphisor Moscow