“We seem to already have something,” murmured the Secretary, a slender, graying gentleman with aristocratic features. “The incidents at the satellite-project seem to indicate that there’s something they don’t like about our ordinary testing methods.”
“Eh? How do you mean?”
“Three men—volunteers for the project—vanished as soon as they found out that they had to submit to all the physicals, mental tests, and so forth. I don’t know what they were afraid of. They were already on the reservation. Found out they’d have to be tested again, and vanished. One a known suicide, but the body’s still in the river.”
“ ‘Tested again’?” the President echoed.
“That’s right, John. They’d gone through it before. This was just a recheck for this particular project. Of course, I don’t know that they were agents.”
“Mmm! So they can’t stand a recheck. All right, recheck everybody.”
“John! A third of the population works for the government!”
“I mean everybody connected with new projects, the most important installations. This might be a weapon for us.”
When he received the Secretary’s report a week later, John grinned happily. The rechecks had begun, and the disappearances were mounting. But the grin faded when he read the rest of it. Two of the men had been caught attempting to escape. They had been lodged in a local jail to await transfer to the capitol. During the night, the jailer became aware of a blinding light from the cellblocks and the stench of burnt organic matter. By the time he reached their cells, the men were gone, and there were only sickening fumes, charred ashes, and a pair of red-hot patches on the floor. Somehow they had gotten incendiary materials into their cells, and the cremation was complete—too complete to be credible.
Then the disappearances began to taper off—until finally, after a few weeks, they ceased completely. He wondered: were the culprits all ferreted out, or had some of them managed to get around the rechecks?
He had spoken to the Asian leader several times, and Ivan was growing curt, even bitingly nasty at times. The President hopefully interpreted it as a sign that his probe was successful enough to worry the Red. He tried to strengthen his position with respect to the proposed conferences, and made only minor concessions such as agreeing to a coastal city in Mexico as the site, rather than the shifting capitol. Ivan sneeringly made equally minute adjustments eastward from Singapore. There was apparently going to be a deadlock, and John was somehow not sorry.
Then the cold-eyed face on the screen did an abrupt about-face, and announced, “I propose that the delegates, including the leaders of both states, meet at a site of your selection in either of the neutral polar regions, not later than Seventhday of Veto Week—which, I think is your Fried Pie Week?—and come prepared to discuss and exchange information relating to size of armament-inventories and future plans. This is my last proposal.”
They stared at each other coldly. John started to utter a refusal, then paused. Seventhday of … it was one day before the satellite program began moving into space. If he could keep the Eastern Leader tied up for a few weeks afterwards—
“I’ll consider your proposal and give you a reply tomorrow,” he said bluntly.
The Peoplesfriend gave him a curt nod and clicked off the screen. John chuckled. The enemy’s espionage program was evidently getting badly hurt. About one percent of the West’s population had been executed, imprisoned, or shifted to other jobs as a result of the congressional probe. The one percent probably included quite a few guilty citizens.
“Rodner, I want a Strike-Day set, a full-scale blitz-operation readied as soon as possible,” he told the defense-chief. “I know that a lot of your target information is forty years old, but work out the best plan you can. A depopulation strike, perhaps; there are only two opinions in the world, so ‘world-opinion’ is not one of the things we need to consider.”
The Defense Secretary caught his breath and sat stiffly erect. “War?” he gasped.
“Don’t use that word.”
“Sorry, peace-effort.”
“No. At least I hope not. I want a gun aimed at them as a bargaining point. But I want it to be a damned big gun, and one that’s capable of shattering every major city in the East on a few hours’ notice. How effective could you make it—if you had to?”
The Secretary frowned doubtfully and tugged at his ear. “Well, John, our strategic command has kept a running plan in effect, revising it to allow for every tidbit of information we can get. Planning continental blitzes is a favorite past-time around high-level strategic commands; it keeps the boys in trim. A plan could probably be agreed upon in a very short time, but its nature would depend on your earliest deadline date.”
“Two dates,” grunted the tragedy-mask. “The first is Seventhday, Fried Pie Week. I want a maximum possible effort readied by then, with a plan that allows for a possible standby at that date, and a continued buildup to a greater maximum—to be reached when the satellite station is in space and ready for battle. Include the station in the extended plan.”
“This is a very dangerous business, John.”
The mask whirled. “Do you presume to—?”
“No, Sir. The strike-effort will be prepared as soon as possible.” He bowed slightly, then left the presidential study-vault.
Smith turned to gaze at his Stand-ins. “You will go,” he said, “all of you, to the examining authorities for the standard loyalty tests and psych-phys rechecks.”
The nine masked figures glanced at one another in surprise, then nodded. There were no protests. The following day he had only seven Stand-ins; Four and Eight had been trapped in a burning building on the outskirts of the rabble city, and their remains had not been found.
Smith kept a tight cork on his rage, but it seethed inside him and threatened to burn through as the time approached to
