said. “I’m on the best of terms with my service station.”
“What were you getting done to her?” Convery eyed the Lincoln with a practical man’s disdain.
“Brakes needed adjusting.”
“Is that so? I thought the brakes on these things were self-adjusting.”
“Perhaps they are — I never looked to see.” Breton began to wonder how long this could go on. “All I know is she wasn’t stopping too well.”
“Do you want some advice? Make sure the wheels are bolted on properly before you take her out on the road. I’ve seen cars come back from a brake job with the wheels’ nuts hanging on by a single thread.”
“I’m sure it’ll be all right.”
“Don’t trust ‘em, John — if there’s anything they can leave loose without it actually falling off, they’ll do it.”
Convery suddenly uncoiled himself and whipped around to the rear of the car before Breton could move. He caught the handle of the trunk lid, raised it — staring triumphantly at Breton — and slammed it down hard, twisting the handle into the locked position.
“See what I mean? That could have sprung up while you were traveling fast — very dangerous.”
“Thanks,” Breton said faintly. “I’m obliged.”
“Think nothing of it — all part of the service to the taxpayers.” Convery pulled thoughtfully on one of his ears. “Well, I’ve got to go. My kids are having a birthday party, and I’m not supposed to be out at all. Be seeing you.”
“Any time,” Breton replied. “Look me up any time.”
He waited uncertainly, then followed Convery around the side of the house, reaching the front in time to see a green saloon surge down the street with a grumbling of exhausts. A cool breeze scattered dry leaves before him as he turned and walked back to the car. Convery’s last remark had been a significant one. It had revealed that his call had been neither social nor accidental, and Convery was unlikely to give away information without a reason. Breton was left with the distinct impression that he had been given a warning — which left him in a strange and potentially lethal situation.
He could not risk killing John Breton with Lieutenant Convery possibly circling the block, waiting for something to happen.
Yet he could not let John Breton live after what had happened — and there was very little time in which to resolve the dilemma.
XI
Several decades had gone by since General Theodor Abram had actually set foot on a field of battle, but he thought of himself as living in an ephemeral no-man’s-land separating two of the greatest war machines ever seen in the region’s ancient and bloody history.
There was never an hour, a minute, a single instant in which his mind was not dominated by the realization that he was a vital part of his country’s front line defenses. If the ultimate conflict was ever joined he would not be required to press any buttons; the tools of his trade were made of paper, not steel; but he was a warrior nonetheless because the burden of responsibility for technical preparedness was such that only a patriot and a hero could have borne it.
The nightmare of General Abram’s life was compounded by the fact that he had two entirely separate sets of enemies.
One was the nation against whom his own people might some day be called to arms; the other set was represented by his own missiles and the technicians who designed and maintained them. A scarred fortress of a man, intended by nature for fighting with broadsword and mace, he had little instinct for technological warfare and even less for the interminable waiting which was the alternative. As far as possible he avoided making personal visits to the underground bases — too often, seven out of a batch of eight missiles would have malfunctionings in their incredibly complex innards. The technicians in charge seemed oblivious to the thought that these “minor defects” and the subsequent replacernent and testing procedures were reducing the country’s initial strike power to a fraction of its nominal value.
Abram could not understand why a ballistic missile had to have something like a million parts; still less could he fathom the mathematics of reliability which dictated that the assembly of individually trustworthy components in such large numbers invariably produced a willful, capricious entity whose effectiveness could vary from minute to minute. During his years in office he had developed a profound dislike for the scientists and engineers who had inflicted his present circumstances on him, and he took every opportunity to show it.
He glanced at his watch. Dr. Rasch, chief scientist in the Defense Ministry, had phoned earlier for an appointment and was due to arrive at any second. The thought of having to endure the little man’s thin, overly- precise tones so late in the afternoon made General Abram’s already taut nerves sing like high tension cables in a storm. When he heard the outer door of his office open, he leaned forward on his desk, scowling, ready to crush the scientist by the sheer weight of his hatred.
“Good afternoon, General,” Dr. Rasch said as he was shown in. “It was most kind of you to see me at such short notice.”
“Afternoon.” Abram looked closely at Rasch, wondering what had happened. The little man’s yellowed eyes had a strange light in them. It could have been fear, relief, or even triumph. “What’s the news?”
“I don’t quite know how to tell you, General.” Abram suddenly realized that Rasch was enjoying himself, and his depression grew even deeper. They must have found a design flaw in some component — a pump perhaps, or a microscopic valve — which demanded retrospective modification to every installation.
“I hope you’ll find some way to express yourself,” Abram said heavily. “Otherwise your visit seems rather pointless.”
Rasch’s lean face twitched violently. “The difficulty is not in my powers of expression, but in your powers of comprehension.” Even in anger, Rasch still spoke with carefully measured pedantry.
“Make it very simple for me,” Abram challenged.
“Very well. I presume you’ve noticed the meteor shower which has been going on for some time now?”
“Very pretty,” Abram sneered. “Is that what you came to discuss with me?”
“Indirectly. Have you learned what’s causing this unprecedented display?”
“If I have, I’ve forgotten it already. I have no time for scientific trivialities.”
“Then I’ll remind you.” Rasch had recovered his poise — a fact which Abram found vaguely disturbing. “There is now no doubt that the force of gravity is decreasing. The Earth normally travels in an orbit which it has long ago swept clear of cosmic debris, but with the new change in the gravitic constant the orbit is becoming cluttered again — partly as a result of displacement of the planet, even more so as a result of the apparently greater effect on minute bodies. The meteor displays are visual evidence that gravity — “
“Gravity, gravity!” Abram shouted. “What do I care about gravity?”
“But you should care, General.” Rasch permitted himself a small, tight smile. “Gravity is one of the constants in the calculations which the computers in your missiles perform to enable them to reach their designated targets — and now the constant is no longer a constant.”
“You mean.. ” Abram broke off as the enormity of Rasch’s words got through to him.
“Yes, General. The missiles won’t land precisely on the selected targets.”
“But you can allow for this change in gravity, surely.”
“Of course, but it’s going to take some time. The decrease is progressive, and — “
“How long?”
Rasch shrugged carelessly. “Six months, perhaps. It all depends.”
“But this places me in an impossible situation. What will the President say?”
“I wouldn’t venture a guess, General — but we all have one consolation.”
“Which is?”
“Every nation in the world is facing the same problem. You are worried about a comparative handful of short-range missiles — think how the Russians and the Americans and the others must be feeling.” Rasch had
