Burnford gaped at them. Jacobs nodded. Your calculator's trying to tell us something, Mr. Burnford. Before the others get out here and spoil the atmosphere, let's see what it has to say. Perhaps Miss Unamuno should act as sponsor ... antenna. Whatever." The woman nodded and put both hands on the table. We understand, she said. Lawrence? Larry. Larry Fowler. Go ahead." Better write these down, Jacobs said. May I borrow a piece of paper? Compared to what had happened the past few days, this seemed almost normal to him. It was more ingenious than the usual seances, but then Fowlerif it was Fowlerwas choosing a medium familiar to him.
Five, nineteen, three, one, sixteen, five, Miss Unamuno read off. The beeping and flash of numbers sent chills from Burnford's scalp to the tip of his spine. He felt like all his hair was standing on end. Not even the encounters with the elemental and the wash of the psychlone had affected him so deeply. 'Escape,' Jacobs decoded. Who, us? he asked the empty air. Jesus, Burnford breathed. Fourteen, fifteen." 'No,' Jacobs said, recording the answer with Burnford's mechanical pencil. Twelve, six, five nineteen, three, one, sixteen, five, four." 'L F escape ... D. L F escaped. From what?" The beeping halted for several seconds. From the psychlone? Jacobs prompted. Twenty-five, five, nineteen." 'Yes,' Jacobs said. Four, five, one, four." You are, Jacobs said without decoding. What? Are what? Burnford asked, his voice shrill. He's asked if he's dead. It appears he is, and that he's escaped from the psychlone. How did you escape?"
Psychlone Six, twenty-one, twelve, twelve." 'Full. What's that mean?" That it's full? Burnford ventured. He cocked his head and looked at the calculator. Twenty-five, five, nineteen." 'Yes,' the physicist translated. He wiped a tear from one eye. Pardon me. This has ... this has never happened before. I'm not up to it right now. I didn't even know he ... you ... I didn't know he was dead."
What do you mean, full? Trumbauer asked. Miss Unamuno spoke the numbers and Jacobs decoded quickly, catching the knack.
'No more.
Another sequence.
'Cant hold all.
Is it giving up? Trumbauer asked.
'No.
It's still coming for this town, then? Jacobs asked.
'Yes.
On schedule?"
'Yes.
Where are you? Burnford asked. The next sequence was longer than usual and Jacobs had to spend more time decoding. He read the reply with a smile.
'Good old scient. Scientist, I think that is. dont know. And a pause, I assume a break in the sentence. Here I am. What do you see? Burnford continued, his face flushing with excitement. He was walking back and forth on the dirt, almost dancing.
Psychlone 'Every. Pause. Clarified, empty, shell. Now I'd like to askhow do you feel?" 'Like salt in water,' came the reply. 'Not much time. Storms and sickness. Larry, my God, Larry, Burnford said. What'll I tell that woman, Dorothy?" 'Here. Salt in water. Downstream. Heaven and hell? Burnford asked impulsively. 'Wine,' Jacobs translated. 'Spirit wine. L F leaves. Storms. So many questions, Miss Unamuno said, touching Burnford's arm. We all have them. Let it go now." It?" Jacobs addressed the empty air as the sun touched the horizon. Go very far, very fast, he said. I think tonight we will learn new guilt. It will be very dangerous. Godspeed." The calculator shut itself off. They stood in silence for a moment, then Jacobs said, Let's prompt them about that tent. We'll all freeze in an hour if we don't have something, and it stands to reason they won't let us in their exclusive club. He pointed at the communications truck.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I almost forgot, Burnford said, sipping a plastic cup full of bitter coffee. It's Christmas." The eve of Christmas day, Miss Unamuno said. Outside, workmen were racketing back and forth across the plateau with generators, electric tools, hammers and curses. The small tent offered scant protection against the cold, but now everything was off-limits for them. Machen opened the flap and stepped inside. It's coming, he said. The reports are coming in on schedule. Everything's doing fine outside. I have a message for you, Mr. Jacobs. He handed Jacobs a note. Received ten minutes ago."
He unfolded the note and looked it over. It's from Colonel Silvera, he said. The ground base has received a call from the President." Until now, we weren't sure he knew, Machen said. The President wants us to observe and record all we can, as civilians, for posterity. Even though it may
Psychlone be a century before it's released." Machen grinned. Isn't that something? You have a free ticket this evening. Look, see, but don't talk right away." Jacobs nodded. He wasn't enthusiastic. He looked up at Machen, who seemed to be going through pre battle exhilaration, and said, Tell him thank you. After tonight, we may have a lot to talk about." Of course, Machen said. The generators started outside. Three truck-trailer rigs carried six massive generators, all tied to transformers on another bed, all raising a hell of a racket. That's it, the General said. We'll have to risk the electrical attraction tonight." What are they using, now that we're privileged? Jacobs asked.
Mr. Burnford might be able to guess. We're using it because of his work." I think it's a PBW, he said. A particle-beam weapon. But I'm not sure what kind. I made several recommendations."
I see, Jacobs said. And it will re-create the conditions in the atom bomb blasts?" Some conditions, Burnford said. What's a particle-beam weapon? Miss Unamuno asked. Depends on what you want it to do, Burnford said. If General Machen wants to explain..." I can't, and wouldn't if I could, Machen said. It's a particle accelerator, Burnford said. If you want to penetrate a target, you use leptonsan electron is a good example. A TV set creates an electron beam, but it never leaves the tube. Adapted properly, an electron beam can slice things up pretty well. If you want a non-penetrating beam, hadrons can be used. Protons are hadrons. Non-penetrating beams heat up the surface of an object. There was talk a few years ago that the Russians had PBWs. I was skeptical then, and I am now. I don't think they're practical weapons." Not yet, Machen said. This is an experimental model. It's not much good for shooting down aircraft or missiles." The best place for a PBW would be a satellite in space. You don't have to worry about atmospheric interference then. I imagine we could orbit that thing, he indicated the tarps on the truck-trailer rigs, but it would be bulky as hell and probably not reliable enough for a major program. So I suspect we're the only ones who have found a use for it." It's still top-secret, Machen said. That means you have high hopes for its future, Burnford said, smiling grimly. Coming up on time, Machen said, consulting his watch. From here in, it's out of our hands. Orders have been given and will be followed. I'm as much an observer as you. Shall we go observe?" The last tarp had been pulled away, revealing an ugly, black object shaped something like a soda-bottle cannon from the Civil War. It was mounted on a three-axis drum. Around its butt was a maze of wiring, gray slabs of metal, bronze-colored tubing and fist-thick cables. The vibration of the generators was shaking the ground. Diesel smoke poured east across the star-filled night sky. It's right out of Jules Verne, Miss Unamuno said. It did remind Jacobs of something Captain Nemo might have had socked away on his island. But there was no trace of Victorian whimsy about it. Along the barrel, spikes of metal rose from a bulbous midriff. Just in front of it, a white-enamel U, like a giant tuning fork, was cocked at a forty-five-degree angle away from the barrel. Behind it, four doughnuts at least six feet across were stacked atop one another, separated by ceramic blocks and connected to the barrel by chrome-shiny tubes. To the west, Siloam Springs was illuminated only by streetlamps. The grid of streets and houses was clean and simple. It was only eight o'clock, and nothing moved in the town. Jacobs wondered if the psychlone could perceive a trap. Would its captives feel obliged to warn it? He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck with one thick-fingered hand. It was just a nightmare, perhaps. The garden would be awaiting him when he woke up. Millicent would chide him about eating cheese with wine late at night. Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno stared across the panorama, faces blank. Without their guides they were almost defenseless. Their range was shortened, their acuity lessened. Yet they had volunteere
d to come up on the mountain, facing perhaps a greater danger than any of them. They were like lightning rods, highly visible in the psychic landscape. The white-coated technicians around the PBW called out equipment checks. The lights strung on poles around the perimeter dimmed, brightened, and then were shut off on order of a distant, authoritative voice. Four men on the edge of the plateau examined the sky with binoculars and equipment Jacobs didn't recognize. Psychlone Levels are up, one called back. Let's set it for a sixty-by-twenty sweep for ten seconds, said a technician standing by the PBW's control panel, a box mounted on the side of the trailer. Broad-range penetration and light scattering effects. We want to punch three clear holes and let them snake around to stir it up, then go for the final solution." The wind was rising. Burnford held his hand out to Miss Unamuno. I don't need comforting, she said stiffly. I think I do, the physicist said. Some of my friends are out there. I knew three of the researchers in Haverstock." Jacobs wondered if Thesiger and the boy were out there, too. He hoped not. Thesiger should have had the expertise to guide them clear. The lights in the town went out. It's in range, someone called. We have full storage." Levels higher." Jacobs could see the horizon stars wobbling, twinkling. New stars seemed to be added, then vanished. All sensors in the town are down." The front is approaching. Slope and plateau sensors show high activity." In the center of town, a tiny green glow moved from building to building. More appeared, dancing like will-o'-the-wisps, or like lanterns carried by a crowd. In their wake, red glows flared into fires. Circles of black smoke whirled above the fires. It was a calm, subdued display, almost dignified. The fires grew, leaping in fingers from building to building. The sky above glistened with an oily purple sheen, as if a jellyfish had settled over them. Trumbauer groaned. It's bigger, he said. The edges are dissolving, but the center is more powerful than ever." Purple smoke began to pour from the center of town, snaking down the streets, rolling over the rooftops in viscous waves. The smell of burning flesh reached the plateau.