Stopwatch on the world
Date: 2023-04-18T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Weapons -- Fiction; Physicists -- Fiction

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Title: Stopwatch on the world

Author: Daniel R. Gilgannon

Illustrator: Peter Poulton

Release date: April 18, 2023 [eBook #70583]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Columbia Publications, Inc, 1951

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STOPWATCH ON THE WORLD ***

STOPWATCH on the WORLD

By Daniel R. Gilgannon

Feature Novel of Deadly Menace

Every member of the UN received the note which said: "... Give us peace within a month or I shall destroy the earth utterly." And only two men believed the sender to be capable of carrying out his threat—two men, bucking red-tape, trying to find the terribly sincere atomic physicist, Chetzisky, before the deadline!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Science Fiction Quarterly May 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Chetzisky held the world in his hand. Would the United Nations act to end war, or was the world doomed?

EXTRACTS, HOSPITAL CASE HISTORY No. 3007:

Patient admitted 11:45 A.M. in coma and severe shock. Pulse weak. Temperature 95. White cell count less than 2,000. Blood draining off into tissues, indicating generalized purpura. Immediate whole blood transfusions given.

DIAGNOSIS: Radiation illness. Exposure considered lethal. Probably about 1,000 roentgens.

2:30 P.M. White cell count now down to 500. Response to aureomycin treatment favorable.... 3:10 P.M. Hematocrit reading remains high at 101.... 3:55 P.M. Lab reports show karyorrhexis developing swiftly as more and more cells are ionized by 'hot' isotopes in patient's body.... 4:40 P.M. Geiger counter set up at bedside to check progressive radioactivity of the human atomic pile.... 5:10 P.M. Guided by hematocrit readings, blood transfusions increased, supplemented by albumen.... 5:50 P.M. Patient conscious. Suffers violent spasms of pain. Morphine barely suffices. He appears thoughtful, moves head weakly....

With a great effort I turn my head and see the sun going down behind the color-splashed ridges of the Coastal range. It's the last sunset I shall ever see and the end of a day that a mad-man with an atomic stopwatch meant to be your last.

Every cell inside me seems a glowing coal. The geiger counter clicks off a slow, steady staccato. Suddenly I find my body arching itself convulsively in a wracking outbreak of pain. There is the quick sharpness of a needle in my arm and mercifully I am numb.

Armstrong, his giant frame hunched over in the chair, watches me with a suffering look new to those hard, cold eyes of his. A good man and a loyal friend. If he weren't as stubborn and resolute as a bull-dog, you might not be sitting down to your supper tonight.

My mind is strangely clear and calm, as if washed by cool, clean winds from distant space. I remember everything vividly, the whole sequence of events that began a month ago.

I was chatting, I recall, with some students about the transuranic elements after my lecture on "The Chain Reaction of Uranium" when a lab instructor tapped me on the shoulder.

"There's an army colonel waiting upstairs in your office, Doctor Bailey."

I was frowning when I left. A reserve officer who served in Military Intelligence on the Manhattan Project, I sensed something ominous in the visit. The Korean situation already had me in an uneasy mood.

My spirits picked up, however, when I entered the office and recognized the tall dignified figure, with grizzled hair, standing by the window.

"Jim Armstrong, you old blood-hound."

"Hello, Arnold," and my hand was lost in his big fist.

Armstrong is a powerfully built man. He played a bone-crushing left end in his college days. You used to need a convoy of light tanks to make a sweep around him. I know; I played against him when I was a blocking back on the Princeton varsity. A former F.B.I. agent, he had one of the toughest and finest minds in Intelligence. Once he picked up a trail, he followed it doggedly. Like the time during the war when he went after government-contract profiteers. Despite faked invoices, bribed witnesses, and strong pressure from higher-ups, he tracked his men down and landed them in jail.

"Now, Jim, what's on your mind?" I said after we were both comfortably seated.

He put his hand in his tunic and brought out a letter which he handed me.

"I want you to read that, Arnold. Yesterday every member of the United Nations received a similar note. No one takes it seriously, regarding it as the work of a peace crank. I'd like to hear what you think about it."

I put on my glasses and opened the letter.

Dear Sirs:

You are herewith given notice to bring peace and freedom to all peoples within thirty days from this date. We are sick of your broken pledges, your compromises with principle, your verbal shilly-shallying. Give us peace within a month or I shall destroy the earth utterly.

Chetzisky.

I recognized the name immediately. "Chetzisky." A brilliant Polish physicist, a refugee who fled the twin tyrannies of Germany and Russia. Unknown to all but a few, he had played an important role in the Manhattan Project. His opinions and work had won the respect of the Comptons, the Oppenheimers, the Seaborgs; even, it's said, of Einstein himself.

His small face, with oddly shining eyes set close together, came vividly to mind. The last time I saw him was in March, 1946, en route to St. Louis for the convention of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. I met him on the train out of Chicago. His conversation was bitter with denunciations of the world's fumblings toward peace.

"We scientists," Chetzisky had said, "give man the means to aid the suffering, to conserve the strength of the toiler, to bring more comfort and leisure to all. But does man appreciate our work? No! He uses our every work to steal from his brother, to cheat, enslave, even to kill him."

His eyes became glinting points as he spoke. His guttural tones grew indistinct as emotion choked him. He was a scientist of a rare order. Yet he was a humanist, too; the suffering he knew as a young Pole, son of tragically poor parents, made him that way. Chetzisky was savagely impatient of the stupidity of man, who built himself a hell instead of a paradise. Science, he felt, could find a way to put mankind on its best behaviour.

"I see your point, Doctor," I had said. "But science has given the world a dose of the atom bomb and it hasn't started behaving."

"Yes, I know. But there must be a way. An enforced goodness is better than none at all." He had fallen into a brooding silence, and I had left him to go to my berth. Next morning I had found Chetzisky still in the lounge car, wrapped in thought.

"Well, Arnold, what do you think?" asked Armstrong, breaking in on my recollections.

"Frankly, Jim, I believe he could do it; he's that kind of man."

"That makes two of us," said Armstrong, his fingers thrumming on the side of his chair. And after a while, "Only two of us."

"You mean to say the government isn't going to make even a routine check?"

"That's right, Arnold. The Korean affair has sidetracked everything else. Of course, they may be right; it may only be a hoax. But I have a hunch it isn't. That's why I came to you."

"I have never known you to have a wrong hunch yet, Jim. I'll go along with you."

"Thanks, Arnold." Armstrong lit up a cigarette and after the first long puff went on, "Have you any idea how Chetzisky could do it? You're a scientist; you should know."

"Well, Jim, it's a fantastic possibility and it calls for some fantastic conjectures. Perhaps he's found a way to produce a chain reaction right down into the earth's core; perhaps he can produce a radioactive cloud of colossal proportions. Then again he may have a way of activating uranium, thorium, and radium deposits all over the world by ultra-high frequency radiations."

"You don't think," said Armstrong, "that there might be atomic bombs cached in strategic places throughout the world, ready to be set off on a certain day by time mechanisms or confederates?"

"Hardly. That would call for such widespread activity and the work of so many hands it couldn't escape detection. Besides, to achieve the annihilation Chetzisky promises would take thousands of bombs. Such production is beyond us as a nation, never mind an individual."

Armstrong got up and walked restlessly about the room. "Arnold, I was only worried when I came here; now I'm terrified."

"What do you plan doing, Jim?"

"We've got to catch up with him fast. We can't take the chance it's a hoax." The square jaw hardened and the muscles tightened in the lean, weather-beaten face. "Will you help me, Arnold?"

"Of course. I can easily get a leave of absence for government business and...."

"You won't be able," Armstrong broke in, "because it isn't government business. Remember there are only two of us who believe this note. Whatever help we'll need I'll have to wrangle by pulling my rank." He pointed to the colonel's eagles on his shoulders.

"But I have six more lectures to deliver this semester, Jim; that will tie me up for three weeks."

"That can't be helped. When is your next class?"

"Tuesday. My lectures are Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Good. That gives you lots of time to work with me between lectures. Beginning right now."

"But—"

"Start packing some things. I'll arrange for you to fly to the atomic labs and take up Chetzisky's trail from there. You'll have the entire weekend to dig up something." He took me by the arm and hustled me out of the office.

While I rummaged in my rooms for a luggage case and packed some clothes, the energetic Armstrong sat on my bed smoking a cigarette and filled me in on the details he had rounded up in the past twenty-four hours. The man was a wonder the way he had gone to work unofficially on the Chetzisky case while still handling a regular official assignment on the leakage of troop movements.

"Doctor Chetzisky got a year's leave of absence from the atomic labs; that was eight months ago. A month ago he dropped out of sight altogether."

"Did he tell anyone where he was going?"

"No, he didn't. But he did have an interesting chat with a visiting English chemist, Doctor Chaslington, the Nobel prize winner. Told Chaslington that our fission methods are as out of date and wasteful as the first automobile. Chaslington didn't press him for further information. Matter of good taste and manners with the Englishman. Besides, he probably figured Chetzisky was simply projecting his fancy into the future."

I grunted as I snapped the suitcase lock shut. "By the way, Jim, have you traced any of the letters yet?"

"No." Armstrong paused to light a fresh cigarette. "That's what I'll be doing while you're away. Ready?" He dropped the burnt-out match in an ash tray and swung my bag off the bed.

Five hours later I was air-bound out of Washington for the atomic labs. As the lights of cities and towns flashed below me, a panicking sense of responsibility seized me. Two of us alone were trying to save two billion people from a deadline of annihilation; forced to do it in our spare time as if the rescue of a planet was a casual hobby for leisure hours. I struck an angry fist into the palm of my hand; a sickening feeling of hopelessness took me by the pit of the stomach.

My glance fell on the newspaper open on my lap. A lovely debutante stared up at me, smiling. "Wedding Set For Next Month," the caption under the picture announced. If there is a next month, I thought. Millions like the debutante were thinking of some bliss next month would bring—the young mother-to-be; the old couple approaching a golden anniversary celebration; the prisoner awaiting release; the author looking forward to his first published book. If Armstrong and I failed—I shook off the thought of it and turned to the sport page. The print grew dim behind a procession of images of happy brides, bright-eyed old couples, beaming, confident young men, and I fell off into an uneasy sleep.

At the airport the Director of the Atomic labs was on hand to meet me and take me to his home for breakfast. I ate hurriedly and waited with evident impatience until my host drove me over to the atomic labs. He showed me into Chetzisky's office and the hunt had begun.

The office was a small neat room at the end of a corridor. I inspected every nook and cranny of the place. I took out the desk drawers, looked for stray papers, leafed through the scientific volumes in the bookcase. I checked the wall calendar for notations or circled dates. I searched everywhere and found nothing.

From the office the Director drove me over to the "prefab" residential section where Doctor Chetzisky's assistant, Roger Budnick, lived. He was just sitting down to a last minute coffee when we came in. The Director introduced us and left. I joined Budnick in a coffee and questioned him about the Doctor. He answered frankly but he had no information.

Disgusted and discouraged I accepted Budnick's offer to ride with him to the labs. His 1938 Chevrolet was parked in front of the house. I noticed the badly dented fender as I walked around to get in the car, and commented on it.

"I got it the same night Doctor Chetzisky had his accident at the lab."

I froze in the act of sliding into the seat beside him. "What accident?"

"Oh, the doctor was doing some work alone one night. Something went wrong and he telephoned for me to come over right away. When I got there everything was all right. He apologized for disturbing me."

"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"No, I don't think so. Except the Geiger; it gave a count a little above normal."

Somewhere here was a lead. I felt it, but I couldn't seem to get my hands on it. "Did he have any visitors about that time?"

Budnick lowered his head, studying the gravelled road in a concentrated attempt at remembering.

He shook his head slowly. Then his memory stirred. "Yes, I remember. A day or so before the accident he had a visitor. Some geologist, I believe; that reminds me, too: that night in the lab the Doctor had one of those boxes mineral samples are kept in. It was very heavy, as if it was solid lead."

Excited now, I shot my questions in rapid fire.

"Do you know the geologist's name?... Would you remember it if you heard it again?... Good.... Can you get the day off?... Then go back home and start remembering that man's name for all your life's worth. Get a telephone directory. Go through it. Try anything but recall that name."

2

I left Budnick a little dazed by my emphatic manner and whipped over to the headquarters of the atomic labs. There I checked on back visitor's lists but evidently the Doctor's geologist friend hadn't visited him on the job. I dropped in at the telegraph office and wired Armstrong in Washington for a list of Chetzisky's acquaintances, the names of the members of the National Academy of Sciences, Association for the Advancement of Sciences, the Geological Society, the OSRD.

Then I went back to Budnick and began a mental third degree, using a rhyming dictionary, a genealogical compendium and the collection lists from an old church bulletin. Hour after hour I kept it up. Others had seen the Doctor's visitor, but only Budnick knew the name. It was the only clue I had to go on.

After eight solid hours, broken only by coffee and sandwich snacks, Budnick was begging me to call off the grilling. "Give me a break. Let me get a little sleep." He clutched his head as if he were trying to keep it from flying apart. His eyes were swollen and red.

"All right," I said; Budnick was at his limit. Besides, I had to wait for Armstrong's reply to my telegram.

Budnick rolled to the floor and went to sleep on the spot. I sank down in an armchair, tired, but too tense to sleep, and waited.

Three hours later Armstrong's reply came. I ripped the yellow envelope open.

CANNOT GET INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED BECAUSE OF NEW SECURITY REGULATIONS.

Armstrong.

I slumped back into the chair, swearing silently at every bureaucrat in Washington. Served them right if we let Chetzisky fry them. But it meant being fried ourselves; I looked over to the snoring Budnick and decided on a trick I had seen Army interrogators work during the war.

"Come on, Budnick," I said shaking him. I called to his wife to bring some fresh coffee. After he had gulped down two steaming cups, I opened up on him again.

"Abeles, Aberon" ... For two hours I shot names at him from a telephone directory without let-up. My voice turned hoarse. Budnick's eyes went sick and he began to turn green, the color of corroded copper.

This was the moment.

I stopped my staccato fire and walked over to the window. Silence settled in the room like a velvet hush. It was soothing, like cool cloth on a fevered forehead.

I went over to Budnick, offered him a cigarette, and lit it for him. He took a long, contented puff. Casually I placed an ash tray at his elbow.

"Thanks," he said.

Then, taking a grip on my banjo nerves, I spoke as quietly as I could, "What did you say his name was?"

"Pilon."

The name sprang from his lips before he realized it. He stared at me dumbfounded, then he was on his feet, yelling like a man suddenly freed from a nightmare. "That's it. Pilon. Pilon. Why didn't I think of it before?"

I said amen to that. Exhaustion took hold of me. I just wanted to sleep. But first I had to wire Armstrong to find out all he could about a geologist named Pilon, first name unknown. Then, without bothering to crawl between the clean sheets, I fell on the bed in the Budnicks' spare room and sank into a black void that kept receding into a deeper and blacker void.

EXTRACTS, HOSPITAL CASE HISTORY NO. 3007:

6:05 P.M. Patient rapidly weakening. White cell count now barely 100. Pulse very feeble. Transfusions now given continuously. Emergency call to Vancouver to fly in fresh supply.... 6:10 P.M. Pain more intense. Morphine given at increasingly frequent intervals. Patient still appears rational.

The days following the visit to the atomic labs and the Budnicks were, I remember, tedious, floor-pacing days.

Back home at the University I mechanically prepared my lecture notes and waited tensely for word from Armstrong. Tuesday came without news. I gave my lecture, stumbling stupidly several times, so great had the strain on me become. I could stand it no longer and immediately after class I phoned Armstrong in Washington.

He sounded high-strung himself. Unable to get official cooperation he was being forced to dig up the information on Pilon by devious methods. "We have to get official support, Arnold," he snapped angrily. "Otherwise, some of these Washington worshippers of red-tape, clerks parroting, 'That's another department, sir,' and 'put it through channels' sticklers are going to kill any chance of our tracking down Chetzisky."

"And kill two billion people," I added with wry humor.

When I hung up, I had my mind made up. I was going to look up an old Princeton schoolmate, Nevil Oxford, now a famous newscaster for the Federal Broadcasting Company.

Nevil was sipping coffee from a paper cup as he bent over the news bulletins on the clattering teletypes when I entered his office in the F.B.C. Building. After a preliminary exchange of the usual alumni gossip I got down to cases and told him about Chetzisky.

"And you really believe he could do it, Arnold?"

"I do. Most certainly."

Nevil's face hadn't much color in it now. "Come on," he said, "Let's go downstairs; I need a drink."

Over scotch and sodas I hammered away at him, trying to get him to break the Chetzisky story on his eleven o'clock broadcast.

"I can't, Arnold. We've been asked to lay off the sensational stuff. Besides, it would start a panic. Remember what happened a month ago when some jaded announcer pulled the gag about the Russians being in the outskirts of the city."

"But, Nev, it isn't a case of Orson Welles tom-foolery; it's a life and death necessity of stirring the government to action through public opinion."

"I can't." He turned to the bartender and ordered a double scotch. No soda this time. "It isn't that I don't believe you, Arnold. It's—ah, hell."

He threw down his drink quickly. For a moment he stood twirling the empty glass in his hand, staring at the lone amber drop rolling in arcs at the bottom. "You know, Arnold, I'm scared. Scared stiff," he said suddenly, turning to me. He looked at his wrist-watch. "I'm on in half an hour; maybe I will tell them."

I watched him walk unsteadily out of the bar, his shoulders set squarely in an attitude of defiance. I toyed with a drink for twenty minutes, then went upstairs to the studio reception room to listen in on Nevil's broadcast. Twice during it he paused significantly as though he was going to break the Chetzisky story, but each time he must have lost his nerve. Or the effects of the scotch had worn off too quickly. Disappointed, I left without bothering to say goodbye to him.

Thursday I phoned Armstrong again. He had no word on Pilon. He had succeeded, however, in tracking down the man who sent out Chetzisky's letters. The man was a retired school-teacher, an old friend of the physicist, to whom Chetzisky had given a number of letters and telegrams to be sent out according to a prescribed schedule. That was as far as the school-teacher's participation went.

The next few days I acted like a caged lion, my eyes cocked fearfully on the calendar, waiting for something to happen. My nights were sleepless. It was nerve-wracking to stand by and watch time run out on the world. And on myself. At first, my stomach simply turned without relish from food; soon, it was turning sick at the sight of it.

A special delivery came from Armstrong Monday night. It was a teletype he had torn right off the machine and rushed to me.

IDENTIFICATION MADE AS HECTOR PILON. AGED 34. DOCTORATE IN GEOLOGY, COLUMBIA U. SPECIALIST IN RADIOACTIVE ORES. MEMBER OF COMMISSION NOW CHECKING URANIUM DEPOSITS IN CONGO. WAS PRESENT IN U.S. DURING PERIOD QUERIED.

There was a hastily written post-script. "Will arrange passport, plane passage, etc., for you. Draw some money from bank for expenses. Armstrong."

My heart pounded. The Congo! The site of the world's richest uranium deposits, it would be just the natural workshop for Chetzisky.

Perhaps, I mused, trying to reason out a pattern, this fellow Pilon discovered or heard of a new ore find in, say, the jungle area east of the famous Katanga district, and told Chetzisky about it.

Of course, I admitted to myself, there was the problem of how the Doctor could get equipment into the area unnoticed. But maybe the answer lay in what Chetzisky had said to Chaslington; maybe there was no equipment problem. Who could tell but that Chetzisky may have found a simplified method of handling and working radioactive ores? He had told Chaslington our present methods were utterly outmoded, hadn't he?

It took Armstrong nearly a week to arrange for my trip to the Belgian Congo. He sent cables to Belgian officials at Leopoldville and to George Disney, chief of the commission with which Pilon was working, inviting their cooperation. In this way he hoped that the prestige of his title and name would lend a semi-official tone to my mission.

Meanwhile, Nevil Oxford phoned me twice, inquiring about our search for Chetzisky. His voice betrayed his uneasiness.

On the morning of my departure from Idlewild the New York Times, as if given confirmation to our conjectures, carried a front page story announcing a new uranium deposit in the Katanga area. Two university scientists who assayed samples stated the ore was among the highest grade yet discovered. Yield about three kilograms per ton.

As I boarded the Constellation I was confident that the chase was coming to an end. I was feverish with a sense of an approaching climax. For a long time I sat in quiet, optimistic thought, staring out the window port at a blue monotone of sky.

After lunch served by a stately blonde stewardess, the Englishman across the aisle struck up a conversation with me. He knew Africa very well, having served there many years for the Unilever enterprises.

He tried to teach me Swahili in one easy lesson, a sort of Esperanto devised by the Arab slave-traders and the lingua franca throughout Africa. I was interested, but a poor student. When I finally crawled into my berth at day's end, it was to dream of tangled jungles of African cedar and wild rubber trees, with limbs festooned with great, wrist-thick vines and monkeys scolding from the tree tops; and through it all the steady chatter of natives saying over and over again, "Simba," "Mungo," "N'Gana," "Bwana," stray bits of Swahili floating in my mind.

When I awoke, we were three hours out of Santa Maria in the Azores after refuelling. I took out my pocket calendar and checked off another day. Only twelve more remained to Chetzisky's deadline.

The plane swung down over the west African coast and then turned inland. Thirty-two hours after leaving Washington, it touched down on the runway at N'Dolo airfield in Leopoldville, Belgian Congo.

"Zero hour," I thought with a quiver of excitement as I stooped through the cabin door onto the landing ramp. On hand to meet me was George Disney, head of the commission, who drove me to the Hotel Albert where I was to put up. He was the leisurely type. Pilon, he said, was up country. He could be called down, or I might go up, just as I wished. In any case I was to consider myself a welcome guest of the Disneys. Disney's conversation had a soft, easy charm. He sipped his aperitif without any sense of urgency, an affable victim of the tropical languor.

I proposed leaving right away to meet Pilon. His eyes took on the hurt look of a polite host whose suggestions have been refused. I pressed my point and he reluctantly consented to arrange transport. He left without finishing his drink, a silent rebuke for what he felt was my unseemly haste, I suppose.

In half an hour I was flying over the wooded savanahs of Kwango towards the mountains of Lualaba Kasai. The plane set down at Katanga eight hours later, where I fretted for twenty minutes before the commission jeep picked me up for the bumpy ride along a piste through a forest of giant trees.

3

I found Pilon at camp, sitting in his tent in the middle of a jungle clearing, making coffee over a Primus stove. I introduced myself. He said he knew I was coming; had received a message a few hours before from Disney. I accepted his coffee and eased into a casual interrogation.

I wove my opening questions around bits of information I had gleaned of Pilon's movements from Disney and the jeep driver. I wanted to test his straightforwardness.

But I had to be careful about my questions. Having no official credentials, I dare not overstep my mark and draw a challenge for them. Disney had accepted me, without question, solely on the strength of Armstrong's cable.

"Just think," I said with the proper air of wonderment, "last Tuesday I was lecturing quietly in a classroom and here I am sitting in the jungle. What were you doing last Tuesday?"

His blue eyes narrowed. "Tuesday?" He paused. "Yes, I was checking ore samples up in the Lake Mwera region."

That was true, I knew. Pilon continued to answer me truthfully and with apparent frankness. But I was not satisfied; his eyes had a sly, mocking look to them as if he were really aware of the purpose of my visit and enjoyed this verbal sparring. I distrusted him.

Suddenly he broke in vehemently on one of my queries, "Why all these questions? Am I suspected of subversive activities?"

I said nothing, scrutinizing him closely. I felt he was acting, his anger a mere pretense to force me to the point of my visit. I stalled for time to think, refilling my cup from the pot on the Primus.

"May I see your credentials, sir?"

I froze in the act of stirring my coffee. Was Pilon just being nasty? Or had the timidity of my questioning given me away?

I couldn't afford to be trapped. Not only would my trip to the Congo be fruitless, but worse, Armstrong would be hauled on the carpet for his part in it and severely disciplined. I myself would probably face ugly disloyalty charges. A bold bluff was my only way out.

I laughed good-naturedly. "After having seen Mr. Disney I didn't expect to have to carry my papers around with me. They're a down-right nuisance to carry around in this outfit I'm wearing." I gestured to the khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt I had on.

He laughed, a forced, hollow laugh. He was uncertain of his ground.

"Of course," I went on, "if you wish, we could go to Leopoldville and...."

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm sorry. I lost my temper. Living alone in this jungle wears a person's nerves a little thin."

I nodded understandingly.

"Dr. Pilon, I really came down here to make inquiries about Doctor Chetzisky."

"Yes?" His eyes took on that cunning look again. He knew something, I was sure. I wondered how much.

"You knew him, I believe."

"I did. In fact, I visited him once, you know." He looked at me, a suppressed grin trembling in the corners of his thin mouth, with the air of a mouse that has deftly side-stepped the swiping paw of a cat.

"A peculiar man, wasn't he? Had some strange ideas."

"Peculiar, yes. In the same sense that Mahatma Ghandi was peculiar," he snapped at me, the blue eyes gleaming with a fanatic's adoration. "As for strange ideas, bringing peace to this fear-ridden planet can hardly be called one."

Ah, so Pilon knew! He realized immediately he had given himself away and became morosely truculent; I had reached the end of the line with him. But I had one card left: Pilon's diary.

While talking to him, I had spotted the marble-edged ledger on the crate-improvised table in the corner of the tent. I was sure it was his journal; I hoped earnestly that it was.

We drank a final cup of coffee in silence while I ransacked my brain for some subterfuge to get Pilon out of the tent. In the end the whole thing was very simple. I asked him if the jeep was ready to take me back to Katanga. He went outside to see.

I went quickly over to the table, slipped the ledger from under two other books, technical journals, and leafed swiftly through the pages. They were dated. I was in luck; it was a diary.

I turned to the date of Pilon's reported visit with Chetzisky and there I found the entry:

JUNE 21:—Visited Doctor Chetzisky today. A brilliant man, deeply concerned for the world. His words moved me as he spoke of policing the world into peace. His hopes, he told me in strictest confidence, rest on an ore discovery by Ian MacRoberts of British Columbia, a university geologist, who seems to have found a new radioactive element easily controlled. The Doctor has received a sample from MacRoberts today to verify the preliminary spectroscopic analysis. When I left, Doctor Chetzisky shook my hand warmly. I wished him success and promised secrecy. He is one of the obscure great men of our times.

I barely finished reading when Pilon's footsteps sounded outside. I closed the book quickly and greeted him when he entered. The jeep was ready, he said, and wished me a pleasant and safe trip to Katanga.

The jeep was just starting off when a native ran up, shouting that Bwana Pilon wanted to see the driver. I sat in the car, waiting uneasily, remembering that I hadn't slipped the ledger back in place; I hoped Pilon hadn't noticed.

Fifteen minutes went by. I climbed out of the jeep and went in search of the driver, who was sitting in Pilon's tent, regarding his watch from time to time.

"Doctor Pilon asked me to wait here for twenty minutes before going," the driver explained. "He said something about he might have a package."

My eyes wandered to the corner table. I drew a deep breath. The ledger was gone.

"I guess we can go now, sir." The driver left the tent.

I followed him and got into the jeep with a growing foreboding. The sun was low in the sky, fading rays dissolving into twilight. I hunched low in my seat, the flesh creeping on the back of my neck as if a gun was sighted on it. Now that Pilon knew I had read his diary, there was good chance he might try to keep me from getting back alive to Katanga. With the ruthlessness of the fanatic Pilon might feel he owed that much to "the great man" Chetzisky.

A mile from camp the trail broke out of the jungle onto a swaying suspension bridge across a deep gorge. The driver inched the jeep across. Looking down I felt nauseous; a fall and a man was a shredded pulp.

Half way across the span it happened. A rifle cracked. The air whined at my ear. The driver slumped stupidly against me and the jeep swerved crazily out of control. I leaped out on the bridge just as the jeep dropped into the gorge. I ran a few yards and hurled myself to the boards; a bullet whistled over me.

I was on my feet again. Another shot rang over. I thanked God for the sway of the bridge; it put the crimp in anyone's marksmanship.

I disappeared into the shelter of the jungle on the other side. The battle was joined; it was Pilon's life or mine. He couldn't let me live, and I couldn't let him. If I got away, he would get in touch with Chetzisky who probably wouldn't wait till the deadline to pull the switch.

Crouched in the brush, panting and slightly dizzy from unaccustomed exertion, I watched Pilon stalking across the bridge, rifle at the ready. My breath began to come easier and my head cleared.

He was across now. He moved into the trail, eyes straining into the shadows. For a moment I had the mad notion of rushing him until I realized in what poor condition my academic life had left me for any wrestling with an outdoor type like Pilon.

Instead I would lure him to the edge of the gorge. Disturbing the undergrowth to look for a stone would be suicide; the noise would attract his attention and fire. As a substitute missile I slipped off my wrist-watch, clipped my pen on the band, and lofted them across the trail into the brush near the gorge, praying they would make enough noise.

They did.

Pilon turned sharply. For a moment he listened. I was certain he would hear my heart pounding wildly. Cat-like he made his way to the spot where my missile fell, probing the leafy undergrowth with the rifle. Then, calling on four years as blocking back at Princeton, I raced out of hiding. Pilon half twisted in surprise as I smashed into him with a rolling hip block that sent him teetering backwards over into the gorge. I can still hear that long shrill scream of terror echoing in my ear.

The impetus of my drive carried me into the bush. I disentangled myself and looked over into the dry, rocky bed of the gorge. Two forms lay motionless there, in dark spreading splotches.

Thoroughly shaken, I stumbled over the bridge and back along the darkening trail to Pilon's camp, where I collapsed in a stupor on the dead man's cot, too exhausted for superstitious misgivings, and fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning a native runner went into Katanga to notify the authorities of the deaths and to have another jeep sent out for me. For two days I was held up in Katanga during the inquest and inquiry. Disney flew down to talk with me, angry that I should upset the leisurely routine of his existence. My explanations, from which I omitted any mention of Chetzisky, didn't satisfy him, but he let matters rest rather than perturb himself by probing further.

EXTRACTS, HOSPITAL CASE HISTORY NO. 3007:

6:35 P.M. Thrombopenia very far advanced. Blood bubbling at patient's lips. Lab reports heparin in blood stream.... 6:50 P.M. Noted radiologist flown in by jet bomber from Los Angeles. Says there is no hope. Radioactive element absorbed through lacerations in patient's body and is now fixed irrevocably in bone marrow. Patient seemed to smile at radiologist.

I wonder who that serious looking gentleman is who was just examining me. I couldn't help smiling at his pompousness; you'd think he was a judge reading out a death sentence.

Where was I? Oh, yes, back in Katanga. From there I wired the University that I would be unable to give my last two lectures of the semester. The Congo dateline on the telegram must have raised the shaggy brows of the venerable Chancellor who till then thought I was no farther away than my rooms at the opposite end of the campus.

Armstrong I had cabled immediately with the information about MacRoberts. I was sure that while I marked time in Africa he would be Starting the chase in far-off British Columbia. Still, the waiting made me restive, and more so when after leaving Leopoldville I lost another day. Engine trouble forced the Constellation down at Accra, where foul weather closed in to keep us grounded.

Finally back in Washington, I ticked off another day on the pocket calendar. Only seven days more.

I went directly to the Statler where Armstrong had his rooms. He greeted me enthusiastically, ordered up some drinks, and plunged right into business. "Arnold, thanks to the lead you picked up in the Congo, we have a good idea where Chetzisky is."

Armstrong unfolded a map with places circled in red and notations scribbled in. "He is somewhere in this area north of Ootsa and Burns lakes. Trappers in the region have identified his photograph. Also we've traced some significant shipments into the area. Paraffin, boron-steel, graphite among other things."

They were significant; they were all materials that could be used in an atomic reactor, principally as moderators to control the neutron irradiation.

"Any word of MacRoberts?" I asked.

Armstrong gave me a quick briefing on the Canadian geologist. Single, fairly well off, Ian MacRoberts spent his summers away from his teaching chores at the University prospecting for minerals, chiefly in one of the least explored portions of the continent, the Rocky Mountain Trench. A transport lost there in 1940 has never been found.

Notes found in MacRoberts' lodgings in the Vancouver suburb of Kerrisdale revealed he had discovered a strange new mineral of marked radioactivity. He made his first find near Lake Babine and traced outcroppings of it as far south as lower California. From his fragmentary data MacRoberts was convinced that a vein of this mineral dipped through the earth's crust at an inclination of 27.6°. Six months ago he had been given a leave of absence from the University; since then he had been seen twice in the company of a man fitting Doctor Chetzisky's description. Information indicated both had headed for the Interior.

"Well, Jim, what are your plans?"

"I have arranged already for groups of searchers to move secretly out of Prince George and Hazelton." His pencil slid over the map. "But you're the key man, Arnold; these groups will only close in on the word from you.

"You're going to fly into Tweedsmuir Park, ostensibly as a tired business man on vacation. It's not unusual up there. Even Hollywood stars like Crosby have escaped into the Tweedsmuir reserve for rest and a new horizon."

I nodded that I understood and rubbed my day old stubble thoughtfully.

"And yes, don't bother shaving. A bit of a beard might be as good a disguise as any if you meet Chetzisky. He may still remember you."

"By the way, Jim, how did you manage to get government support for your idea?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't," I said slowly, "Then how—"

"I'm using my assignment to track down the leakage of our troop movements to the Orient as the apparent reason for my maneuvers. What more likely than such a spy ring should have its headquarters on the Pacific Coast and perhaps a transmitter deep in the mountains." He grinned like a pleased cat.

"You mean none of the Canadian authorities knows you're really after Chetzisky!" The man's gall flabbergasted me.

"That's right."

The bell-hop knocked on the door and entered with our drinks. I gulped mine down and sagged back in a chair, hoping for my brain to clear and find all this was happening only in a nightmare, the result of overindulging in my favorite onion soup.

But it wasn't just a bad dream. "... above all you must creep up on Chetzisky," I heard Armstrong saying.

"Seven days doesn't leave much time for creeping."

"I know." Armstrong was grim. "But the Indian should help."

"What Indian?" I exclaimed. The nightmare feeling deepened.

"I forgot, Arnold. When Chetzisky and MacRoberts disappeared into the wilds, they took two Indians along that had been with MacRoberts on previous trips. Fortunately there was a third Indian, a young boy, who went out once before with MacRoberts. We're counting on him to guide you to wherever the Doctor is."

I mulled over that while Armstrong got on the phone and booked us on the next flight to the coast.

Fifteen hours we were in Vancouver conferring with Major Burley of Canadian Military Intelligence, a precisely neat man who made me painfully self-conscious of my unshaven face. I met Johnny Eagle for the first time. He bore little resemblance to the lithe, stern-eyed Red man of the movies. A dumpy boy of fifteen, dressed in baggy pants and a pullover, he escaped the classification of nondescript only by his eyes; they shone with a quiet luminosity, like lights through a mist. They gave me a feeling of confidence in him.

According to Johnny Eagle, the place we wanted was north of Burns Lake. He didn't know the exact spot, but he remembered two things nearby: a rain-rotted cross on a mountain grave and two peaks that MacRoberts had christened the Twins because of their identical appearance.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was something to keep alive our hopes of getting Chetzisky before it was too late.

"Good luck," Major Burley said, "I hope it won't be a wild goose chase."

"It better not be," Armstrong said tersely. "You better get going, Arnold. I'll keep in touch with you by radio from Burns Lake."

Outside the Major's office I almost collided with a code clerk hurrying in with a message. I thought nothing of it till I was on the street climbing into the car that would take me to the airport and a voice called sharply after me.

"Sir, Major Burley wishes to see you in his office right away."

I went back upstairs, cold with foreboding, suddenly recalling the excited look on the code clerk's face.

Armstrong was standing by the window, looking disconsolate, when I entered. The Canadian said nothing but handed me a decoded message.

ATTENTION CANADIAN INTELLIGENCE: COLONEL ARMSTRONG SUSPENDED FROM FURTHER DUTIES FOR OVERSTEPPING HIS AUTHORITY. WILL REPORT BACK TO WASHINGTON AT ONCE TO FACE CHARGES.

"Now," explained Major Burley sternly, "you will understand why I must cancel your plans, sir."

I blew sky-high.

"Go ahead. Let the world blow up behind their stuffed-shirtism and quintuplicate file copies and pedantic memos and see how well that will protect them when the earth goes 'puff'."

The Major stared at me in frank bewilderment. This "puff" business was something entirely new to him.

I felt a strong grip on my arm.

"Easy, Arnold," Armstrong was saying, a warning look in his eyes. "This is one moment when we have to keep our heads, or more than just us will lose them. Hold tight here for a day. Washington probably got Disney's report on your trip to the Congo. I think I can talk my way out of the mess. If I don't," he shrugged hopelessly, "it's all up to you."

All next day I sweated for a word from Armstrong. About five o'clock a call came from one of his friends in Washington. He was under house arrest but still striving desperately to wake the government up to Chetzisky's threat.

I drink lightly but if at that moment I had a bottle I would have emptied it at one swift sitting. Instead, I took an ice cold shower to calm myself. Half-way through the shower I ran out and picked up the phone to put in a long-distance call. I had an idea.

Nevil Oxford answered. I poured out my story. His voice shook as he talked with me. I had him on the ropes and I kept pouring it on. The earth had only six days to live unless the nation did something about it. We were just a stone's throw, so to speak, from catching up with Chetzisky. What was needed was to rouse public opinion and force the complacent hand of the swivel-chair bureaucrat. As a crusher I told him that the world-wide radioactive count had gone up five roentgens. If only he knew how absurd that was ... but it turned the trick.

"All right, Arnold, I'll go on the air tonight with the story," he said wearily with the tone of a man acquiescing in an inevitable surrender.

I dressed, arranged for a plane to take me and Johnny Eagle into Tweedsmuir early next morning, and settled back with a drink for Nevil Oxford's broadcast. The commercial came on. I gritted my teeth and waited. Then Nevil broke in, his voice tense and pregnant with fear: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight I am breaking the biggest story of my career. It has taken me a long time to decide on telling it. But it must be told."

There was a pause. I sat bolt-upright. Had he lost his courage again? Then Nevil was speaking again, his tone almost inaudible. "If a letter that went out to the governments of the world a month ago is true—and I fear horribly that it is—you and I have only six days to live. The world will end next Monday. Yet nothing is being...."

The voice was cut off and organ music filled the air waves. I stood up and flung my glass at the wall. You warn them and they throttle you; the ostrich hadn't a thing on them.

I went down to the lobby and bought a few magazines to read myself to sleep with, but at two in the morning I was still awake. I put on the radio to get some slumber music. Instead there was a deluge of breathless newscasts and special bulletins. Nevil had started things popping all right, despite being cut off the air. Curious, angry newsmen had dug up the story and spread it in the headlines of Extras from coast to coast. At this moment it was being shortwaved to every part of the world. Already public opinion was beginning to simmer. A special dawn meeting of the cabinet was called. I fell off to sleep smiling; there was hope.

4

In the morning when I read the newspapers on the way to Lulu Island airport, my mood darkened. While public opinion shrieked for action, successive conferences on what was to be done ended in decisions to hold other conferences on what was to be done. Horn-rimmed intellectuals argued hotly whether the Chetzisky question was not one for United Nations discussion. And we make fun of Nero who fiddled while Rome burned!

The day was clear, ideal for flying. It was the fifth day before the end of Time. I bit my lips and looked out at the earth falling away under us.

Four o'clock that afternoon our pontoon-equipped plane swept low over the spruce and jack pine and meadows of wild hay for a smooth landing on Burns Lake, our approach scattering a brood of mallard ducks. We refuelled and were off again. I intended to fly on, watching for the Twin peaks and when darkness fell, to land on one of the mountain tarns and make camp.

Below us the somber stands of evergreen were being swallowed up in the vast shadow spreading out from the western ridges. Turning up a valley corridor I saw the peaks towering above us, summits capped with white and the forested flanks gashed with couloirs in which the snow gleamed.

I blinked often. The air was rough now, tossing our cabin plane, and the constant flickering of the view made my eyes uncertain and my head ache. Suddenly I became aware of the clouds, a few bedraggled tatters at first, close to the timberline, like wisps of angel hair on a Christmas tree. Then as the plane swerved through a narrow pass and up another valley, I saw the sky devil himself—a billowing, black-bottomed cumulus rolled up on itself three miles high.

I went forward to the pilot. He was peering anxiously ahead of him. "Don't you think we better land soon?" I asked.

"The sooner the better, sir. I was figuring on landing up at Schwartz's, a trapper who has his diggings on a lake up aways but we won't make it with that storm." He paused as a sudden current sent the plane off keel and he struggled to bring it level again.

"I think I'll swing west over that ridge," he pointed to a low mountain wall. "I remember a few lakes over there."

The plane banked obediently and swung round. He flipped on the radio, dialing in only ghostly wheezes.

"This country plays the devil with radio, sir. Minerals I understand."

I went back to my seat. Across from me, Johnny Eagle sat motionless, his eyes never leaving the cabin port, on guard for the Twins. The ridge passed below us. Suddenly darkness enveloped us; we had run into a squall. The plane nosed upwards to ride above it. I shuddered. Flying blind with mountains sheering up on either side is suicidal.

When the plane finally broke through, the sun had set. Only a flash of lavender over the western rim remained of the day and soon that faded. The pilot now flew by a faint twilight that mountain snows reflected. The thunderhead cumulus we had evaded was spreading laterally towards us, threatening us with pitch black darkness. I was uneasy; so was the pilot who sat tautly upright. Johnny Eagle remained gazing out at the pallid landscape.

"We're all right now," the pilot shouted back. I went up front.

"There it is." He pointed down to the right. For a moment I saw nothing; then the glimmering form of a lake appeared obscurely.

The plane dipped gently towards it. The pilot's eyes strained to keep the fading glimmer in view, at the same time trying to judge the mass of darkness that was the timber. He did a miraculous job skimming in over the treetops and was just sweeping in over the water for his landing when a sudden gust struck. The plane tilted its nose up abruptly, bucked, then dropped like a load of lead. It slapped the water hard and skidded straight for the wooded shore.

Desperately the pilot tried to bring the craft around, but it plunged relentlessly forward and up on the narrow beach, skittering wildly as it left the water. The tail cracked sharply as it whiplashed against the trees.

Slightly bruised and shaken, we climbed out, but that's all. The pilot got out his torch and we clustered about a map he spread on the ground.

"This is where we are." He indicated a spot bare of all place names and west of the area in which Chetzisky was reported. In case of an air search this would be the last bit of terrain searched. It was far off our expected course. I recalled the story of the transport lost these ten years in this wilderness and unpleasant tingling crept up my spine.

Then I remembered Chetzisky and realized with a sour humor that worrying about time in terms of years was optimistic. Time now was only a matter of three days.

And moping like this wouldn't add to them.

"Check the radio," I snapped, turning to the pilot; "see if you can raise Burns Lake."

He climbed back into the plane. The lights went on; at least, they still worked. I turned to Johnny Eagle, "You better get the sleeping bags out and turn in yourself. There's nothing to be done till morning."

I got in the plane.

"Any chance of fixing it?" I asked, watching the pilot's frantic flickering of switches.

"I'm trying to. It may only be a case of a broken tube from the jolt we had. If so, we're all right; I have a few spares."

I stayed up all night with him. A damp, pallid dawn filtered through a ceiling of clouds, their gray bellies heavy against the tops of the evergreen timber.

The day passed fretfully under the heavy overcast. Johnny Eagle had patched the opening in the tail and we spent the hours inside, sheltered from the drizzling cold. The pilot gave up his despairing tinkering with the radio and fell into an exhausted sleep. I followed suit.

A loud, shrill squealing brought me to my feet hours later. The radio was working again. The pilot was shouting excitedly to me. "I've got 'em. Listen."

"CXRAP. We hear you. Come in."

The pilot flipped the transmitter switch. "CXRAP calling Burns Lake. We are down in area located...." He went on, giving co-ordinates of our position, visibility, weather, and other data.

"Here, sir," he said, handing me the mike. "Someone wishes to speak to you."

I almost dropped the mike at the sound of the voice that boomed over the radio loudspeaker. It was Armstrong's.

Public opinion roused by Nevil Oxford's censored broadcast had forced the government's hand and Armstrong had been placed in command of a last minute effort to locate Chetzisky. Only two days separated the earth from annihilation.

"We can't get to you in this weather, Arnold. Sit tight and pray."

"Don't bother about us, Jim," I told Armstrong. "We're well enough set; don't waste time."

I knew he wouldn't. Afterwards I learned that he parachuted troops into the suspected area north of Burns Lake and rounded up every trapper, prospector, Indian guide and Provincial trooper to scour the region for Chetzisky.

Late in the afternoon the low-lying clouds began to lift. Rifts appeared in the solid grayness but the drizzle kept on. I put on my raincoat and got out of the plane to stretch my legs.

The air was wet, cool, refreshing. I looked about. In places the slopes were visible as far as the timberline and even before. In others the gray pall remained. Somewhere out of it I heard a voice calling my name, more loudly with each repetition. My eyes tried to bore through the haze and shortly a stocky figure detached itself from it, coming towards me. It was Johnny Eagle, his eyes more luminous than I had ever seen them.

"I've found the Twins," he said simply and plunged back into the mist with me close behind.

I stumbled eagerly up the slope for nearly two hundred yards. Johnny Eagle was standing on a boulder, pointing north through a great break in the low ceiling of cloud. I looked, my heart racing wildly. There they were towering in the sky, the Twins, as similar as though they were a double image seen in a badly focussed lens. I judged them to be three miles off.

I yelled for Johnny to stay put while I scrambled down the slope, ripping my pants and scraping my knees as my legs gave way under me in a patch of loose scree. Back at the plane I found the pilot putting up a makeshift antenna.

"Get Burns Lake quick," I ordered between gasps. "Ask for Armstrong."

Armstrong was elated but grimly realistic. "This must be it, Arnold; it has to be."

I knew what he meant. This was our last lead; there wouldn't be time for more.

Armstrong asked whether I could move out up to the peaks and radio a report to him. I looked out of the cabin ports. Night had fallen quickly, but in the cloud blankets the clefts were widening to let feeble patches of starlight show through.

"I'll start right away," I assured Armstrong. "It's clearing here."

Johnny Eagle scouted around the lake till he found a stream flowing from the direction of the Twin Peaks. With it as a guide we set off, panting as we stumbled, slipped, crawled along and wincing as needle-pointed evergreens stung our faces.

Sometimes the stream twisted out of sight, but Johnny pushed on with the ancient woodland canniness of the great Frog tribe. There were times, though, when this mystic sense deserted him and we stood perplexed and barely visible to each other a foot away. We waited, then, for some sudden glimmer to reveal our guiding stream.

My weary legs soon told me my estimate of four miles to the Twins was way off. About midnight we broke out of the forest wilderness high up on the timber line. The night was brilliantly clear by this time; sharply etched shadows of dark pines lay about us. Towering into the starry skies were our Peaks, their upper reaches capped with snow, with here and there a thick dark scar where a fissure lay in shadow. For the first time I saw the Twins were joined, Siamese-wise, by a low truncated mass.

Even though the going became easier, I felt more tired than before. The rarefied air sharpened the sense of fatigue and a tightness clutched at my chest. But I forgot all about it when I saw the grave. I spotted it even before Johnny Eagle cried out. The grave lay exposed in a bare patch above a clump of stunted timber; a tilted rotting cross was its only marking.

The almost unhoped-for discovery of this meager clue to the location of Chetzisky infused me with new energy. My tiring legs revived. Johnny Eagle was hard put to stay ahead of me.

On the bare rock shoulder of the granite bastion between the Twin Peaks we came upon a trail. My pace redoubled. Johnny Eagle stared at me in frank admiration and yielded me the lead.

The trail headed straight for the blank, inaccessible face of the ridge. But as we drew near the sheer wall high up near its rim, a cleft appeared, through which the trail led. The defile was narrow, shrinking at times to the width of a man.

Suddenly the walls fell away and we found ourselves on the narrow strand of a crater lake. In its center the dark mass of an island stood out under the starlight.

I strained for some sign of habitation but the wooded isle remained inscrutable. We began scouting around the lake. About twenty feet from the defile entrance Johnny Eagle discovered a canoe hidden in a crevice of the crater wall. I decided against using it to reach the island. Chances of approaching unseen in it were too slim. Besides, the theft of the canoe would reveal our presence. We couldn't afford that risk with Chetzisky playing God.

We would swim out, I decided. But first we went along the shore to reconnoiter the shortest route and in doing so we spied the clearing on the island. I could make out a cabin and a long, slanting structure resembling a ramp.

This was it, I was sure.

"Johnny, get back to the plane and have the pilot radio Colonel Armstrong that I've found Chetzisky. Give him all the necessary information."

5

I waited till Johnny Eagle had melted away and then, making my .45 as waterproof as I could, I slid into the lake. It was a short swim to the island—fifty yards or so—but I was pretty well exhausted when I dragged myself out of the water. The cold air knifed into my back and shoulder blades. It was welcome relief to crawl into the shelter of the undergrowth and rest a while.

With some of my strength back, I pushed on cautiously through the bushes and tightly-packed trees. The first washings of dawn now appeared in the sky. It was the beginning of the day that Chetzisky had chosen for the world to die.

When I came to the edge of the clearing, I stopped, my eyes probing the morning grayness. Then I stepped quickly out of the brush. Suddenly I stopped dead, afraid even to breathe. Two feet from me an Indian dozed, a rifle across his lap. It was too late; his eyes blinked open. I hurled myself on him. There was a brief scuffle and then he lay still, knocked unconscious by the butt of my .45.

I faded back into the undergrowth and waited. I thought I heard the door of the cabin in the clearing open. But nothing happened.

I let out a deep breath and started skirting the clearing, keeping in the shadows until I was in front of the ramp-like runway. I stared hard at it, trying to make out the details.

At the top of the sloping track was a cylindrical mass, the size of an oil drum. It reminded me instantly of the beer-barrel nuclear reactor, a portable affair, developed by the British physicist Robert Parker. Its purpose dawned on me: This was the trigger of the atomic gun that Chetzisky held at the temples of a planet.

I moved in for a clearer view. As I did I was brought up abruptly by a calm, even voice, its tone of command sharpened in the crisp morning air. "You needn't move any more, gentleman. Just raise your hands."

I looked in the direction of the speaker, as my hands went up. Out of the shadows in front of us emerged a short man with a rifle. Chetzisky! At last!

Bundled in a heavy mackinaw, wearing a fur cap with ear muffs, wool socks rolled over the tops of his high boots, he looked grotesque, hardly the intended assassin of a planet. More like a farmer who's waited through a winter night to catch a chicken thief.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply. In his tone I detected a worried uncertainty. I decided on the bold approach.

"Where is Professor MacRoberts?" I demanded sternly.

Chetzisky lowered his rifle slowly. He seemed surprised; relieved too. "You're looking for Doctor MacRoberts?"

"Yes, the University became worried about him and hired me to find him, fearing he might be ill or lost in this wilderness."

"How did you come to track him here?" Chetzisky cocked his head to one side and squinted at me suspiciously.

"Well, it happens, sir, that I'm a private investigator, specializing in missing persons," I lied with gusto. "When the University hired me to locate MacRoberts, I interviewed the man's friends, talked with the Indians, etc. And behold, here I am."

I grinned broadly with affected boastfulness. Chetzisky eyed me intently. I felt grateful for my mask of beard at that moment.

"You came alone?" he asked, relieving me of the automatic in my belt.

I nodded.

The Doctor put down his rifle. "I'm sorry to appear threatening. But I have reasons. Will you come into my cabin?"

He ushered me in front of him into a low-ceilinged house of fir logs. The room we entered was furnished with home-made chairs and a table on which a lantern burned with a low wick. In the far corner was a door leading to another room.

"My name's Roy Carlson," I said amiably as we sat down at the table, Chetzisky at one side alone, the rifle across his knees.

"I'm Doctor Hansen, geologist," volunteered Chetzisky, bowing slightly, and after a pause, "an associate of Doctor MacRoberts."

"Then where is he?" I demanded, seeking to keep the Doctor on the defensive.

"In the next room; he's very ill."

"What's the trouble?"

"Radiation sickness. A very bad case. Very painful. I have to keep him under drugs constantly."

"Why didn't you let his friends know?" My voice was angry and my anger was genuine.

"You see, Mr. Carlson, we are out of the world here. We have no telegraphic station just around the corner." He smiled an irritating, sarcastic smile.

My blood boiled. I wanted to jump him then and there, but his fingers were caressing the trigger of the rifle. "How did it happen?"

"Doctor MacRoberts and I were tracing a radioactive deposit. Without the necessary precautions he handled the ore for long periods of time. Fearfully careless." Chetzisky shook his head with the "tsk-tsk" air of a Chemistry teacher deprecating the clumsiness of a freshman student in the lab.

My brain tried to formulate a plan of action. But there should be two Indians. Where the devil was the other? I had to know before I went into action.

My head turned sharply. Several groans mounting into shrill cries came from the other room. "May I see him?" I asked, rising.

"You may. Go right in, Mr. Carlson."

I went in. The air was foul from vomit. On a cot lay a twitching form, whose features became suddenly visible in the rays of the lantern Chetzisky held up behind me. I gasped. The face was puffed into fiery welts and the eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, glowed fiercely in a savage agony.

"The poor devil," I exclaimed; "it would almost be better to shoot him."

Chetzisky was shocked. "For a dog, yes. But for a man, Mr. Carlson, that is murder."

What a sardonic jest. The man who planned to wipe out two billion people rebuking an unintended suggestion of mercy killing. I was so choked with anger that I could barely answer. "Just a figure of speech, Doctor."

Outside in the other room a door slammed. Someone rushed in shouting, "Soldiers, soldiers dropping from the skies." It was the other Indian.

Chetzisky kept his rifle aimed at my belly as the Indian poured out the details. Two planes had dropped paratroopers just outside the crater. He told the Indian to go back outside and watch and tell him when the soldiers got inside the crater.

"So you are looking for Professor MacRoberts, a private investigator," Chetzisky chuckled softly. "There is something familiar about you; I should have paid more attention to my suspicions in the beginning. You're someone I met once. That beard confuses me."

He waited for me to answer. I had to keep him talking; the paranoiac loves it. All Armstrong's men needed now was time. They were at the doorstep. "I'm Doctor Arnold Bailey of Atlantic University."

Chetzisky wrinkled his forehead.

"We met about four years ago en route to the St. Louis convention."

"Yes," he said slowly as if the recollection was gradually unfolding itself. "Yes, I remember you now. In fact, very well. We had a most interesting chat; do you recall it?"

"Something about making the world peaceful, wasn't it?"

"That's correct," Chetzisky commented with approval. "It was just my dream then. Now it's real, thanks to the unfortunate Doctor MacRoberts. You saw that incline outside. At its top is a drum filled with crude radioactive ore that MacRoberts discovered. The whole is charged with three milligrams of the new purified radioactive element. It was extremely easy to isolate. A simple precipitation process involving some hot ethyl iodide and a 0.1 Normal solution of cuprous chloride...."

He stopped abruptly as he detected a slight forward motion on my part. I threw him a question to dissolve the tension.

"What is the name of the new element?"

"You must admit it is difficult to call it 'MacRobertium.' Besides, it hasn't the scientific flavor," he said with an amused smile. "The Scots weren't meant for scientists. I call it simply 'MCR'."

He motioned me to fall back a few steps and then went on.

"The remarkable property of MCR is its diffusion rate, something like two centimeters a minute, assuming a specific gravity of 2.7 for the medium. MacRoberts traced a vein containing MCR ore to this point and for the past two months I've been impregnating it with refined MCR, converting it into a slow, controlled reactor."

The Doctor was warmed up now, and I didn't dare interrupt for fear of bringing him out of his paranoic trance. Armstrong might arrive any minute. I hoped.

"When the time comes," he continued, "and I believe it is now, I will remove the moderator bar from the drum at the top of the incline and release it. It will strike a trigger mechanism which will catapult it into the face of the vein of MCR ore. The critical mass will be exceeded and a planetary atom bomb will have been born."

His eyes were shining now with the madness of his dream. "The chain reaction will proceed through the earth's plastic mantle and down into the liquid core."

He paused to enjoy the pleasure of his speculations. "Then within ten hours I calculate the earth will exist no more. It will become a mushrooming cloud of cosmic dust. It deserves no better," he added bitterly; "I tried to give it peace."

Someone entered the room. It was the Indian reporting that the soldiers had penetrated into the crater.

"Watch this man," Chetzisky commanded. "Shoot him if necessary."

He left the room. I heard the cabin door shut and its sound echoed like a sentence of doom. In the long strained silence that followed I thought frantically.

Then the silence was broken. The cabin door opened again, dragging footsteps approached the room. Eyes bloodshot, one hand holding his head in evident pain, the Indian I had beat down with the butt of the .45 appeared in the doorway.

He glared at me in sudden recognition and with the roar of an enraged bull lunged at me. The other Indian tried to hold him back. That one moment was my opportunity; I picked up one of the home-made chairs and crashed it down on their heads. While they stumbled about groggily, I dashed out of the cabin after Chetzisky.

He was standing at the head of the ramp, working what appeared to be a lever. He heard me coming and fired his rifle at me twice. He missed my zigzagging figure. He acted quickly now, releasing the lever, and turning round, braced himself to meet my charge. We fell to the ground, Chetzisky clinging to me savagely, rolling me over and over until I realized what his game was, to move farther and farther from the ramp. I twisted my head and looked back.

My blood went cold. The drum was no longer at the top of the incline. It was half-way down and moving faster.

I shook Chetzisky off and started for the ramp, but he threw out his foot and tripped me. Sprawled out on the ground I looked up to see the drum swiftly moving towards the trigger mechanism that would catapult it into the head of the vein. I couldn't stop it now; time had run out on the world.

And in that black moment when the earth trembled on the rim of nothingness, the conditioned reflexes that I had acquired in four years of football asserted themselves. I was on my feet rushing madly and then I was sailing through the air. The breath was knocked out of me as I landed on the ramp. Something hard struck my side and kept crushing me.

At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a cold sweat broke out all over me. Chetzisky was beside me now, screaming at me and pulling me.

"You'll kill yourself," he kept shrieking.

I fought him off. I couldn't let him pull me off the ramp. Only my body stood between the earth and its annihilation.

"Don't be a fool; let me help you," he pleaded. He was a transformed being now; no longer the mad-man destroying a planet but a man trying to save the life of another human being. It was too late for such sentiment now. I didn't want to be saved.

He came at me again. I got one arm loose and pushed a fist at him. He went reeling backwards. He changed his tactics and started to pull me by the feet. I couldn't get at him. My body started to move. I clutched fiercely to one of the ramp rails.

He came around in front of me to loosen my grip. I pushed him off. He picked up a stone and came at me again. He meant to rescue me, like it or not. He raised the stone to knock me unconscious.

A shot rang out. Chetzisky sagged forward and dropped to the ground.

Canadian soldiers in battle dress were crowding around me, Armstrong with them. I felt sick, my head spun, but I managed to tell him what to do about the drum and the ramp.

"Okay, Arnold. We'll get you to a hospital right away."

The world spiralled down out of sight down a cone of darkness until I woke up in this hospital bed hours later with these flaming embers inside me. It won't be long now. I can read it in Armstrong's eyes.

There's strength in the feel of that friendly hand now that the world inside me is going to pieces. Around me a soft blackness is settling....

EXTRACTS, HOSPITAL CASE HISTORY NO. 3007:

7:20 P.M. Patient relapsed into coma. Pulse almost imperceptible.... 7:32 P.M. Patient pronounced dead.

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Table of Contents

- STOPWATCH on the WORLD

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE