Project Nightmare


	“Four’s your point. Roll ‘em!”
	“Anybody want a side bet on double deuces?”
	No one answered; the old soldier rattled dice in a glass, pitched them against the washroom wall. One turned up a deuce; the other spun. Somebody yelled, “It’s going to five! Come, Phoebe!”
	It stopped—a two. The old soldier said, “I told you not to play with me. Anybody want cigarette money?”
	“Pick it up, Pop. We don’t—oh, oh! ‘Tenshun/”
	In the door stood a civilian, a colonel, and a captain. The civilian said, “Give the money back, Two-Gun.”
	“Okay, Prof.” The old soldier extracted two singles. “That much is mine.”
	“Stop!” objected the captain. “I’ll impound that for evidence. Now, you men—”
	The colonel stopped him. “Mick. Forget that you’re adjutant. Private Andrews, come along.” He went out; the others followed. They hurried through the enlisted men’s club, out into desert sunshine and across the quadrangle.
	The civilian said, “Two-Gun, what the deuce!”
	“Shucks, Prof, I was just practicing.”
	“Why don’t you practice against Grandma Wilkins?”
	The soldier snorted. “Do I look silly?”
	The colonel put in, “You’re keeping a crowd of generals and V.I.P.s waiting. That isn’t bright.”
	“Colonel Hammond, I was told to wait in the club.”
	“But not in its washroom. Step it up!”
	They went inside headquarters to a hail where guards checked their passes before letting them in. A civilian was speaking: “—and that’s the story of the history-making experiments at Duke University. Doctor Reynolds is back; he will conduct the demonstrations.”
	The officers sat down In the rear, Dr. Reynolds went to the speaker’s table. Private Andrews sat down with a group set apart from the high brass and distinguished civilians of the audience. A character who looked like a professional gambler—and was—sat next to two beautiful redheads, identical twins. A fourteen-year-old Negro boy slumped in the next chair; he seemed asleep. Beyond him a most wide-awake person, Mrs. Anna Wilkins, tatted and looked around. In the second row were college students and a drab middle-aged man.
	The table held a chuck-a-luck cage, packs of cards, scratch pads, a Geiger counter, a lead carrying case. Reynolds leaned on it and said, “Extra-Sensory Perception, or E.S.P., is a tag for little-known phenomena—telepathy, clairvoyance, clairaudience, precognition, telekinesis. They exist; we can measure them; we know that some people are thus gifted. But we don’t know how they work. The British, in India during World War One, found that secrets were being stolen by telepathy.” Seeing doubt in their faces Reynolds added, “It is conceivable that a spy five hundred miles away is now ‘listening in’—and picking your brains of top-secret data.”
	Doubt was more evident. A four-star Air Force general said, “One moment, Doctor—if true, what can we do to stop it?”
	“Nothing.”
	“That’s no answer. A lead-lined room?”
	“We’ve tried that, General. No effect.”
	“Jamming with high frequencies? Or whatever ‘brain waves’ are?”
	“Possibly, though I doubt it. If E.S.P. becomes militarily important you may have to operate with all facts known. Back to our program: These ladies and gentlemen are powerfully gifted in telekinesis, the ability to control matter at a distance. Tomorrow’s experiment may not succeed, but we hope to convince the doubting Thomases”—he smiled at a man in the rear—”that it is worth trying.”
	The man he looked at stood up. “General Hanby!”
	An Army major general looked around. “Yes, Doctor Withers?”
	“I asked to be excused. My desk is loaded with urgent work—and these games have nothing to do with me.”
	The commanding general started to assert himself; the four-star visitor put a hand on his sleeve. “Doctor Withers, my desk in Washington is piled high, ‘but I sin here because the President sent me. Will you please stay? I want a skeptical check on my judgment.”
	Withers sat down, still angry. Reynolds continued: ‘We will start with E.S.P. rather than telekinesis—which is a bit different, anyhow.” He turned to one of the redheads. “Jane, will you come here?”
	The girl answered, “I’m Joan. Sure.”
	“All right—Joan. General LaMott, will you draw something on this scratch pad?”
	The four-star flyer cocked an eyebrow. “Anything?”
	“Not too complicated.”
	“Right, Doctor.” He thought, then began a cartoon of a girl, grinned and added a pop-eyed wolf. Shortly he looked up. “Okay?”
	Joan had kept busy with another pad; Reynolds took hers to the general. The sketches were alike—except that Joan bad added four stars to the wolf’s shoulders. The general looked at her; she looked demure. “I’m convinced,” he said drily. “What next?”
	“That could be clairvoyance or telepathy,” Reynolds lectured. “We will now show direct telepathy.” He called the second twin to him, then said, “Doctor Withers, will you help us?”
	Withers still looked surly. “With what?”
	“The same thing—but Jane will watch over your shoulder while Joan tries to reproduce what you draw. Make it something harder.”
	“Well…okay.” He took the pad, began sketching a radio circuit, while Jane watched. He signed it with a “Clem,” the radioman’s cartoon of the little fellow peering over a fence.
	“That’s fine!” said Reynolds. “Finished, Joan?”
	“Yes, Doctor.” He fetched her pad; the diagram was correct—but Joan had added to “Clem” a wink.

	Reynolds interrupted awed comment with, “I will skip card, demonstrations and turn to telekinesis. Has anyone a pair of dice?” No one volunteered; he went on, “We have some supplied by your physics department. This chuck-a-luck cage is signed and sealed by them and so is this package.” He broke it open, spilled out a dozen dice. “Two-Gun, how about some naturals?”
	“I’ll try, Prof.”
	“General LaMott, please select a pair and put them In this cup.”
	The general complied and handed the cup to Andrews. “What are you going to roll, soldier?”
	“Would a sixty-five suit the General?”
	“If you can.”
	“Would the General care to put up a five spot, to make it interesting?” He waited, wide-eyed and innocent.
	LaMott grinned. “You’re faded, soldier.” He peeled out a five; Andrews covered it, rattled the cup and rolled. One die stopped on the bills—a five. The other bounced against a chair—a six.
	“Let it ride, sir?”’
	“I’m not a sucker twice. Show us some naturals.”
	“As you say, sir.” Two-Gun picked up the money, then rolled 6-1, 5-2, 4-3, and back again. He rolled several 6’s, then got snake eyes. He tried again, got acey-deucey. He faced the little old lady. “Ma’am,” he said, “if you want to roll, why don’t you get down here and do the work?”
	“Why, Mr. Andrews!”
	Reynolds said hastily, “You’ll get your turn, Mrs. Wilkins.”
	“I don’t know what you gentlemen are talking about.” She resumed tatting.
	Colonel Hammond sat down by the redheads. “You’re the January Twins—aren’t you?”
	“Our public!” one answered delightedly.
	“The name is ‘Brown,’” said the other.
	“‘Brown,’” he agreed, “but how about a show for the boys?”
	“Dr. Reynolds wouldn’t like it,” the first said dutifully. “I’ll handle him. We don’t get USO; security regulations are too strict. How about it, Joan?”
	“I’m Jane. Okay, if you fix it with Prof.”
	“Good girls!” He went back to where Grandma Wilkins was demonstrating selection—showers of sixes in the chuck-a-luck cage. She was still tatting. Dr. Withers watched glumly. Hammond said, ‘Well, Doc?”
	“These things are disturbing,” Withers admitted, “but it’s on the molar level—nothing affecting the elementary particles.”
	“How about those sketches?”
	“I’m a physicist, not a psychologist. But the basic particles—electrons, neutrons, protons—can’t be affected except with apparatus designed in accordance with the laws of radioactivity. Dr. Reynolds was in earshot; at Withers’ remark he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Wilkins. Now, ladies and gentlemen, another experiment. Norman!”
	The colored boy opened his eyes. “Yeah, Prof?”
	“Up here. And the team from your physics laboratory, please. Has anyone a radium-dial watch?”
	Staff technicians hooked the Geiger counter through an amplifier so that normal background radioactivity was heard as occasional clicks, then placed a radium-dial watch close to the counter tube; the clicks changed to hail-storm volume. “Lights out, please,” directed Reynolds.
	The boy said, “Now, Prof?”
	“Wait, Norman. Can everyone see the watch?” The silence was broken only by the rattle of the amplifier, counting radioactivity of the glowing figures. “Now, Norman!”
	The shining figures quenched out; the noise, died to sparse clicks.

	The same group was in a blockhouse miles out in the desert; more miles beyond was the bomb proving site; facing it was a periscope window set in concrete and glazed with solid feet of laminated filter glass. Dr. Reynolds was talking with Major General Hanby. A naval captain took reports via earphones and speaker horn; he turned to the C.O. “Planes on station, sir.”
	“Thanks, Dick.”
	The horn growled, “Station Charlie to Control; we fixed it.”
	The navy man said to Hanby, “All stations ready, range clear.”
	“Pick up the count.”
	“All stations, stand by to resume count at minus seventeen minutes. Time station, pick up the count. This is a live nun. Repeat, this is a live run.”
	Hanby said to Reynolds, “Distance makes no difference?”
	“We could work from Salt Lake City once my colleagues knew the setup.” He glanced down. “My watch must have stopped.”
	“Always feels that way. Remember the metronome on the first Bikini test? It nearly drove me nuts.”
	“I can imagine. Um, General, some of my people are high-strung. Suppose I ad lib?”
	Hanby smiled grimly. “We always have a pacifier for visitors. Doctor Withers, ready with your curtain raiser?”
	The chief physicist was bending over a group of instruments; he looked tired. “Not today,” he answered in a flat voice. “Satterlee will make it.”
	Satterlee came forward and grinned at the brass and V.I.P.’s and at Reynolds’ operators. “I’ve been saving a joke for an audience that can’t walk out. But first—” He picked up a polished metal sphere and looked at the ES.P. adepts. “You saw a ball like this on your tour this morning. That one was plutonium; it’s still out there waiting to go bang! in about . . . eleven minutes. This is merely steel—unless someone has made a mistake. That would be a joke—we’d laugh ourselves to bits!”
	He got no laughs, went on: “But it doesn’t weigh enough; we’re safe. This dummy has been prepared so that Dr. Reynolds’ people will have an image to help them concentrate. It looks no more like an atom bomb than I look like Stalin, but it represents—if it were plutonium—what we atom tinkerers call a ‘subcritical mass.’ Since the spy trials everybody knows how an atom bomb works. Plutonium gives off neutrons at a constant rate. If the mass is small, most of them escape to the outside. But if it is large enough, or a critical mass, enough are absorbed by other nuclei to start a chain reaction. The trick is to assemble a critical mass quickly— then run for your life! This happens in microseconds; I can’t be specific without upsetting the security officer.
	“Today we will find out if the mind can change the rate of neutron emission in plutonium. By theories sound enough to have destroyed two Japanese cities, the emission of any particular neutron is pure chance, but the total emission is as invariable as the stars in their courses. Otherwise it would be impossible to make atom bombs.
	“By standard theory, theory that works, that subcritical mass out there is no more likely to explode than a pumpkin. Our test group will try to change that. They will concentrate, try to increase the probability of neutrons’ escaping, and thus set off that sphere as an atom bomb.”
	“Doctor Satterlee?” asked a vice admiral with wings. “Do you think it can be done?”
	“Absolutely not!” Satterlee turned to the adepts. “No offense intended, folks.”
	“Five minutes!” announced the navy captain.
	Satterlee nodded to Reynolds. “Take over. And good luck.” Mrs. Wilkins spoke up. “Just a moment, young man. These ‘neuter’ things. I—”
	“Neutrons, madam.”
	“That’s what I said. I don’t quite understand. I suppose that sort of thing comes in high school, but I only finished eighth grade. I’m sorry.”
	Satterlee looked sorry, too, but, he tried. “—and each of these nuclei is potentially able to spit out one of these little neutrons. In that sphere out there”—he held up the dummy—“There are, say, five thousand billion trillion nuclei, each one—”
	“My, that’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”
	“Madam, it certainly is. Now—”’
	“Two minutes!”
	Reynolds interrupted. “Mrs.. Wilkins, don’t worry. Concentrate on that metal ball out there and think about those neutrons, each one ready to come out. When I give the word, I want you all—you especially, Norman—to think about that ball, spitting sparks like a watch dial. Try for more sparks. Simply try. It you fail, no one will blame you. Don’t get tense.”
	Mrs. Wilkins nodded. “I’ll try.” She put her tatting down and got a faraway look.
	At once they were blinded by unbelievable radiance bursting through the massive filter. It beat on them, then died away.
	The naval captain said, “What the hell!” Someone screamed, “It’s gone, it’s gone!”
The speaker brayed: “Fission at minus one minute thirty-seven seconds. Control, what went wrong. It looks like a hydrogen—”
	The concussion wave hit and all sounds were smothered.
	Lights went out, emergency lighting clicked on. The blockhouse heaved like a boat in a heavy sea. Their eyes were still dazzled, their ears assaulted by cannonading afternoise, and physicists were elbowing flag officers at the port, when an anguished soprano cut through the din. “Oh, dear!”
	Reynolds snapped, “What’s the matter, Grandma? You all right?”
	“Me? Oh, yes, yes—but I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”
	“Do what?”
	“I was just feeling it out, thinking about all those little bitty neuters, ready to spit. But I didn’t mean to make it go off—not till you told us to.”
	“Oh.” Reynolds turned to ‘the rest. “Anyone else jump the gun?”
	No one admitted it. Mrs. Wilkins said timidly, “I’m sorry, Doctor. Have they got another one? I’ll be more careful.”

	Reynolds and Withers were seated in the officers’ mess with coffee in front of them; the physicist paid no attention to his. His eyes glittered and his face twitched. “No limits! Calculations show over ninety per cent conversion of mass to energy. You know what that means? If we assume—no, never mind. Just say that we could make every bomb the size of a pea. No tamper. No control circuits. Nothing but...“ He paused. “Delivery would be fast, small jets—just a pilot, a weaponeer, and one of your ‘operators.’ No limit to the number of bombs. No nation on earth could—”
	“Take it easy,” said Reynolds. “We’ve got only a few telekinesis operators. You wouldn’t risk them in a plane.”
	“But—”
	“You don’t need to. Show them the bombs, give them photos of the targets, hook them by radio to the weaponeer. That spreads them thin. And we’ll test for more sensitive people. My figures show about one in eighteen hundred.”
	“‘Spread them thin,’” repeated Withers.’ “Mrs. Wilkins could handle dozens of bombs, one after another—couldn’t she?”
	“I suppose so. We’ll test.”
	“We will indeed!” ‘Withers noticed his coffee, gulped it. “Forgive me, Doctor; I’m punchy. I’ve had to revise too many opinions.”
	“I know. I was a behaviorist.”
	Captain Mikeler came in, looked around and came over. “The General wants you both,” he said softly. “Hurry.”
	They were ushered into a guarded office.. Major General Hanby was with General LaMott and Vice Admiral Keithley; they looked grim. Hanby handed them message flimsies. Reynolds saw the stamp TOP SECRET and handed his back. “General, I’m not cleared for this,”
	“Shut up and read it.”
	Reynolds skipped the number groups: 

“—(PARAPHRASED) RUSSIAN EMBASSY TODAY HANDED STATE ULTIMATUM: DEMANDS USA CONVERT TO ‘PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC’ UNDER POLITICAL COMMISSARS TO BE ASSIGNED BY USSR. MILITARY ASSURANCES DEMANDED. NOTE CLAIMS MAJOR US CITIES (LIST SEPARATE) ARE MINED WITH ATOMIC BOMBS WHICH THEY THREATEN TO SET OFF BY RADIO IF TERMS ARE NOT MET BY SIXTEEN HUNDRED FRIDAY EST.”

	Reynolds reread it—”SIXTEEN HUNDRED FRIDAY”—Two P.M. day after tomorrow, local time. Our cities booby-trapped with A-bombs? Could they do that? He realized that LaMott was speaking. “We must assume that the threat is real. Our free organization makes it an obvious line of attack.”
	The admiral said, “They may be bluffing.”
	The air general shook his head. “They know the President won’t surrender. We can’t assume that Ivan is stupid.”
	Reynolds wondered why he was being allowed to hear this. LaMott looked at him. “Admiral Keithley and I leave for Washington at once. I have delayed to ask you this: your people set off an atom bomb. Can they keep bombs from going off?”
	Reynolds felt his time sense stretch as if he had all year to think about Grandma Wilkins, Norman, his other paranormals. “Yes,” he answered.
	LaMott stood up. “Your job, Hanby. Coming, Admiral?”
	“Wait!” protested Reynolds. “Give me one bomb and Mrs. Wilkins—and I’ll sit on it. But how many cities? Twenty? Thirty?”
	“Thirty-eight.”
	“Thirty-eight bombs—or more. Where are they? What do they look like? How long will this go on? It’s impossible.”
	“Of course—but do it anyhow. Or try. Hanby, tell them we’re on our way, will you?”
	“Certainly, General.”
	“Good-by, Doctor. Or so long, rather.”
	Reynolds suddenly realized that these two were going back to “sit” on one of the bombs, to continue their duties until it killed them. He said quickly, “We’ll try. We’ll certainly try.”

	Thirty-eight cities, forty-three hours and seventeen adepts. Others were listed in years of research, but they were scattered through forty-one states. In a dictatorship secret police would locate them at once, deliver them at supersonic speeds. But this was America.
	“Find them! Get them here! Fast! Hanby assigned Colonel Hammond to turn Reynolds’ wishes into orders and directed his security officer to delegate his duties, get on the phone and use his acquaintance with the F.B.I., and other security officers, and through them with local police, to cut red tape and find those paranormals. Find them, convince them, bring pressure, start them winging toward the proving ground. By sundown, twenty-three had been found, eleven had been convinced or coerced, two had arrived. Hanby phoned Reynolds, caught him eating a sandwich standing up. “Hanby speaking. The Président just phoned.”
	“The President?”
	“LaMott got in to see him. He’s dubious, but he’s authorized an all-out try, short of slowing down conventional defense. One of his assistants left National Airport by jet plane half an hour ago to come here and help. Things will move faster.”
	But it did not speed things up, as the Russian broadcast was even then being beamed, making the crisis public; the President went on the air thirty minutes later. Reynolds did not hear him; he was busy. Twenty people to save twenty cities—and a world. But how? He was sure that Mrs. Wilkins could smother any A-bomb she had seen; he hoped the others could. But a hidden bomb in a far-off city—find it mentally, think about it, quench it, not for the microsecond it took to set one off, but for the billions of microseconds it might take to uncover it—was it possible?
	What would help? Certain drugs—caffeine, benzedrine. They must have quiet, too. He turned to Hammond. “I want a room and bath for each one.”
	“You’ve got that.”
	“No, we’re doubled up, with semi-private baths.”
	Hammond shrugged. “Can do. It means booting out some brass.”
	“Keep the kitchen manned. They must not sleep, but they’ll have to eat. Fresh coffee all the time and cokes and tea—anything they want. Can you put the room phones through a private switchboard?”
	“Okay. What else?”
	“I don’t know. We’ll talk to them.”
	They all knew of the Russian broadcast, but not what was being planned; they met his words with uneasy silence. Reynolds turned to Andrews. “Well, Two-Gun?”
	“Big bite to chew, Prof.”
	“Yes. Can you chew it?”
	“Have to, I reckon.”
	“Norman?”
	“Gee, Boss! How can I when I can’t see ‘em?”
	“Mrs. Wilkins couldn’t see that bomb this morning. You can’t see radioactivity on a watch dial; it’s too small. You just see the dial and think about it. Well?”
	The Negro lad scowled. “Think of a shiny ball in a city somewhere?”
	“Yes. No, wait—Colonel Hammond, they need a visual image and it won’t be that. There are atom bombs here—they must see one.”
	Hammond frowned. “An American bomb meant for dropping or firing won’t look like a Russian bomb rigged for placement and radio triggering.”
	“What will they look like?”
	“G-2 ought to know. I hope. We’ll get some sort of picture. A three-dimensional mock-up, too. I’d better find Withers and the General.” He left.
	Mrs. Wilkins said briskly, “Doctor, I’ll watch Washington, D. C.”
	“Yes, Mrs. Wilkins. You’re the only one who has been tested, even in reverse. So you guard Washington; it’s of prime importance.”
	“No, no, that’s not why. It’s the city I can see best.”
	Andrews said, “She’s got something, Prof. I pick Seattle.”

	By midnight Reynolds had his charges, twenty-six by now, tucked away in the officers’ club. Hammond and he took turns at a switchboard rigged in the upper hall. The watch would not start until shortly before deadline. Fatigue reduced paranormal powers, sometimes to zero; Reynolds hoped that they were getting one last night of sleep.
	A microphone had been installed in each room; a selector switch let them listen in. Reynolds disliked this but Hammond argued, “Sure, it’s an invasion of privacy. So is being blown up by an A-bomb.” He dialed the switch. “Hear that? Our boy Norman is sawing wood.” He moved it again. “Private ‘Two-Gun’ is stilt stirring. We can’t let them sleep, once it starts, so we have to spy on them.”
	“I suppose so.”
	Withers came upstairs. “Anything more you need?’
	“I guess not,” answered Reynolds. “How about the bomb mock-up?”
	“Before morning.”
	“How authentic is it?”
	“Hard to say. Their agents probably rigged firing circuits from radio parts bought right here; the circuits could vary a lot. But the business part—well, we’re using real plutonium.
	“Good. We’ll show it to them after breakfast.”
	Two-Gun’s door opened. “Howdy, Colonel. Prof—it’s there.”
	“What is?’
	“The bomb. Under Seattle. I can feel it.”
	“Where is it?”
	“It’s down—it feels down. And it feels wet, somehow. Would they put it in the Sound?”
	Hammond jumped up. “In the harbor—and shower the city with radioactive water!” He was ringing as he spoke. “Get me General Hanby!”
	“Morrison here,” a voice answered. “What is it, Hammond?”
	“The Seattle bomb—have them dredge for it. It’s in the Sound, or somewhere under water.”
	“Eh? How do you know?”
	“One of Reynolds’ magicians. Do it!” He cut off.
	Andrews said worriedly, “Prof, I can’t see it—I’m not a ‘seeing-eye.’ Why don’t you get one? Say that little Mrs. Brentano?”
	“Oh, my God! Clairvoyants.—we need them, too.” Withers said, “Eh, Doctor? Do you think—”
	“No, I don’t, or I would have thought of it. How do they search for bombs? What instruments?”
	“Instruments? A bomb in its shielding doesn’t even affect a Geiger counter. You have to open things and look.”
	“How long will that take? Say for New York!”
	‘‘Hammond said, “Shut up! Reynolds, where are these clairvoyants?”
	Reynolds chewed his lip. “They’re scarce.”
	“Scarcer than us dice rollers,” added Two-Gun. “But get that Brentano kid. She found keys I had lost digging a ditch. Buried three feet deep—and me searching my quarters.”
	“Yes, yes, Mrs. Brentano.” Reynolds pulled out a notebook. Hammond reached for the switchboard. “Morrison? Stand by for more names—and even more urgent than the others.”
	More urgent but harder to find; the Panic was on. The President urged everyone to keep cool and stay home, whereupon thirty million people stampeded. The ticker in the P.I.O. office typed the story: “NEW YORK NY—TO CLEAR JAM CAUSED BY WRECKS IN OUTBOUND TUBE THE INBOUND TUBE OF HOLLAND TUNNEL HAS BEEN REVERSED. POLICE HAVE STOPPED TRYING TO PREVENT EVACUATION. BULLDOZERS WORKING TO REOPEN TRIBOROUGH BRIDGE, BLADES SHOVING WRECKED CARS AND HUMAN HAMBURGER. WEEHAWKEN FERRY DISASTER
CONFIRMED: NO PASSENGER LIST YET—FLASH—GEORGE WASHINGTON BRIDGE GAVE WAY AT 0353 EST, WHETHER FROM OVERLOAD OR SABOTAGE NOT KNOWN. MORE MORE MORE—FLASH— 
	It was repeated everywhere. The Denver-Colorado Springs highway had one hundred thirty-five deaths by midnight, then reports stopped. A DC-7 at Burbank ploughed into a mob which had broken through the barrier. The Baltimore-Washington highway was clogged both ways; Memorial Bridge was out of service. The five outlets from Los Angeles were solid with creeping cars. At four A.M. EST the President declared martial law; the order had no immediate effect.
	By morning Reynolds had thirty-one adepts assigned to twenty-four cities. He had a stomach-churning ordeal before deciding to let them work only cities known to them. The gambler, Even-Money Karsch, had settled it: “Doc, I know when I’m hot, Minneapolis has to be mine.” Reynolds gave in, even though one of his students had just arrived from there; he put them both on it and prayed that at least one would be “hot.” Two clairvoyants arrived; one, a blind news-dealer from Chicago, was put to searching there; the other, a carnie mentalist, was given the list and told to find bombs wherever she could. Mrs. Brentano had remarried and moved; Norfolk was being combed for her.
	At one fifteen P.M., forty-five minutes before deadline, they were in their rooms, each with maps and aerial views of his city, each with photos of the mocked-up bomb. The club was clear of residents; the few normals needed to coddle the paranormals kept careful quiet. Roads nearby were blocked; air traffic was warned away. Everything was turned toward providing an atmosphere in which forty-two people could sit still and think.
	At the switchboard were Hammond, Reynolds, and Gordon McClintock, the President’s assistant. Reynolds glanced up. “What time is it?”
	“One thirty-seven,” rasped Hammond. “Twenty-three minutes.”
	“One thirty-eight,” disagreed McClintock. “Reynolds, how about Detroit? You can’t leave it unguarded.”
	“Whom can I use? Each is guarding the city he knows best.”
	“Those twin girls—I heard them mention Detroit.”
	“They’ve played everywhere. But Pittsburgh is their home.”
	“Switch one of them to Detroit.”
	Reynolds thought of telling him to go to Detroit himself. “They work together. You want to get them upset and lose both cities?”
	Instead of answering McClintock said, “And who’s watching Cleveland?”
	“Norman Johnson. He lives there and he’s our second strongest operator.”

	They were interrupted by voices downstairs. A man came up, carrying a bag, and spotted Reynolds. “Oh, hello, Doctor. What is this? I’m on top priority work—tank production— when the F.B.I. grabs me. You are responsible?”
	“Yes. Come with me.” McClintock started to speak, but Reynolds led the man away. “Mr. Nelson, did you bring your family?”
	“No, they’re still in Detroit. Had I known—”
	“Please! Listen carefully.” He explained, pointed out a map of Detroit in the room to which they went, showed him pictures of the simulated bomb, “You understand?”
	Nelson’s jaw muscles were jumping. “It seems impossible.”
	“It is possible. You’ve got to think about that bomb—or bombs. Get in touch, squeeze them, keep them from going off. You’ll have to stay awake.”
	Nelson breathed gustily. “I’ll stay awake.”
	“That phone will get you anything you want. Good luck.” He passed the room occupied by the blind clairvoyant; the door was open. “Harry, it’s Prof. Getting anything?”
	The man turned to the voice. “It’s in the Loop. I could walk to it if I were there. A six-story building.”
	“That’s the best you can do?”
	“Tell them to try the attic. I get warm when I go up.”
	“Right away!” He rushed back, saw that Hanby had arrived. Swiftly he keyed the communications office. “Reynolds speaking. The Chicago bomb is in a six-story building in the Loop area, probably in the attic. No—that’s all. G’by!”
	Hanby started to speak; Reynolds shook his head and looked at his watch. Silently the General picked up the phone. “This is the commanding officer. Have any flash sent here.” He put the phone down and stared at his watch.
	For fifteen endless minutes they stood silent. The General broke it by taking the phone and saying, “Hanby. Anything?”
	“No, General. Washington is on the wire.”
	“Eh? You say Washington?”
	“Yes, sir. Here’s the General, Mr. Secretary.”
	Hanby sighed. “Hanby speaking, Mr. Secretary. You’re all right? Washington . . . is all right?”
	They could hear the relayed voice. “Certainly certainly.
	We’re past the deadline. But I wanted to tell you: Radio Moscow is telling the world that our cities are in flames.”
	Hanby hesitated. “None of them are?”
	“Certainly not. I’ve a talker hooked in to GHQ, which has an open line to every city listed. All safe. I don’t know whether your freak people did any good but, one way or another, it was a false—” The line went dead.
	Hanby’s face went dead with it. He jiggled the phone. “I’ve been cut off!”
	“Not here, General—at the other end. Just a moment.”
	They waited. Presently the operator said, “Sorry, sir. I can’t get them to answer.”
	“Keep trying!”
	It was slightly over a. minute—it merely seemed longer—when the operator said, “Here’s your party, sir.”
	“That you, Hanby?” came the voice. “I suppose we’ll have phone trouble just as we had last time. Now, about these ESP people: while we are grateful and all that, nevertheless I suggest that nothing be released to the papers. Might be misinterpreted.”
	“Oh. Is that an order, Mr. Secretary?”
	“Oh, no, no! But have such things routed through my office.”
	“Yes, sir.” He cradled the phone.
	McClintock said, “You shouldn’t have rung off, General. I’d like to know whether the Chief wants this business continued.”
	“Suppose we talk about it on the way back to my office.” The General urged him away, turned and gave Reynolds a solemn wink.
	Trays were placed outside the doors at six o’clock; most of them sent for coffee during the evening. Mrs. Wilkins ordered tea; she kept her door open and chatted with anyone who passed. Harry the newsboy was searching Milwaukee; no answer had been received from his tip about Chicago. Mrs. Ekstein, or “Princess Cathay” as she was billed, had reported a “feeling” about a house trailer in Denver and was now poring over a map of New Orleans. With the passing of the deadline panic abated; communications were improving. The American people were telling each other that they had known that those damned commies were bluffing.
	Hammond and Reynolds sent for more coffee at three A.M.; Reynolds’ hand trembled as he poured. Hammond said, “You haven’t slept for two nights. Get over on that divan.”
	“Neither have you.”
	“I’ll sleep when you wake up.”
	“I can’t sleep. I’m worrying about what’ll happen when they get sleepy.” He gestured at the line of doors.
	“So am I.”
	At seven A.M. Two-Gun came out. “Prof, they got it. The bomb. It’s gone. Like closing your hand on nothing.”
	Hammond grabbed the phone. “Get me Seattle—the F.B.I. office.”
	While they waited, Two-Gun said, “What now, Prof?”
	Reynolds tried to think. “Maybe you should rest.”
	“Not until this is over. Who’s got Toledo? I know that burg.”
	“Uh...young Barnes.”
	Hammond was connected; he identified himself, asked the question. He put the phone down gently. “They did get it,” he whispered. “It was in the lake.”
	“I told you it was wet,” agreed Two-Gun. “Now, about Toledo—”
	“Well . . . tell me when you’ve got it and we’ll let Barnes rest.”
	McClintock rushed in at seven thirty-five, followed by Hanby. “Doctor Reynolds! Colonel Hammond!”
	“Sh! Quiet! You’ll disturb them.”
	McClintock said in a lower voice, “Yes, surely—I was excited. This is important. They located a bomb in Seattle and—”
	“Yes. Private Andrews told us.”
	“Huh? How did he know?’
	“Never mind,” Hanby intervened. “The point is, they found the bomb already triggered. Now we know that your people are protecting the cities.”
	“Was there any doubt?’
	“Well. . . yes.”
	“But there isn’t now,” McClintock added.’ “I must take over.” He bent over the board. “Communications? Put that White House line through here.”
	“Just what,” Reynolds said slowly, “do you mean by ‘take over’?”
	“Eh? Why, take charge on behalf of the President. Make sure these people don’t let down an instant!”
	“But what do you propose to do?”
	Hanby said hastily, “Nothing, Doctor. We’ll just keep in touch with Washington from here.”

	They continued the vigil together; Reynolds spent the time hating McClintock’s guts. He started to take coffee, then decided on another benzedrine tablet instead. He hoped his people were taking enough of it—and not too much. They all had it, except Grandma Wilkins, who wouldn’t touch it. He wanted to check with them but knew that he could not—each bomb was bound only by a thread of thought; a split-split second of diversion might be enough.
	The outside light flashed; Hanby took the call. “Congress has recessed,” he announced, “and the President is handing the Soviet Union a counter ultimatum; locate and disarm any bombs or be bombed in return.” The light flashed again; Hanby answered. His face lit up. “Two more found,” he told them. “One in Chicago, right where your man said; the other in Camden.”
	“Camden? How?”
	“They rounded up the known Communists, of course. This laddie was brought back there for questioning. He didn’t like that; .he knew that he was being held less than a mile from the bomb. Who is on Camden?”
	“Mr. Dimwiddy.”
	“The elderly man with the bunions?”
	“That’s right—retired postman. General, do we assume that there is only one bomb per city?”
	McClintock answered, “Of course not! These people must—”
	Hanby cut in, “Central Intelligence is assuming so, except for New York and Washington. If they had more bombs here, they would have added more cities.”
	Reynolds left to take Dimwiddy off watch. McClintock, he fumed, did not realize that people were flesh and blood.
	Dimwiddy was unsurprised. “A while ago the pressure let up, then—well, I’m afraid I dozed. I had a terrible feeling that I had let it go off, then I knew it hadn’t.”
	Reynolds told him to rest, then be ready to help out elsewhere. They settled on Philadelphia; Dimwiddy had once lived there.
	The watch continued. Mrs. Ekitein came up with three hits, but no answers came back; Reynolds still had to keep those cities covered. She then complained that her “sight” had gone; Reynolds went to her room and told her to nap, not wishing to consult McClintock.
	Luncheon trays came and went. Reynolds continued worrying over how to arrange his operators to let them rest. Forty-three people and thirty-five, cities—if only he had two for every city! Maybe any of them could watch any city? No, he could not chance it.
	Barnes woke up and took back Toledo; that left Two-Gun free. Should he let him take Cleveland? Norman had had no relief and Two-Gun had once been through it, on a train. The colored boy was amazing but rather hysterical, whereas Two-Gun-—well, Reynolds felt that Two-Gun would last, even through a week of no sleep.
	No! He couldn’t trust Cleveland to a man who had merely passed through it. But with Dimwiddy on Philadelphia, when Mary Gifford woke he could put her on Houston and that would let Hank sleep before shifting him to Indianapolis and that would let him— A chess game, with all pawns queens and no mistakes allowed.

	McClintock was twiddling the selector switch, listening in. Suddenly he snapped, “Someone is asleep!”
	Reynolds checked the number.
	“Of course, that’s the twins’ room; they take turns. You may hear snores in 21 and 30 and 8 and 19. It’s okay; they’re off watch.”
	“Well, all right.” McCllntock seemed annoyed. Reynolds bent back to his list. Shortly McClintock snorted, “Who’s in room 12?”
	“Uh? Wait—that’s Norman Johnson, Cleveland.”
	“You mean he’s on watch?”
	“Yes.” ‘Reynolds could hear the boy’s asthmatic breathing, felt relieved.
	“He’s asleep!”
	‘“No, he’s not.”
	But McClintock was rushing down the corridor. Reynolds took after him; Hammond and Hanby followed. Reynolds caught up as McClintock burst into room 12. Norman was sprawled in a chair, eyes closed in his habitual attitude.
	McClintock rushed up, slapped him. “Wake up!” Reynolds grabbed McClintock. “You bloody fool!” Norman opened his eyes, then burst into tears. “It’s gone!”
	“Steady, Norman. It’s all right.”
	“No, no! It’s gone—and my mammy’s gone with it!”
	McClintock snapped, “Concentrate, boy! Get back on it!”
	Reynolds turned on him. “Get out. Get out before I punch you.”
	Hanby and Hammond were in the door; the General cut in with a hoarse whisper, “Pipe down, Doctor, bring the boy.”
	Back at the board the outside light was flashing. Hanby took the call while Reynolds tried to quiet the boy. Hanby ‘listened gravely, then said, “He’s right. Cleveland just got it.”
	McCllntock snapped, “He went to sleep. He ought to be shot.”
	“Shut up,” said Hanby.
	“But—”
	Reynolds said, “any others, General?”
	“Why would there be?”
	“All this racket. It may have disturbed a dozen of them.”
	“Oh, we’ll see.” He called Washington again. Presently he sighed. “No, just Cleveland. We were lucky.”
	“General,” McClintock insisted, “he was asleep.”
	Hanby looked at him. “Sir, you may be the President’s deputy but you yourself have no military authority. Off my post.”
	“But I am directed by the President to—”
	“Off my post, sir! Go back to Washington. Or to Cleveland. McClintock looked dumbfounded. Hanby added, “You’re worse than bad—you’re a fool.”
	“The President will hear of this.”
	“Blunder again and the President won’t live that long. Get out.”
	By nightfall the situation was rapidly getting worse.
	Twenty-seven cities were still threatened and Reynolds was losing operators faster than bombs were being found. Even-Money Karsch would not relieve when awakened. “See that?” he said, rolling dice. “Cold as a well-digger’s feet. I’m through.” After that Reynolds tested each one who was about to relieve, found that some were tired beyond the power of short sleep to restore them—they were “cold.”
	By midnight there were eighteen operators for nineteen cities. The twins had fearfully split up; it had worked.
	Mrs. Wilkins was holding both Washington and Baltimore; she had taken Baltimore when he had no one to relieve there.
	But now he had no one for relief anywhere and three operators—Nelson, Two-Gun and Grandma Wilkins—had had no rest. He was too fagged to worry; he simply knew that whenever one of them reached his limit, the United States would lose a city. The panic had resumed after the bombing of Cleveland; roads again were choked. The disorder made harder the search for bombs. But there was nothing he could do.
Mrs. Ekstein still complained about her sight but kept at it. Harry the newsboy had had no luck with Milwaukee, but there was no use shifting him; other cities were “dark” to him. During the night Mrs. Ekstein pointed to the bomb in Houston. It was, she said, in a box underground. A coffin? Yes, there was a headstone; she was unable to read the name.
	Thus, many recent dead in Houston were disturbed. But it was nine Sunday morning before Reynolds went to tell Mary Gifford that she could rest—or relieve for Wilmington, if she felt up to it. He found her collapsed and lifted her onto the bed, wondering if she had known the Houston bomb was found.
	Eleven cities now and eight people. Grandma Wilkins held four cities. No one else had been able to double up. Reynolds thought dully that it was a miracle that they had been able to last at all; it surpassed enormously the best test performance.
	Hammond looked up as he returned. “Make any changes?”
	“No. The Gifford kid is through. We’ll lose half a dozen cities before this is over.”
	“Some of them must be damn near empty by now.”
	“I hope so. Any more bombs found?”
	“Not yet. How do you feel, Doc?”
	“Three weeks dead.” Reynolds sat down wearily. He was wondering if he should wake some of those sleeping and test them again when he heard a noise below; he went to the stairwell. Up came an M.P. captain. “They said to bring her here.” Reynolds looked at the woman with him. “Dorothy Brentano!”
	“Dorothy Smith now.”
	He controlled his trembling and explained what was required. She nodded. “I figured that out on the plane. Got a pencil? Take this: St. Louis—a river warehouse with a sign reading ‘Bartlett & Sons, Jobbers.’ Look in the loft. And Houston—no, they got that one. Baltimore—it’s in a ship at the docks, the S.S. Gold Coast. What other cities? I’ve wasted time feeling around where there was nothing to find.”
	Reynolds was already shouting for Washington to answer.
	Grandma Wilkins was last to be relieved; Dorothy located one in the Potomac—and Mrs. Wilkins told her sharply to keep trying. There were four bombs in Washington, which Mrs. Wilkins had known all along. Dorothy found them in eleven minutes.
	Three hours later Reynolds showed up in the club mess-room, not having been able to sleep. Several of his people were eating and listening to the radio blast about our raid on Russia. He gave it a wide berth; they could blast Omsk and Tomsk and Minsk and Pinsk; today he didn’t care. He was sipping milk and thinking that he would never drink coffee again when Captain Mikeler bent over his table.
	“The General wants you. Hurry!”
	“Why?”
	“I said, ‘Hurry!’ Where’s Grandma Wilkins—oh I see her. Who is Mrs. Dorothy Smith?”
	Reynolds looked around. “She’s with Mrs. Wilkins.”
	Mikeler rushed them to Hanby’s office. Hanby merely said, “Sit over there. And you ladies, too. Stay in focus.”
	Reynolds found himself looking into a television screen at the President of the United States. He looked as weary as Reynolds felt, but he turned on his smile. “You are Doctor Reynolds?”
	“Yes, Mr. President!”
	“These ladies are Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Smith?”
	“Yes, sir.”
	The President said quietly, “You three and your colleagues will be thanked by the Republic. And by me, for myself. But that must wait. Mrs. Smith, there are more bombs—in Russia. Could your strange gift find them there?”
	“Why, I don’t—I can try!”
	“Mrs. Wilkins, could you set off those Russian bombs while they are still far away?”
	Incredibly, she was still bright-eyed and chipper. “Why, Mr. President!”
	“Can you?”
	She got a far-away look. “Dorothy and I had better have a quiet room somewhere. And I’d like a pot of tea. A large pot.”