As If the Very Stars
Had Fallen
By Brantley
Thompson Elkins
Chapter One: That Very Day
Trinity site, Alamogordo,
New Mexico, July 16, 1945
It was Marshall Johnson who
spotted the body a few hours after the test.
Johnson was just the driver;
heÕd never have made a place in history even if things had gone otherwise. As
things did goÉ
JohnsonÕs assignment was to
get the physicists – Nagle, Anderson and Tagin – to Ground Zero and
back in a lead-lined Sherman tank, collecting soil samples for analysis to
determine just how powerful the Gadget had been. It was dangerous work, and
they had to trust the overweight tank; if it stalled, they were cooked.
They were heading back in,
half a mile from the test site – beyond where the sand had fused into
glass, but close enough for loose soil and dust to have blown about. That was
when Johnson noticed the body through the lead-glass scope; it was half covered
in dirt. From a hundred yards, he assumed it was an animal. Closer upÉ
He didnÕt know whether to
feel terror or relief. If anybody had managed to infiltrate the operation
– and it had to be an outsider; everyone who belonged here was carefully
monitored – heÕd never tell the tale. The first casualty of the atomic
bomb.
TheyÕll want to study him, he thought, although he knew that before long thereÕd be
plenty of other casualties to study in Japan. Nobody talked about that to
people like him, but where else were they going to use the weapon?
ÒHey Jules, thereÕs a deader
out there,Ó he called out.
ÒWhat the fuck?Ó Nagle asked.
He was a physicist, but he talked just like a normal person. Usually.
ÒThereÕs a dead body. WeÕre
about to pass it.Ó
ÒYouÕre crazy.Ó
ÒI swear! Come look.Ó
ÒWe can report it when we get
back,Ó Tagin said. ÒWeÕve got work to do, and weÕre getting enough of a dose
without stopping.Ó
At that moment, the body came
to life, stood up. It was woman. A naked woman.
ÒItÕs a woman. SheÕs
alive!Ó Johnson yelled.
ÒRight, itÕs Betty Grable,Ó
Anderson said. ÒHow long is it since you had any?Ó
ÒGuys, youÕve gotta see—Ó
But the woman had taken to
the air; she was flying right over the
tank and out of sight.
ÒSheÕs goneÉÓ Johnson said, a
touch of disappointment in his voice. He was about to say how sheÕd gone, but thought better of it. NagleÕs response
confirmed his fears.
ÒFirst foo fighters,Ó he
said. ÒNow foo women. Christ!Ó
Enrico Fermi met them back at
the base, supervised the unloading of the samples in their lead containers.
Mission accomplished, the men returned safely. But they looked kind of funny.
ÒIs there something the
matter?Ó he asked Nagle.
ÒJohnson says he saw a naked
woman out there.Ó
Fermi turned to the driver,
who was obviously embarrassed.
ÒI know it sounds crazy, but
I swear itÕs true. She was lying down at first, looked ro be dead. But then she
got up, and flew away.Ó
ÒAnd you expect anyone to believe that?Ó
ÒHer body must have left an
impression. She was half-covered in sand.Ó
ÒI donÕt know what youÕre
trying to pull here, but IÕm taking it to the General.Ó
* * *
Major General Leslie Groves
hadnÕt wanted to believe JohnsonÕs story – which he had to pry out of the
man, after which heÕd ordered him confined to quarters. He seemed to be cold
sober, and he stuck to the details, including the business of the woman having
left an impression in the sand. But it had to be a hoax; for all the deadly
seriousness of the project, the scientists here had a warped sense of humor.
The three with the tank
didnÕt want to go back out there, either; one trip through hot territory was
enough for them, especially since none of them had been told what it was all
about. Groves found another driver, Alan Lupton; and Fermi himself picked a
young physicist named Jack Wolf to make the trip.
ÒHeÕs got his head screwed on
tight,Ó Fermi said.
Maybe Fermi was thinking of
what Groves had once told his officers, about how the Project had assembled the
Òlargest collection of crackpots ever seen.Ó He still thought there was a lot
of truth in that, but it hadnÕt made his job any easier.
ÒAnd he never liked FeynmanÕs
stunts,Ó Fermi added, as if it were the clincher. ÒIn fact, he never liked
Feynman.Ó
Richard Feynman, another
junior physicist, had become notorious for practical jokes like cracking
supposedly secure safes – heÕd worked out a whole system for that – and leaving messages like Òbe more careful with your countryÕs most valuable secrets.Ó
This sounded just like him.
Only it had to be a copycat.
FeynmanÕs wife had died a month ago, and heÕd been sent away on leave until
yesterday, called back just in time to witness the test – which he had,
but from 20 miles away. No way could he
have pulled off this latest stunt, even if heÕd been so inclined. Groves didnÕt
see how anybody could have pulled it
offÉ yet whatever had happened, it must involve a serious security breach.
ÒYouÕd better be right about
Wolf,Ó he told Fermi. ÒThereÕll be hell to pay if this is a hoax and it gets
out. ThereÕll be even more hell to pay if this isnÕt a hoax and it gets out. DonÕt forget whoÕs in charge here.
Wolf works for me. And you work for me.Ó
They met Wolf at the tank.
Fermi stood aside as Groves laid down the law to the young physicist and the
driver in the same manner, before giving him his orders. But he didnÕt tell him
anything about JohnsonÕs story.
ÒFollow this morningÕs route exactly, and look for anything strange,Ó Fermi said. ÒIÕm not
going to say what. But if you see it, youÕll know why I sent you.Ó
Groves and Fermi watched as
Wolf and Lupton clambered into the ungainly vehicle and set off towards Ground
Zero. Then Groves curtly dismissed Fermi.
ÒWhatever he comes back with,
itÕs a security matter,Ó he advised him. ÒIt could be a hoax, or a breach.
Either way, not a word of this to Oppie and the other scientists, and
especially not to Atomic Bill.Ó
William L. Laurence, a New
York Times science writer, had been
invited to the test by Groves himself, the only member of the press so honored.
Word was it was because Laurence, who had written about atomic power before the
war, had figured out what was going on here, even if he hadnÕt known where ÒhereÓ
was. Like Drew Pearson, who had figured it out two years ago, heÕd kept quiet
about it. Right now, he was busy with J. Robert Oppenheimer.
ÒWhen he gets through with
Oppie and the rest, if he wants to talk to me, just tell him IÕm dealing with a
security matter. HeÕll play ball.Ó
Fermi nodded and headed back
to the lab. Groves wanted to be extra certain that heÕd be the only one to meet
the tank when it returned.
In due course, it did return,
lumbering towards him at what seemed a snailÕs pace. Wolf popped the hatch,
stuck his head through the hatch, climbed out and lowered himself to the
ground, followed by Lupton. Groves told the driver to get lost, and keep his
trap shut. Then he turned to the physicist.
Wolf spoke in barely a
whisper. It was definitely not what
Groves wanted to hear. And then some.
ÒThere was a message scrawled
in the sand,Ó
ÒWhat did it say?Ó
ÒIt said for you to check
your mail. I took a shot of it.Ó
Groves nodded, as if he
understood.
ÒIt was crazy. I mean, even
Feynman wouldnÕt have been enough of a damned fool to stage something like
that. Besides, whoever did it would have had to brush away all the tracks he
made getting out there. And it would have
to have been done after the test; the blast wave wouldÕve blown them away if
heÕd gone there the night before. It would have been suicide after.Ó
Groves prayed inwardly that,
somehow, this was still a Feynman copycat stunt, but feared it wasnÕt: What
the hell have we gotten into?
ÒYouÕve done your job,Ó he told Wolf. ÒIÕm on top of it. IÕll
handle it from here. I hope youÕve put the fear of God in the driver; if you
havenÕt, I will. We donÕt want this sort of thing getting out and causing any
embarrassment to the Project.Ó
Let Wolf think he knew what
it was all about. That would keep him
quiet.
When WolfÕs supposed photo of
the message came out fogged, there was nothing to go on. But the film he and
Lupton had worn as an alert to radiation exposure was not fogged.... This was getting really eerie.
* * *
There was mail for him the
next day at Los Alamos, addressed to him at P.O. Box 1633, Santa Fe, like all
the mail for anybody working at Los Alamos. Nothing new from the family, just
an envelope postmarked Pasadena, California, without a return address.
Inside, there was a picture
of a blonde woman in a skimpy outfit out of a comic bookÉ sort of like Mary
Marvel, he thought. On the back was a note:
By the time you receive
this, youÕll have heard a very strange story about something somebody saw the
afternoon after the test, which I trust will have gone satisfactorily. I am
confident that you will have suppressed that story. But a dramatic introduction
was called for, because the future of your world, the future of the human race,
hangs in the balance. I suggest we meet at sunset Friday at the McDonald Ranch.
Groves suddenly felt the fear
of the unknown. The letter was postmarked three days before the test, so it
couldnÕt have been part of a spontaneous prank here. Nobody here had been to
Pasadena, and they couldnÕt have come back so quickly even if they had.
Somebody outside the Project had known about the Gadget, even the timing of the
test, and – impossible as it seemed – had managed to enter the test
site undetected and, so it seemed, escaped unharmed and again undetected. Some
alien being from another world – the message seemed to imply that.
And yet Johnson had seen a womanÉ presumably the very woman who had sent her picture with
the message. Except for the outfit, she looked like some glamour girl out of
Hollywood. Only he didnÕt think anyone had been making a movie about Mary
Marvel.
There was nobody he could
tell about this, nobody to appeal to. But he had to take the responsibility;
there was no other choice. He had to fit this into his schedule, make it part
of the post-test routine. There were still things to wrap up at the Trinity
site, and he could take a break towards the end of the day. But first, he hid
the picture and message behind the chocolate Turtles in his own safe – a
safe Feynman had never cracked.
Late Friday afternoon, Groves
approached the McDonald Ranch alone, but carried a service pistol, along with a
Geiger counter – just to make sure he wasnÕt taking a risk, from either
residual radiation at the ranch, or from the mysterious stranger.
The place was much worse for
wear – the Trinity blast had shattered most of the windows of the house,
and blown the roof off the barn. Perhaps that was fitting; for it was here that
the core of the plutonium bomb, the Gadget, had been assembled – jeeps
parked nearby with their motors running in case the scientists fumbled and let
the plutonium hemispheres get too close together.
It was near dusk, the sun low
over the San Mateo Mountains. It was another form of atomic energy that kept
the sun shining, he knew. Fermi and Teller were talking about tapping into that
for a bomb too. The Super, they called it. Groves wasnÕt sure he liked the
idea; Oppenheimer sure didnÕt.
Still nothing. And then there
was something in the sky, just above the sun. A bird or a planeÉ no, a person.
Coming in for a landing right in front of him. Like a parachutist. Only no
chute.
The figure approached him on
foot.
A woman. The woman. Wearing that funny costume.
She stopped a few paces away.
Instinctively GrovesÕ eyes went to his counter but the needle barely flickered;
he would have said that was impossible if the woman hadnÕt spoken first.
ÒI see that youÕre the kind
of man who takes care, in more ways than one. Not that your pistol would have
done you any good if I hadnÕt come in peace. My name is Kira Zenerha-SharÕa
JahrÕling, and I need to make arrangements to meet with your President Truman.Ó
Groves was speechless.
ÒItÕs all about making a
grand entrance,Ó she said. ÒBut I have a story to tell.Ó
It turned out to be a crazy
storyÉ but no crazier than a woman surviving a close encounter with an
explosion equivalent to 20 kilotons of TNT and walking through the radiation
afterwards without harm.
She described an interstellar
war, like in those science fiction magazines some of the scientists read, only
happening right now instead of in the future. Groves listened, first with
disbelief, then fear, then anger as she talked about the scale of the war, the
planets involved, the power of the weapons used, the number of fleets deployed,
and finally the physical capabilities of the two races, the Velorians and the
Aureans, fighting for control of all humanity.
ÒHumanity?Ó he whispered
incredulously, throat parched.
ÒYou have cousins on hundreds of other worlds,Ó she said.
ÒDescendants of people taken from Earth centuries or even millennia ago. My own
ancestors were taken, only they wereÉ changed. And some of them were changed again, and became the
enemy. And now some of them are here on Earth, Manhome original, and they
believe it should be theirsÉ WeÕre here to stop them.Ó
ÒI havenÕt noticed anybody
trying to conquer the world but the Nazis and the Japs,Ó Groves barked. ÒWeÕve
done for the Nazis, and the Japs are about to get theirs.Ó
Kira gave him a very cool
stare, like a child whoÕd proudly told his teacher 2+2=5.
ÒThe enemies youÕve faced are
nothing compared to the Aureans.
Fortunately for you, at the moment, itÕs all undercover, a war of shadows.
TheyÕre afraid of the Galen.Ó
The Galen?
When she began to explain them, Groves felt a crawling sensation.
The people behind the
abductions Kira had talked about, going back thousands of years, the people
behind the transformations, the peopleÉAs wanton flies are we to the godsÉ
ÒIf this is all true, and it
gets outÉÓ he said, after sheÕd finished.
ÒWe donÕt want it to get out. IÕm trusting you to see that it doesnÕt.
Except to the President.Ó
ÒWhy not go straight to him?Ó
ÒAnd how would I go about
that? Fly in? Force my way past the Secret Service? That would ruin everything.
I need somebody who can gain access to the White House legitimately. And as the
man behind the project that has just changed history, youÕre the kind of man I
need.Ó
ÒTrumanÕs up to speed on the
project.Ó
ÒIÕm sure youÕll think up
more to tell him. But for now, youÕll have to see to it that my message is
lost, that nobody else here talks about it. I understand that tight security is
standard operating procedure, but I think youÕll agree that you now face
something that goes beyond even that. If I were Stalin, IÕd want to have eyes
and ears here. Perhaps he does. Imagine them finding out, not just about the bomb, but what IÕve just
told you. I donÕt read minds; we are few in number and our own intelligence is
limited. We became aware of Project Y only recently.Ó
ÒIs that supposed to make me
feel better?Ó he asked.
ÒIt doesnÕt matter how you
feel. IÕm sure youÕre doing the best you can. YouÕll just have to keep on doing
it. Fortunately, youÕll have time. Your president is in Potsdam, but when he
gets backÉÓ
Groves nodded. Briefing
Truman would be a challenge; the President hadnÕt even known about the
Manhattan Project until FDR died. Now this on top of thatÉ But heÕd manage
it somehow, because he loved his country and, despite all, his fellow man. As
for these Aureans, these new enemies...
ÒIt's all about ass, isn't
it?Ó he said. ÒYou kick it or you lick it. That what it's all about.Ó
Kira smiled.
ÒThatÕs how IÕll want Truman
to see it. HeÕs that kind of guy, from all IÕve heard. Like you. But heÕll need
some convincing just the same. If you havenÕt already noticed, IÕve erased my
message in the sand, you donÕt have a picture of it, and you canÕt prove the
card was written before the test or came from anyone but an ordinary girl in
cahoots with Johnson. IÕm your only evidence now. When things cool down, IÕll help
you with another demonstration. Out by Jumbo. YouÕll need to bring just
yourself and a movie camera.Ó
And right now, IÕm going
to have to make poor Johnson a scapegoat,
he thought. Convince everyone here that it was all a hoax. HeÕll never get a
security clearance again. And heÕll know that if he talks, heÕll never be seen
again.
But making tough decisions
was part of his job. And there was too much at stake.
Chapter Two: TheyÕve Got a
Secret
London, Nov. 10-15, 1944
SharaÕLynn BesetÕyul hadnÕt
been looking for anything but a lay when sheÕd gone on the prowl at the Fitzroy
Tavern, a pub on the corner of Charlotte and Windmill reputedly favored by arty
types like the poet Dylan Thomas, who were said to have a taste for hot sex, no
questions asked.
Actually, any pub might be a
good place for meeting men with a taste for hot sex. But she was curious about
the arty types. There was nothing back home on Velor like the lifestyle called
Bohemian here. Should she even try to find out why it was called Bohemian? She
couldnÕt see what it had to do with the countryÉ
She wasnÕt particular about
gender, but she didnÕt have any idea about how lesbian contacts were arranged
in this country. So if she had to stick to menÉ it would be grist for her
cultural research, which was one of her official purposes as a Scribe for being
on Earth in the first place, the other being to report on Kira and the rest
– something Kira and the rest did not appreciate.
Sharon Best – as she called herself – had been
able to report something just a day before that they could appreciate. SheÕd accidentally flown into a V-2 rocket
headed right for the East Quarter of London. As nearly as she could figure, it
would have hit the British Museum. Score one for saving part of the countryÕs cultural
heritage! Anyway, the fire and the impact of the debris had made her pretty
horny, so as soon as she was able to sneak back home and sneak out again with a
change of clothesÉ
ÒBusiness as usual during
Alterations to Germany,Ó a sign at the entrance read, in a sly reference to the
Allied bombing campaign. Amusing; sheÕd have to include that in her report.
But she was disappointed when
she walked in. The place didnÕt look that different from any other pub. The
patrons didnÕt look much different, either; some of them even wore conventional
attire; was that Bohemian? While
pondering that, she caught a snatch of conversation at a corner table.
ÒYou bring me all the way
here to meet this famous poet, and it turns out heÕs in Wales,Ó a man was
complaining. A Yank by the sound of him, and when she took a look she liked
what she saw: handsome and well built. But he looked bored.
ÒOrwell might still make it,Ó
said his companion, a man in tweed with nothing in particular to recommend him,
at least not for what she had in mind. Thin and balding. ÒAnyway,Ó he said,
ÒItÕs time for another round, on me.Ó
ÒIÕm tired of warm beer,Ó
protested the Yank. ÒIÕd rather call it a night.Ó
ÒYouÕre not much for having
fun,Ó said the man in tweed, who headed for the bar and got into the queue there. ÒAnother pint, Sally,Ó she heard
him call out.
By that time, she had made
her move.
ÒYou look like you could
stand some company,Ó she said, taking the man in tweedÕs seat without so much
as a by-your-leave.
The Yank swiveled in his seat
to have a look. He was startled, but only for a second. There wasnÕt any doubt
that he was interested. Very
interested. But he wasnÕt about to let on at first about what kind of interested.
ÒAre you one of those modern
poets HomerÕs been talking about?Ó
ÒMy talents donÕt run along
that line, IÕm afraid.Ó
ÒGood thing, actually. Poets
arenÕt my cup of tea. Not the kind Homer carries on about, anyway. Orwell might
be interesting, but they say heÕs at Broadcast House tonight doing a BBC
program.Ó
There was a moment of silence
before he made the first move.
ÒHagstrom Ironcastle,Ó he
introduced himself, extending his hand.
ÒSharon Best.Ó She took his
hand, but stroked it instead of shaking it, just in case he still needed a
hint. She wondered about the strange name.
At that moment, Homer
returned, pint in hand, and did a double take.
ÒAre you two acquainted?Ó he
asked.
ÒJust becoming so,Ó Hagstrom
said. ÒSharon, this is Homer Whitworth. WeÕve been doing some business
together, and he decided to take me out on the town.Ó
Homer looked them over, and
apparently understood what was happening.
ÒI donÕt really have any
further plans,Ó he said. ÒSo if youÉÓ
ÒThanks for everything,Ó
Hagstrom said, shaking his hand. ÒYouÕll be hearing from West Street. I think
weÕll be doing a lot of business – not just now, but after the war. We
might want you to come to work for us.Ó
ÒGot to go to the ladies,Ó
Sharon interrupted. ÒBack in a few moments.Ó
She didnÕt really need to go,
but she did need to use the stall for a few moments to take the necklace from
her handbag, do a quick strip, and put it around her neck before getting back
into her high-necked blouse. She wasnÕt supposed to wear gold unless it was a
sure thing sheÕd need it. She checked in the mirror to make sure she was presentable,
and headed back out.
Hagstrom greeted her warmly.
ÒIÕm ready to get out of here É go to someplace quieter, more intimate. How about you?Ó
Sharon smiled, gave him her
hand and they headed through the crowd to the door. Outside FitzroyÕs, it quickly
came down to your-place-or-mine. Sharon said the landlady where she had her
flat was on the conservative side, which meant it was his place. Which meant
the hotel he was staying at. He hailed a cab, and they were on their way.
ÒWhat brings you here?Ó Sharon asked.
ÒBusiness,Ó he said. ÒI work
for Bell Laboratories back in the States. They do research on electronics, and
what with the war on... theyÕre working with the government and IÕm here
checking progress on É something very classified.Ó
ÒIs Homer part of it?Ó
ÒNo, heÕs somebody I wanted
to see about a new invention with a lot of potential called a traveling wave
tube.Ó
ÒWhere does it travel?Ó
ÒNowhere. It amplifies radio
signals.Ó He tried to explain it to her, but all she could get out of it was that
it was primitive vacuum electronics. They didnÕt even have solid state
technology here! But Hagstrom, in an obvious attempt to impress her, let out
what his primary mission here had to do with: RADAR (ÒYou Brits call it RDF.Ó),
based on attenuated radio technology.
Just a crude mass
detection technology, Sharon thought. Hardly
worth reporting on.
They got to the hotel, and he
led her to a really tiny lift with hardly room for more than two. With nobody
else on board, Sharon drew him in for a kiss.
ÒYouÕre sure not like the
kind of British girls I hear about,Ó Hagstrom said as he came up for air. ÒAnd
here I thought meeting the radar people was as lucky as I was going to get.Ó
As soon as they got to his
room, things unfolded according to plan. Her plan, but Hagstrom wasnÕt
complaining when he got a look at the goods.
ÒAre you some sort of amazon
goddess?Ó he asked. ÒA valkyrie?Ó
ÒI justÉ do physical jerks,Ó
she said. ÒYou too?Ó
He did look really fit; her
gaze traveled up and down his body.
ÒGot bullied a lot when I was
a kid,Ó he said. ÒIt never seems to have occurred to Mother and Father that IÕd
be end up being nicknamed ÔHag.ÕÓ
Oh, Sharon thought. That hadnÕt occurred to her.
ÒThey were just trying to
honor an uncle who died young, Harold Hagstrom,Ó he continued. ÒAnyway, I had
to learn to fight back, and then I got into sports at school and college. I
still do a lot of running in the county reservation near home.Ó
He paused for a moment.
ÒWhatÕs with the necklace?Ó
ÒA rich bloke I met,Ó she said. ÒTold me I was worth my
weight in gold. It doesnÕt weigh that much, of course. But itÕs brought me
luck.Ó
That last bit was true, but
only because without it no Earthman could have penetrated her – and even
if he could have, the encounter would have been fatal to his manhood and
probably to the man himself. If Hag had known that, of course, he might have
been scared out of his wits, even after sheÕd hit him with her pheromones.
As things were, Hag showed
plenty of skill – and stamina. Enough to bring her off several times, in
sundry positions. Eventually, he was too tired to go on. And yet he wasnÕt
tired of her. He was still up to cuddling, and to small talk. He wanted to know
about her. That was the hard part, because she couldnÕt tell anything much
resembling the truth.
ÒWhatÕs to tell? Born in
Boston – the one in Lincolnshire. FatherÕs a shopkeeper. Went to school
there. Came to London just before the war to work for Marks & Spencer, in
the wine department at their Kilburn High Road store, but the war put a crimp
on that and I ended up in food. We opened one of the CafŽ Bars there; people
can get around rationing by eating in, and sometimes we sell food to take home
straight off the delivery truck because theyÕre so hungry. Some of the other
stores have gotten blitzed – buzz bomb hit the one in Lewisham in July.Ó
ÒFunny thing about buzz
bombs. I got into town Nov. 5, which was Guy Fawkes day – IÕd never heard
of it before and people had to explain about the Gunpowder Plot and all.
Anyway, there was this guy on the street outside here wearing a Guy Fawkes
mask, and carrying a ÔHitlerÕs Peace EnvoyÕ sign. He had a bunch of ÔBuzzbomber
KidsÕ collecting.
ÒÔA penny for the old guy.Õ
They must have told you all about that. More like a pound, now. Only itÕs part
of the war effort. I do my bit – fire patrol, helping tend to the
wounded. ThatÕs eased up since 1942, even with the buzz bombs.Ó
What she didnÕt say was that,
whereas she did work for Marks & Spencer, she was actually a typist at
their Baker Street headquarters. By sheer chance, she had learned that it
concealed the offices of the Special Operations Executive that helped
resistance movements against the Nazis in Europe. Keeping her ear to the ground
was part of her mission, and sheÕd shared what she learned with Kira. Things
were winding down in that department this late in the game, however; nothing
more from the SOE was likely to have any impact on the course of the war. None
of that was for HagÕs ears, obviously, and sheÕd about run through her thin
cover story, so she changed the subject.
ÒFunny name youÕve got,Ó she
said.
ÒI told you about that.Ó
ÒI mean, your last name.Ó
ÒWell, we come from England
originally, but I donÕt know exactly where. We all seem to be related; at
least, IÕve never come across mention of any Ironcastles who arenÕt. ThereÕs
some Hardcastles here, but thatÕs not the same. There was a Castle of Iron in a
medieval romance epic poem called Orlando Furioso, but that was set in Spain and written in Italy, and I
canÕt see how there could be any connection. A few of us have made our marks.
Maybe youÕve heard of Uncle Hareton, the explorer?Ó
Sharon shook her head. After
more small talk, she said it was time to be getting home, but she was keen on
seeing him again. And so she did – mostly for sex, but also for
conversation. He even tried to interest her in science fiction, gave her a copy
of a Yank magazine from the year before, with a story by Lawrence OÕDonnell
called ÒClash by Night.Ó It had to do with a war on Venus, which was depicted
as a tropical world where men lived in undersea cities because the native life
of the jungles was too savage for humans to cope with. It was all she could do
to keep from laughing at the idea of life on Venus. But there was something
else about the storyÉ the reason men were living on Venus in the first place.
And then, one day, there was
something in the paper about H.G. Wells.
ÒIÕve always wanted to meet
him,Ó Hag said. ÒHeÕs a great writer. His stories have a lot of charm. But what
I like about him is that he knows that the future is going to be different from
the past. A lot of people don't. You somehow get the impression that no one
ever believes that anything is going to be any different. They're all caught up
in the present and the past. HeÕs been wrong about how the future was going to be different, but he knew that it was going to be different. I don't think that most
people think of the future as being different.Ó
And just like that, he hit on
the idea of ringing up Wells and paying a visit. He found the number, got on
the telephone, but somebody told him heÕd have to write, so then he pretended
that he was President RooseveltÕs science advisor, and that got them an
invitation. Hag hailed a cab and they headed for Hanover Terrace, which was a
whole row of houses in Regents Park. Wells lived at number 13. A butler answered
the door, and ushered them into the study, a large but rather stuffy room lined
with books, to meet the Ògreat manÓ himself. He looked terribly pallid, old and
tired – 78, and ill, she learned afterwards – and was wearing just
a bathrobe and slippers.
Hag had trouble getting him
into conversation, but it was tea time, and Wells had already sent for tea and
sandwiches, which came up in a dumb-waiter, along with milk. Hag knew enough to
add the milk to the tea and stir – he must have picked that up from
official visits elsewhere – but looked askance at the sandwiches, which
were made with sliced cucumber and vinegar. Sharon knew Americans favored
sliced ham and the like. Wells somehow sensed HagÕs confusion, and got a
twinkle in his eye.
ÒThese are jolly good,Ó he
said. ÒThey arenÕt Borgia sandwiches.Ó
Sharon didnÕt know what that
was about and made a mental note to look up Borgia later.
Hag introduced her as a
doctoral candidate at the University of London, which seemed to be aimed more
at impressing Wells with his good taste than flattering her, and after the
small talk, he turned the conversation from sandwiches toÉ
ÒWell, theyÕre building an
atom bomb, you know, right now,Ó he said.
Wells didnÕt seem to react.
But Sharon did. In the story in that magazine Hag had given her, Earth had been
destroyed by atomic weapons; thatÕs why people were living on Venus. But was it
true about the Americans actually making
a bomb? And how would Hag know? She was dying to ask him, but she couldnÕt. Not
there, not then. As for WellsÉ
ÒIt shows the need for World
Federation,Ó he finally pronounced. ÒWendell Wilkie knew that. You really must
read his One World. IÕd been calling
for a new world order long before that, but his book really got through. He died just last month, you know. A great loss. He might
have found a way out or round or through our dilemma.Ó
He paused for a moment,
looking at Sharon, and getting a twinkle again.
ÒI see youÕve got an eye for the
ladies, Mr. Ironcastle. IÕm a bit past doing anything about it, but I can still
look. And such an intelligent lady, too. You donÕt mind if I look, Miss, ahÉÓ
ÒSharon,Ó she supplied.
ÒSharon Best. And I donÕt mind.Ó
ÒLovely name. And your field
is?Ó
ÒPhilosophy,Ó she improvised.
ÒAh,Ó Wells said. ÒAre you
perhaps familiar with A.J. Ayer? I think he may have something.Ó
Sharon sat there, trying to
think of Òsomething,Ó and was saved by the bell. Or rather, by the sudden
arrival of a man who turned out to be WellsÕ son Gip. Old Wells was all for
having a cab called for them. But Gip saw through Hag, saw that he was nothing
but a gate-crasher. He put them out the front door, politely but firmly, and
they had to find a cab for themselves.
On the way back, she asked
him about the atomic bomb. He didnÕt want to talk about it at first, but she
turned on the charm, and drew him out. He couldnÕt resist impressing her with
his knowledge, any more than he could resist her body.
ÒYou see, Wells wrote a story
about atomic bombs thirty years ago. So I knew what they were. And so do
science fiction writers today, like OÕDonnell in ÔClash by Night.Õ Well, before
the war, there were people working on nuclear fission, splitting uranium atoms
with tremendous release of energy. One of them was a German named Otto Hahn; I
think that must have scared the hell out of FDR, because the people who were
working on that sort of thing in the States have all dropped out of sight, and
thereÕs a war onÉ I figure the body snatchers have got them, and what else
could they be working on but an atomic bomb?Ó
Sharon wheedled Hag for
details back at his place, after theyÕd made love; he mentioned Enrico Fermi,
Hans Bethe and Edward Teller.
ÒTheyÕve probably got a bunch
of others, too. I wouldnÕt be surprised if Einstein had done the recruiting for
them, but heÕs too big to vanish without arousing too much suspicion. YouÕve
got a man over here named James Chadwick who worked in nuclear physics before
the war, but I think our people are probably keeping him in the dark.Ó
It seemed to dawn on him just
then that heÕd gone too far, way too
far.
ÒFor GodÕs sake donÕt tell
anybody I said any of this,Ó he pleaded. ÒI could end up in jail.Ó
ÒI donÕt really understand any of it,Ó she assured him. ÒItÕs just that I like to
hear you talk about it. I never met a bloke like you before.Ó
It turned out that Hag was
due to fly back to New York the next day, which was a good thing, despite the
loss of his intimate company, because she had more important things on her mind
now – in terms of her mission.
She knew she had to get word
to Kira. EarthÕs Protector, by mandate of the High Council, although nobody
here knew it. Earth wasnÕt the only Undisclosed World, where Velorians and
Aureans alike fought in secret, but it was both the oldest and the most
important – and the most primitive. Pre-cybernetic! That made secure
communication difficult.