Dr. Salva Gordy looked at the radioactive smear that
had been Detroit. Then he looked down at the boiling
anthill. Why not, he thought excitedly, why not?...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gordy survived the Three-Hour War, even though Detroit didn't; he wason his way to Washington, with his blueprints and models in his bag,when the bombs struck.
He had left his wife behind in the city, and not even a trace of herbody was ever found. The children, of course, weren't as lucky as that.Their summer camp was less than twenty miles away, and unfortunatelyin the direction of the prevailing wind. But they were not in any painuntil the last few days of the month they had left to live. Gordymanaged to fight his way back through the snarled, frantic airlinecontrols to them. Even though he knew they would certainly die ofradiation sickness, and they suspected it, there was still a wholeblessed week of companionship before the pain got too bad.
That was about all the companionship Gordy had for the whole year of1960.
He came back to Detroit, as soon as the radioactivity had died down;he had nowhere else to go. He found a house on the outskirts of thecity, and tried to locate someone to buy it from. But the EmergencyAdministration laughed at him. "Move in, if you're crazy enough tostay."
When Gordy thought about it all, it occurred to him that he was ina sort of state of shock. His fine, trained mind almost stoppedfunctioning. He ate and slept, and when it grew cold he shivered andbuilt fires, and that was all. The War Department wrote him two orthree times, and finally a government man came around to ask what hadhappened to the things that Gordy had promised to bring to Washington.But he looked queerly at the pink, hairless mice that fed unmolested inthe filthy kitchen, and he stood a careful distance away from Gordy'shairy face and torn clothes.
He said, "The Secretary sent me here, Mr. Gordy. He takes a personalinterest in your discovery."
Gordy shook his head. "The Secretary is dead," he said. "They were allkilled when Washington went."
"There's a new Secretary," the man explained. He puffed on hiscigarette and tossed it into the patch Gordy was scrabbling into atruck garden. "Arnold Cavanagh. He knows a great deal about you, and hetold me, 'If Salva Gordy has a weapon, we must have it. Our strengthhas been shattered. Tell Gordy we need his help'."
Gordy crossed his hands like a lean Buddha.
"I haven't got a weapon," he said.
"You have something that can be used as a weapon. You wrote toWashington, before the War came, and said—"
"The War is over," said Salva Gordy. The government man sighed, andtried again, but in the end he went away. He never came back. Thething, Gordy thought, was undoubtedly written off as a crackpot ideaafter the man made his report; it was exactly that kind of a discovery,anyhow.
It was May when John de Terry appeared. Gordy was spading his garden."Give me something to eat," said the voice behind Gordy's back.
Salva Gordy turned around and saw the small, dirty man who spoke. Herubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "You'll have to work forit," he said.
"All right." The newcomer set down his pack. "My name is John de Terry.I used to live here in Detroit."
Salva Gordy said, "So did I."
Gordy fed the man, and accepted a cigarette from him after they hadeaten. The first puffs made him light-headed—it had been that longsince he'd smoked—a