 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome, Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode, it's Thriller Thursday and this week I'm bringing you some dark science fiction, which ended up, after the story was published, being less science fiction and more science fact, almost as if the author was a prophet. Blow Ups Happen is a 1940 science fiction short story by American writer Robert A. Heinlein. The story describes the tensions among the staff of a nuclear reactor. Heinlein's concept of a nuclear reactor was one of a barely contained explosion, not the steady-state thermal plants developed later. As a consequence, the work is dangerous and the slightest mistake could be catastrophic. All the technical staff are monitored by psychologists who have the authority to remove them from the work at any time lest they crack under the pressure and precipitate a disaster. The monitoring itself contributes to the problem. In writing the story, Heinlein only had public knowledge of nuclear fission, but still he somehow anticipated the actual development of nuclear technology which arose just a few years later. The story was first published in Astounding Science Fiction in 1940, before any nuclear reactors had ever even been built. A few years later, when the story was re-released in the 1946 anthology, The Best of Science Fiction, Heinlein did make a few modifications to the story in order to reflect how a reactor actually worked, as more information about nuclear energy and reactors was available. He also at that time made revisions to mention Hiroshima and Nagasaki since those nuclear attacks had taken place after his original short story had been published. But tonight I will be sharing the original magazine publication version from 1940 without the updates and revisions, something to keep in mind while you are listening. And if you liked the story tonight and you want to know what happens next, Robert Heinlein did write somewhat of a sequel called The Man Who Sold the Moon. Blow Ups Happen is also an award-winning story. In 2016 it was nominated for the 1941 Retro Hugo Award for Best Novelette. Please keep in mind as I read the story that it was published in 1940, so some of the language, particularly one term used to describe those who have black skin, was not as frowned upon back then, and my policy is to always keep the audiobooks I narrate in their original form, without edits or censoring. The words are those of the author, not my own, and I keep them intact as my way of preserving history. Before we get to the story, if you are new here, welcome to the show, and if you are already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show. And while you are listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com where you can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Mines, Me, We, and more, along with the Weird Darkness Weirdos Facebook group. Now, as it was written in 1940, its blow ups happen by Robert Heinlein. So, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Put down that wrench. The man addressed turns slowly around and faced the speaker. His expression was hidden by a grotesque helmet, part of a heavy, leaden armor which shielded his entire body, but the tone of voice in which he answered showed nervous exasperation. What the hell is eating on you, duck? He made no move to replace the tool in question. They faced each other like two helmeted, arrayed fencers watching for an opening. The first speaker's voice came from behind his mask, a shade higher in key and more preemptory in tone. You heard me, Harper. Put down that wrench at once and come away from the trigger. Ericsson. A third armored figure came around the shield which separated the uranium bomb proper from the control room in which the first two stood. What you want, duck? Harper is relieved from watch. You take over as engineer of the watch. Send for the standby engineer. Very well. His voice and manner were phlegmatic as he accepted the situation without comment. The atomic engineer whom he had just relieved glanced from one to the other, then carefully replaced the wrench in its wreck. Just as you say, Dr. Silerd, but send for your relief too and I shall demand an immediate hearing. Harper swept indignantly out his lead sheathed to boots clumping on the floor plates. Dr. Silerd waited unhappily for the ensuing twenty minutes until his own relief arrived. Perhaps he had been hasty. Maybe he was wrong in thinking that Harper had at last broken under the strain of tending the most dangerous machine in the world, an atomic power plant. But if he had made a mistake, it had to be on the safe side. Slips must not happen in this business. Not when a slip might result in the atomic detonation of two and a half tons of uranium. He tried to visualize what that would mean and failed. He had been told that uranium was potentially forty million times as explosive as TNT. The figure was meaningless that way. He thought of it instead as 100 million tons of high explosive, 200 million aircraft bombs as big as the biggest ever used. It still did not mean anything. He had once seen such a bomb dropped when he had been serving as a temperament analyst for Army aircraft pilots. The bomb had left a hole big enough to hide an apartment house. You cannot imagine the explosion of a thousand such bombs, much much less a hundred million of them. Perhaps these atomic engineers could. Perhaps with their greater mathematical ability and closer comprehension of what actually went on inside the nuclear fission chamber, the bomb, they had some vivid glimpse of the mind-shattering horror locked up beyond that shield. If so, no wonder they tended to blow up. He sighed. Erickson looked up from the linear resonant accelerator on which he had been making some adjustment. What's the trouble, Doc? Nothing. I'm sorry. I had to relieve Harper. Scyler could feel the shrewd glance of the big Scandinavian. Not getting the jitters yourself, are you, Doc? Sometimes you squirrel slews blow up, too. Me? I don't think so. I'm scared of that thing in there. I'd be crazy if I weren't. So am I," Erickson told him soberly, and went back to his work. The accelerator's snout disappeared in the shield between them and the bomb, where it fed a steady stream of terrifically speeded up subatomic bullets to the beryllium target located within the bomb itself. The tortured beryllium yielded up neutrons, which shot out in all directions through the uranium mass. Some of these neutrons struck uranium atoms squarely on their nuclei and split them in two. The fragments were new elements, barium, xenon, rubidium, depending on the proportions in which each atom split. The new elements were usually unstable isotopes and broke down into a dozen more elements by radioactive disintegration in a progressive chain reaction. But these chain reactions were comparatively unimportant. It was the original splitting of the uranium nucleus with the release of the awe-inspiring energy that bound it together, an incredible 200 million electron volts that was important. And perilous. For while uranium isotope 235 may be split by bombarding it with neutrons from an outside source, the splitting itself gives up more neutrons which in turn may land in other uranium nuclei and split them. If conditions are favorable to a progressively increasing reaction of this sort, it may get out of hand, build up in an unmeasurable fraction of a microsecond into a complete atomic explosion. An explosion which would dwarf the eruption of Krakatoa to popgun size. An explosion so far beyond all human experience as to be as completely incomprehensible as the idea of personal death. It could be feared, but not understood. But a self-perpetuating sequence of nuclear splitting just under the level of complete explosion was necessary to the operation of the power plant. To split the first uranium nucleus by bombarding it with neutrons from the beryllium target took more power than the death of the atom gave up. In order that the output of power from the system should exceed the power input in useful proportion, it was imperative that each atom split by a neutron from the beryllium target should cause the splitting of many more. It was equally imperative that this chain of reactions should always tend to dampen, to die out. It must not build up, or the entire mass would explode within a time interval too short to be measured by any means whatsoever. Nor would there be anyone left to measure it. Our story, Blow Ups Happen by Robert Heinlein continues in just a moment. The atomic engineer on duty at the bomb could control this reaction by means of the trigger, a term the engineers used to include the linear resonant accelerator, the beryllium target and the adjacent controls, instrument board and power sources. That is to say, he could vary the bombardment on the beryllium target to increase or decrease the power output of the plant, and he could tell from his instruments that the internal reaction was dampened, or rather that it had been dampened the split second before. He could not possibly know what was actually happening now within the bomb. Subatomic speeds are too great and the time interval too small. He was like the bird that flew backward. He could see where he had been, but he never knew where he was going. Nevertheless, it was his responsibility and his alone not only to maintain the bomb at a high input-output efficiency, but to see that the reaction never passed the critical point and progressed into mass explosion. But that was impossible. He could not be sure. He could never be sure. He could bring to the job all of the skill and learning of the finest technical education and use it to reduce the hazard to the lowest mathematical probability. But the blind laws of chance which appeared a rule in subatomic action might turn up a royal flush against him and defeat his most skillful play. And each atomic engineer knew it, knew that he gambled not only with his own life, but with the lives of countless others, perhaps with the lives of every human being on the planet. Nobody knew quite what such an explosion would do. The most conservative estimate assumed that in addition to destroying the plant and its personnel completely, it would tear a chunk out of the populous and heavily-traveled Los Angeles, Oklahoma road city a hundred miles to the north. That was the official optimistic viewpoint on which the plant had been authorized, and based on mathematics which predicted that a mass of uranium would itself be disrupted on a molar scale and thereby rendered comparatively harmless before progressive and accelerated atomic explosion could infect the entire mass. The atomic engineers, by and large, did not place faith in the official theory. They judged theoretical mathematical prediction for what it was worth. Precisely nothing, until confirmed by experiment. But even from the official viewpoint, each atomic engineer while on watch carried not only his own life in his hands, but the lives of many others. While many, it was better not to think about. No pilot, no general, no surgeon ever carried such a daily, inescapable, ever-present way to responsibility for the lives of other people as these men carried every time they went on watch, every time they touched a vernier screw or read a dial. They were selected not alone for their intelligence and technical training, but quite as much for their characters and sense of social responsibility. Sensitive men were needed, men who could fully appreciate the importance of the charge entrusted to them. No other sort would do. But the burden of responsibility was too great to be born indefinitely by a sensitive man. It was, of necessity, a psychologically unstable condition. Insanity was an occupational disease. Dr. Cummings appeared, still buckling the straps of the armor worn to guard against stray radiation. What's up? He asked Silord. I had to relieve Harper, so I guessed I met him coming up. He was sore as hell, just glared at me. I know, he wants an immediate hearing. That's why I had to stand for you. Cummings grunted, then nodded toward the engineer, anonymous in all-enclosing armor. Who'd I draw? Ericsson? Good enough. Square heads can't go crazy, I guess. Ericsson looked up momentarily and answered, That's your problem! and returned to his work. Cummings turned back to Silord and commented, Psychiatrists don't seem very popular around here. Okay, I relieve you, sir. Very well, sir. Silord threaded his way through the zigzag in the tanks of water which surrounded the disintegration room. Once outside this outer shield, he divested himself of the cumbersome armor disposed of it in the locker room provided and hurried to a lift. He left the lift at the tube station, underground, and looked around for an unoccupied capsule. Finding one, he strapped himself in, sealed the gasketed door, and settled the back of his head into the rest against the expected surge of acceleration. Five minutes later, he knocked at the door of the office of the general superintendent, 20 miles away. The power plant proper was located in a bowl of desert hills on the Arizona Plateau. Everything not necessary to the immediate operation of the plant, administrative offices, television station, and so forth, lay beyond the hills. The buildings housing these auxiliary functions were of the most durable construction technical ingenuity could devise. It was hoped that if dirt hog ever came, occupants would stand approximately the chance of survival of a man going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Silord knocked again. He was greeted by a male secretary, Stanky. Silord recalled reading his case history. Formerly one of the most brilliant of the young engineers, he had suffered a blanking out of the ability to handle mathematical operations, a plain case of fugue. But there had been nothing that the poor devil could do about it. He had been anxious enough with his conscious mind to stay on duty. He had been rehabilitated as an office worker. Stanky ushered him into the superintendent's private office. Harper was there before him and returned his greeting with icy politeness. The superintendent was cordial, but Silord thought he looked tired, as if the 24-hour-a-day strain was too much for him. Come in, doctor. Come in. Sit down. Now, tell me about this. I'm a little surprised. I thought Harper was one of my steadiest men. I don't say he isn't, sir. Well, he may be perfectly all right, but your instructions to me are not to take any chances. Quite right. The superintendent gave the engineer, silent and tense in his chair, a troubled glance, then returned his attention to Silord. Suppose you tell me about it. Silord took a deep breath. While on watch as a psychological observer at the control station, I noticed that the engineer of the watch seemed preoccupied and less responsive to stimuli than usual. During my off-watch observation of this case, over a period of the past several days, I have suspected an increasing lack of attention. For example, while playing Contract Bridge, he now occasionally asks for a review of the building, which is contrary to his former behavior pattern. Other similar data are available. To cut it short, at 311 today, while on watch, I saw Harper with no apparent reasonable purpose in mind pick up a wrench used only for operating the valves of the water shield and approach the trigger. I relieved him of duty and sent him out of the control room. Chief! Harper calmed himself somewhat and continued. If this witch doctor knew a wrench from an oscillator, he'd had known what I was doing. The wrench was on the wrong rack. I noticed it and picked it up to return it to its proper place. On the way, I stopped to check the readings. A superintendent turned inquiringly to Dr. Silard. That may be true. Granting that it is true, answered the psychiatrist doggedly, my diagnosis still stands. Your behavior pattern is altered. Your present actions are unpredictable, and I can't approve you for responsible work without a complete check-up. General Superintendent King drowned on the desktop and sighed. Then he spoke slowly to Harper. Cal, you're a good boy, and believe me, I know how you feel, but there's no way to avoid it. You've got to go up for the psychometricals and accept whatever disposition the board makes of you. He paused, but Harper maintained an expressionless silence. Tell you what, son, why don't you take a few days leave? Then, when you come back, you can go up before the board or transfer to another department away from the bomb, whichever you prefer. He looked to Silard for approval and received an odd. But Harper was not mollified. No, Chief, he protested. It won't do. Can't you see what's wrong? It's this constant supervision. Somebody's always watching the back of your neck, expecting you to go crazy. A man can't even shave in private. We're jumpy about the most innocent acts. For fear some head doctor half baddie himself will see it and decide it's a sign that we're slipping. Good grief, what do you expect? His outburst, having run its course, he subsided into a flippant cynicism that did not quite gel. Okay, never mind the straight jacket, I'll go quietly. You're a good Joe in spite of it, Chief, and I'm glad to have worked under you. Goodbye. King kept the pain in his eyes out of his voice. Wait a minute, Kyle. You're not through here. Let's forget about the vacation. I'm transferring you to the radiation laboratory. You belong in research anyhow. I'd never have spared you from it to stand watch if I hadn't been short on number one men. As for the constant psychological observation, I hate it as much as you do. I don't suppose you know that they watch me about twice as hard as they watch you duty engineers. Harper showed a surprise, but Seiler nodded in sober confirmation. But we have to have this supervision. Do you remember Manning? No, he was before your time. We didn't have psychological observers then. Manning was able and brilliant. Furthermore, he was always cheerful. Nothing seemed to bother him. I was glad to have him on the bomb, for he was always alert and never seemed nervous about working with it. In fact, he grew more buoyant and cheerful the longer he stood control watches. I should have known that was a very bad sign, but I didn't, and there was no observer to tell me so. His technician had to slug him one night. He found him dismounting the safety interlocks on the trigger. Poor old Manning never pulled out of it. He's been violently insane ever since. After Manning cracked up, we worked out the present system of two qualified engineers and an observer for every watch. It seemed the only thing to do. I suppose so, Chief, Harper amused, his face no longer sullen, but still unhappy. It's a hell of a situation just the same. That's putting it mildly. King rose and put out his hand. Cal, unless you're dead sad on leaving us, I'll expect to see you at the radiation laboratory tomorrow. Another thing, I don't often recommend this, but it might do you good to get drunk tonight. King had signed to Silord to remain after the young man left. Once the door was closed, he turned back to the psychiatrist. There goes another one, and one of the best. Doctor, what am I going to do? Silord pulled at his cheek. I don't know. He admitted, the hell of it is. Harper's absolutely right. It does increase the strain on them to know that they're being watched, and yet they have to be watched. Your psychiatric staff isn't doing too well either. It makes us nervous to be around the bomb, but more so because we don't understand it, and it's a strain on us to be hated and despised as we are. Scientific detachment is difficult under such conditions. I'm getting jumpy myself. King ceased pacing the floor and faced the doctor. But there must be some solution, he insisted. Silord shook his head. It's beyond me, superintendent. I see no solution from the standpoint of psychology. No? Doctor, who is the top man in your field? Who is the recognized number one man in handling this sort of thing? Why, that's hard to say. Naturally, there isn't any one leading psychiatrist in the world. We specialize too much. I know what you mean, though. You don't want the best industrial temperament psychometrician. You want the best all-around man for psychosis, non-legional and situational. That would be Lance. Go on. Well, he covers the whole field of environmental adjustment. He's the man who correlated the theory of optimum tonicity with the relaxation technique that Korzybski had developed empirically. He actually worked under Korzybski himself when he was a young student. It's the only thing he's vain about. He did. He must be pretty old. Korzybski died in… what year did he die? I started to say you must know his work in symbology, theory of abstraction and calculus of statement, all that sort of thing because of its applications to engineering and mathematical physics. That Lance, yes, of course, but I'd never thought of him as a psychiatrist. Now, you wouldn't in your field. Nevertheless, we are indicted to credit him with having done as much to check and reduce the pandemic neuroses of the crazy years as any other man, and more than any man left alive. Where is he? Why, Chicago, I suppose, at the institute? Get him here. Huh? Get him down here. Get on that vis-a-phone and locate him. Then have Stike call the Port of Chicago and hire a Stratocard to stand by for him. I want to see him as soon as possible before the day is out. King sat up in his chair with the air of a man who is once more master of himself and the situation. His spirit knew that warming replenishment that comes only with reaching a decision. The harassed expression was gone. Seiler looked dumbfounded, but the superintendent, he expostulated, you can't ring for Dr. Lance as if he were a junior clerk. He's... he's Lance. Certainly, that's why I want him, but I'm not a neurotic club woman looking for sympathy either. He'll come, if necessary, turn on the heat from Washington. Have the White House call him, but get him here at once. Move! King strode out of the office. Blow Ups Happen by Robert Heinlein continues when Weird Darkness Returns. When Erickson came off watch, he inquired around and found that Harper had left for town. Accordingly, he dispensed with the dinner at the base, shifted into drinking clothes and allowed himself to be dispatched via tube to Paradise. Paradise, Arizona was a hard little boom town which owed its existence to the power plant. It was dedicated exclusively to the serious business of detaching the personnel of the plant from their inordinate salaries. In this worthy project, they received much cooperation from the plant personnel themselves, each of whom was receiving from twice to ten times as much money each payday as he had ever received in any other job, and none of whom was certain of living long enough to justify saving for old age. Besides, the company carried a sinking fund in Manhattan for their dependence. Why be stingy? It was said, with some truth, that any entertainment or luxury obtainable in New York City could be purchased in Paradise. The local chamber of commerce had appropriated the slogan of Reno, Nevada, biggest little city in the world. The Reno boosters retaliated by claiming that while any town that close to the atomic power plant undeniably brought thoughts of death and hereafter, Hell's Gates would be more appropriate a name than Paradise. Erickson started making the rounds. There were twenty-seven places licensed to sell liquor in the six blocks of the Main Street Paradise. He expected to find Harper in one of them, and, knowing the man's habits and tastes, expected to find him in the first two or three he tried. He was not mistaken. He found Harper sitting alone at a table in the rear of Delancey's Sands Susie Bar. Delancey's was a favorite of both of them. It was an old-fashioned comfort about its chrome-plated bar and red leather furniture that appealed to them more than did the spectacular fittings of the up-to-the-minute places. Delancey was conservative. He struck to direct lighting and soft music. His hostess was required to be fully clothed, even in the evening. The Fifth of Scotch in front of Harper was about two-thirds full. Erickson shoved three fingers in front of Harper's face and demanded, Count! Three, announced Harper. Sit down, Gus. That's correct, Erickson agreed, sliding his big frame into a low-slung chair. You'll do for now. What was the outcome? Have a drink. Not, he went on, that this Scotch is any good. I think Lance has taken a watering it. I surrendered, horse and foot. Lance wouldn't do that. Stick to that theory and you'll sink in the sidewalk up to your knees. How come you capitulated? I thought you planned to beat him about the head and shoulders at least. I did, Warren Harper. Cripes, Gus. Chief is right. If a brain mechanic says you're punchy, he's got to back him up and take you off the bomb. The chief can't afford to take a chance. Yeah, the chief's all right, but I can't learn to love our dear psychiatrists. Tell you what, let's find this one and see if he can feel paid. I'll hold him while you slug him. Forget it, Gus. Have a drink. A pious thought, but not Scotch. I'm going to have a martini. We ought to eat pretty soon. I'll have one, too. Do you good? Erickson lifted his blonde head and bellowed, Israfal? The large black person appeared at his elbow. Mr. Erickson. Yes, sir. Easy. Thanks, two martinis. Make mine with Italian. He turned back to Harper. What you going to do now, Cal? Radiation laboratory. Well, that's not so bad. I'd like to have a go at the batter of rocket fuels by self. I've got some ideas. Harper looked mildly amused. You mean atomic fuel for interplanetary flight? That problem's pretty well exhausted. No, son. The stratosphere's the ceiling, until we think up something better than rockets. Of course, you could mount the bomb in a ship, figure out some jury rig to convert its radiant output into push, but where does that get you? One bomb, one ship, and 20 years of mining in Little America has only produced enough pitch-blend to make one bomb. That's disregarding the question of getting the company to land you their one bomb or anything that doesn't pay dividends. Erickson looked bulky. I don't concede that you've covered all the alternatives. What have we got? The early rocket boys went right ahead, trying to build better rockets. Cereed in the belief that by the time they could build rockets, could enough to fly to the moon, a fuel would be perfected that'd do the trick. And then they did build ships that were good enough. You could take any ship that makes the antipodes run and refit it for the moon. If you had a fuel that was sufficiently concentrated to maintain the necessary push for the whole run, but they haven't got it. And why not? Because we let them down. That's why, because they're still depending on molecular energy, on chemical reactions, with atomic power sitting right here in our laps. It's not their fault. Old D.D. Harriman had rockets consolidated, underwrite the whole first issue of Antarctic pitch-blend, and took a big slice of it himself in the expectation that we would produce something usable in the way of a concentrated rocket fuel. Did we do it? Like hell, the company went hog-wild for immediate commercial exploitation, and there's no fuel yet. But you haven't stated it properly, Harper objected. There are just two forms of atomic power available, radioactivity and atomic disintegration. The first is too slow, the energy is there, but you can't wait years for it to come out, not in a rocket ship. The second, we can only manage in a large mass of uranium. There's only been enough uranium mined for one bomb. There you are, stymied. Erickson's Scandinavian stubbornness was just gathering for another try at the argument when the waiter arrived with the drinks. He set them down with a triumphant flourish. There you are, sir. Want a roll for the Missy? Harper inquired. Don't mind if I do. The Negro produced a leather-dice cup and Harper rolled. He selected his combinations with care and managed to get four aces and a jack in three rolls. Israfel took the cup. He rolled in the grand manner with a backward twist to his wrist. His score finished at five kings, and he courteously accepted the price of six drinks. Harper stirred the engraved cubes with his forefinger. Is he? He asked. Are these the same dice I rolled with? Wah, Mr. Hopper! The Negro's expression was pained. Skip it. Harper conceded. I should have known better than to gamble with you. I haven't won a roll from you in six weeks. What do you start to say, guys? I was just going to say that there ought to be a better way to get energy out of—but they were joined again, this time by something very seductive. An evening gown that appeared to have been sprayed on her lush figure. She was young, perhaps 19 or 20. You boys lonely? She asked as she floated into a chair. Nice of you to ask, but we're not. Erickson denied with patient politeness. He jerked a thumb at a solitary figure seated across the room. Go talk to Hattigan. He's not busy. She followed his gesture with her eyes and answered with faint scorn. Kim? He's no use. He's been like that for three weeks. Hasn't spoken to a soul. If you ask me, I'd say that he was cracking up. That so? he observed noncommittally. Here. You fished out a $5 bill and handed it to her. Buy yourself a Greek. Maybe we'll look you up later. Thanks, boys. The money disappeared under her clothing, and she stood up. Just ask for Edith. Hattigan doesn't look bad, Harper considered, noting the brooding stare and apathetic attitude, and he's been awfully stand-offish lately for him. You suppose we're obliged to report him? Don't let it worry you, advised Erickson. There's a spotter of the job now. Look. Harper followed his companion's eyes and recognized Dr. Mott of the psychological staff. He was leaning against the far end of the bar, and they're seeing a tall glass, which gave him protective coloration. But his stance was such that his field of vision included not only Hattigan, but Erickson and Harper as well. Heh. Any studying us as well? Harper added. Damn it to hell. Why does it make the back of my hair rise just to lay eyes on one of them? The question was rhetorical. Erickson ignored it. Let's get out of here, he suggested, and have dinner somewhere else. Okay. Delancey himself waited on them as they left. Going soon, gentlemen. He asked in a voice that implied that their departure would leave him no reason to stay open. Beautiful lobs to Thermidor tonight. If you do not like it, you need not pay. He smiled brightly. Not seafood, Lance. Harper told him. Not tonight. Tell me, why do you stick around here when you know the bomb is bound to get you in the long run? Aren't you afraid of it? The tavernkeeper's eyebrow shot up, afraid of the bomb. But it's my friend. It makes you money, eh? Oh, no, I do not mean that. He leaned toward them confidentially. Five years ago, I came here to make some money quickly for my family before my cancer at the stomach kills me. At the clinic with the wonderful new radiance you gentlemen make with the aid of the bomb, I'm cured. I live again. No, I'm not afraid of the bomb. It is my good friend. Suppose it blows up. When the good Lord needs me, he will take me. He crossed himself quickly. And they turned away. Erickson commented in a low voice to Harper. There's your answer, Cal. If all us engineers had his faith, the bomb wouldn't get us down. Harper was unconvinced. I don't know, he mused. I don't think it's faith. I think it's his lack of imagination and knowledge. Notwithstanding King's confidence, Lentz did not show up until the next day. The superintendent was subconsciously a little surprised at his visitor's appearance. He had pictured a master psychologist as wearing flowing hair and imperial and having piercing black eyes. But this man was not very tall. He was heavy in his framework and fat, almost gross. He might have been a butcher. Little piggy-fated blue eyes peered merrily out from beneath shaggy blonde brows. There was no hair anywhere else on the enormous skull, and the ape-like jaw was smooth and pink. He was dressed in must pajamas of unbleached linen. A long cigarette holder jutted permanently from one corner of a wide mouth, widened still more by a smile which suggested unmalicious amusement at the worst that life or men could do. He had gusto. King found him remarkably easy to talk to. At Lentz's suggestion, the superintendent went first into the history of the atomic power plant. How the fission of the uranium atom by Dr. Otto Hahn in December 1938 had opened up the way to atomic power. The door was opened just to crack. The process to be self-perpetuating and commercially usable required an enormously greater mass of uranium than there was available in the entire civilized world at that time. But the discovery, 15 years later, of enormous deposits of pitch-blend in the old rock underlying Little America removed that obstacle. The deposits were similar to those previously worked at Great Bear Lake in the Arctic North of Canada, but so much more extensive that the eventual possibility of accumulating enough uranium to build an atomic power plant became evident. The demand for commercially usable cheap power had never been satiated. Even the Douglas Martin Sunpower screens used to drive the roaring road cities of the period and for a myriad other industrial purposes were not sufficient to fill the ever-growing demand. They'd saved the country from impending famine of oil and coal, but their maximum output of approximately one horsepower per square yard of sun-illuminated surface put a definite limit to the power from that source available in any given geographical area. Atomic power was needed. Was demanded. But theoretical atomic physicists predicted that a uranium mass sufficiently large to assist in its own disintegration might assist too well. Blow up instantaneously with such force that it would probably wreck every man-made structure on the globe and conceivably destroy the entire human race as well. They dared not build the bomb even though the uranium was available. It was Destry's mechanics of infinitesimals that showed away out of the dilemma, King went on. His equations appeared to predict that an atomic explosion once started would disrupt the molar mass and closing it so rapidly that neutron lost through the outer surface of the fragments would dampen the progression of the atomic explosion to zero before complete explosion could be reached. For the mass we use in the bomb, his equations predict a possible force of explosion one-seventh of one percent of the force of complete explosion. That alone, of course, would be incomprehensibly destructive. About the equivalent of 140,000 tons of TNT, enough to wreck this end of the state. Personally, I've never been sure that this all would happen. Then why did you accept this job? inquired Lentz. King fiddled with items on his desk before replying. I couldn't turn it down, Doctor. I couldn't. If I had refused, they would have gotten someone else, and it was an opportunity that comes to a physicist once in history. Lentz nodded, and probably they would have gotten someone not as competent. I understand, Dr. King. You are compelled by the truth-tropism of the scientist. He must go where the data is to be found, even if it kills him. What about this fellow-destry? I've never liked his mathematics. He postulates too much. King looked up in quick surprise, then recalled that this was the man who would refined and given rigor to the calculus of statement. That's just a hitch, he agreed. His work is brilliant, but I've never been sure that his predictions were worth the paper they were printed on. Nor, apparently, he added bitterly, do my junior engineers. He told the psychiatrist of the difficulties they had had with personnel, of how the most carefully selected men would, sooner or later, crack under the strain. At first I thought it might be some degenerating effect from the hard radiation that leaks out of the bomb, so we improved the screening and the personal armor. But it didn't help. One young fellow who had joined us after the new screening was installed became violent at dinner one night and insisted that a pork chop was about to explode. I hate to think of what might have happened if he'd been on duty at the bomb when he blew up. The inauguration of the system of constant psychological observation had greatly reduced the probability of acute danger resulting from a watch engineer cracking up. But King was forced to admit that the system was not a success. There had actually been a marked increase in psychoneurosis dating from that time. And that's the picture, Dr. Lentz. It gets worse all the time. It's getting me now. Strain is telling on me. I can't sleep, and I don't think my judgment is as good as it used to be. I have trouble in making up my mind and coming to a decision. Do you think you can do anything for us? But Lentz had no immediate relief for his anxiety. Not so fast, Superintendent, he countered. You may have given me the background, but I have no real data yet. I must look around for a while, smell the situation for myself, talk to your engineers, perhaps have a few drinks with them and get acquainted. That's possible, is it not? Then in a few days maybe we'll know where we stand. King had no alternative but to agree. And it is well that your young men do not know what I'm here for. Suppose I'm your old friend, a visiting physicist, eh? Well, of course, I can see to it that the idea gets around, but, say, King was reminded again of something that had bothered him from the time Silord had first suggested Lentz's name. May I ask a personal question? The merry eyes were undisturbed. Go ahead. I can't help but be surprised that one man should attain eminence in two such widely differing fields as psychology and mathematics. Right now, I'm perfectly convinced of your ability to pass yourself off as a physicist. I don't understand it. A smile was more amused, without being in the least patronizing nor offensive. Same subject, he answered. Uh, how's that? Or rather, both mathematical physics and psychology are branches of the same subject, symbology. You are a specialist. It would not necessarily come to your attention. I still don't follow you. No. Man lives in a world of ideas. Any phenomenon is so complex that he cannot possibly grasp the whole of it. He abstracts certain characteristics of a given phenomenon as an idea, then represents that idea as a symbol, be it a word or a mathematical sign. Human reaction is almost entirely reaction to symbols and only negligible to phenomena. As a matter of fact, he continued, removing a cigarette holder from his mouth and settling into his subject, it could be demonstrated that the human mind can think only in terms of symbols. When we think, we let symbols operate on other symbols in certain set fashions, rules of logic or rules of mathematics. If the symbols have been abstracted so that they are structurally similar to the phenomena they stand for, and if the symbol operations are similar in structure and order to the operations of phenomena in the real world, we think sanely. If our logic mathematics or our word symbols have been poorly chosen, we think not sanely. In mathematical physics, you are concerned with making your symbology fit physical phenomena. In psychiatry, I am concerned with precisely the same thing, except that I am more immediately concerned with the man who does the thinking than with the phenomena he is thinking about. But the same subject, always the same subject. More of Robert Heinlein's blow-ups happen coming up. We're not getting any place, Gus. Harper put down his slide rule and frowned. Seems like it, Cal. Erickson grudgingly admitted. Damn it, though. There ought to be some reasonable way of tackling the problem. What do we need? Some form of concentrated, controllable power for rocket fuel. What have we got? Power galore in the bomb. There must be some way to bottle that power and serve it out when we need it. And the answer is some place in one of the radioactive series. I know it. You stare glumly around the laboratory as if expecting to find the answer written somewhere on the lead sheathed walls. Don't be so down in the mouth about it. You got me convinced there is an answer. Let's figure out how to find it. In the first place, the three natural radioactive series are out, aren't they? Yes. At least we had agreed that all that ground had been fully covered before. Okay. We have to assume that previous investigators have done what their notes show they've done. Otherwise, we might as well not believe anything and start checking on everybody from Archimedes to date. Maybe that's indicated, but Methuselah himself couldn't carry out such an assignment. What have we got left? artificial radioactives. All right. Let's set up a list of them. Both those that have been made up to now, and those that might possibly be made in the future. Call that our group, or rather field, if you want to be pendantic about definitions. There are a limited number of operations that can be performed on each member of the group and on the members in combination. Set it up. Erickson did so, using the curious curlicues of the calculus of statement. Harper nodded. All right. Expand it. Erickson looked up after a few moments and asked, Cal, have you any idea how many terms there are in the expansion? No. Hundreds, maybe thousands, I suppose? You're conservative. It reaches four figures without considering possible new radioactives. We couldn't finish such a research in a century. He chucked his pencil down and looked morose. Cal Harper looked at him curiously, but with sympathy. Gus, he said gently, the bomb isn't getting you too, is it? I don't think so. Why? I never saw you so willing to give up anything before. Naturally, you and I will never finish any such job, but at the very worst, will have eliminated a lot of wrong answers for somebody else. Look at Edison, 60 years of experimenting, 20 hours a day, yet he never found out the one thing that he was most interested in knowing. I guess if he could take it, we can. Erickson pulled out of his spunk, to some extent. I suppose so, he agreed. Anyhow, maybe we could work out some techniques for carrying a lot of experiments simultaneously. Harper slapped him on the shoulder. That's the old fight. Besides, we may not need to finish the research or anything like it to find a satisfactory fuel. The way I see it, there are probably a dozen, maybe a hundred right answers. We may run across one of them any day. Anyhow, since you're willing to give me a hand with it in your off-watch time, I'm game to peck away at it till hell freezes. Blitz puttered around the plant and the administrative center for several days, until he was known to everyone by sight. He made himself pleasant and asked questions. He was soon regarded as a harmless nuisance to be tolerated because he was a friend of the superintendent. He even poked his nose into the commercial power end of the plant and had the mercury-steamed turbo-generator sequence explained to him in detail. This alone would have been sufficient to disarm any suspicion he might be a psychiatrist, but the staff psychiatrists paid no attention to the hard-bitten technicians of the power conversion unit. There was no need to. Mental instability on their part could not affect the bomb, nor were they subject to the man-killing strain of social responsibility. Theirs was simply a job personally dangerous, a type of strain strong men have been enured to since the jungle. In due course, he got around to the unit of the radiation laboratory set aside for Calvin Harper's use. He rang the bell and waited. Harper answered the door. His anti-radiation helmet shoved back from his face like a grotesque sunbunnet. What is it? He asked. Oh, it's you, Dr. Lentz. Did you want to see me? Why, yes and no, the older man answered. I was just looking around the experimental station and wondered what you do in here. Will I be in the way? Not at all. Come in. Gus! Erickson got up from where he had been fussing over the power leads to their trigger, a modified cyclotron rather than a resonant accelerator. Hello? Gus, this is Dr. Lentz. Gus Erickson. We've met, said Erickson, pulling off his gauntlet to shake hands. He had a couple of drinks with Lentz in town and considered him a nice old duck. You're just between shows, but stick around and we'll start another run, not that there is much to see. While Erickson continued with the setup, Harper conducted Lentz around the laboratory, explaining the line of research they were conducting as happy as a father showing off twins. The psychiatrist listened with one ear and made appropriate comments while he studied the young scientist for signs of the instability he had noted to be recorded against him. You see, Harper explained, oblivious to the interest in himself, we're testing radioactive materials to see if we can produce disintegration of the sort that takes place in the bomb, but in a minute, almost microscopic mass. If we're successful, we can use the power of the bomb to make a safe, convenient atomic fuel for rockets. He went on to explain their schedule of experimentation. I see, Lentz observed politely. What metal are you examining now? Harper told him, but it's not a case of examining one element. We've finished isotope two with negative results. Our schedule calls next for running the same test on isotope five, like this. He hauled out a lead capsule and showed the label to Lentz, who saw that it was indeed marked with the symbol of the fifth isotope. He hurried away to the shield around the target of the cyclotron, left open by Erickson. Lentz saw that he'd opened the capsule and was performing some operation on it in a gingerly manner, having first lowered his helmet. Then he closed and clamped the target shield. Okay, Gus, he called out, ready to roll? Yeah, I guess so, Erickson assured him, coming around from behind the ponderous apparatus and rejoining them. They crowded behind a thick metal shield that cut them off from direct sight of the setup. Well, I need to put on armor, inquired Lentz. No, Erickson reassured him. We wear it because we're around the stuff day in and day out. You just stay behind the shield and you'll be all right. It's lead, backed up by eight inches of case-hardened armor plate. Erickson glanced at Harper, who nodded and fixed his eyes on a panel of instruments mounted behind the shield. Lentz saw Erickson press a push button at the top of the board, then heard a series of relays click on the far side of the shield. There was a short moment of silence. The floor slapped his feet like some incredible bastonado. A concussion that beat on his ears was so intense that it paralyzed the auditory nerve almost before it could be recorded as sound. The air-conducted concussion wave flailed every inch of his body with a single, stinging, numbing blow. As he picked himself up, he found he was trembling uncontrollably and realized for the first time that he was getting old. Harper was seated on the floor and had commenced to bleed from the nose. Erickson had gotten up, his cheek was cut. He touched a hand to the wound, then stood there, regarding the blood on his fingers with a puzzled expression on his face. Are you hurt? Lentz inquired innately. What happened? Harper cut in. Guss, we've done it! We've done it! Isotope fives turned the trick! Erickson looked still more bemused. Five, he said stupidly, but that wasn't five, that was isotope two. I put it in myself. You put it in? I put it in! It was five, I tell you. They stood, staring at each other, still confused by the explosion, and each a little annoyed at the bonehead's stupidity the other displayed in the face of the obvious. Lentz diffidently interceded. Wait a minute, boys, he suggested. Maybe there's a reason. Guss, you placed a quantity of the second isotope in the receiver? Why, yes, certainly. I wasn't satisfied with the last run and I wanted to check it. Lentz nodded. It's my fault, gentlemen, he admitted ruefully. I came in and disturbed your routine and both of you charged the receiver. I know Harper did, for I saw him do it, with isotope five. I'm sorry. Understanding broke over Harper's face and he slapped the older man on the shoulder. Don't be sorry, he laughed. You could come around to our lab and help us make mistakes anytime you feel in the mood. Can he, Guss? This is the answer, Dr. Lentz. This is it. But the psychiatrist pointed out, you don't know which isotope blew up. Nor care, Harper supplemented. Maybe it was both taken together, but we will know this business is cracked now. We'll soon have it open. He gazed happily around at the wreckage. In spite of Superintendent King's anxiety, Lentz refused to be hurried in passing judgment on the situation. Consequently, when he did present himself at King's office and announced that he was ready to report, King was pleasantly surprised as well as relieved. Well, I'm delighted, he said. Sit down, doctor. Sit down. Have a cigar. What do we do about it? But Lentz stuck to his perennial cigarette and refused to be hurried. I must have some information first. How important, he demanded, is the power from your plant. King understood the implication at once. If you're thinking about shutting down the bomb for more than a limited period, it can't be done. Why not? If the figures supplied me are correct, your output is less than 13% of the total power used in the country. Yes, that's true, but you haven't considered the items that go into making up that total. A lot of it is domestic power, which households get from sunscreens located on their own roofs. Another big slice is power for the moving roadways. That's sunpowered again. The portion we provide here is the main power source for most of the heavy industries, steel, plastics, lithics, all kinds of manufacturing and processing. You might as well cut the heart out of a man. But the food industry isn't basically dependent on you? Lentz persisted. No, food isn't basically a power industry, although we do supply a certain percentage of the power used in processing. I see your point, and we'll go on and concede that transportation, that is to say, distribution of food, could get along without us. But good heavens, Doctor, you can't stop atomic power without causing the biggest panic this country has ever seen. It's the keystone of our whole industrial system. The country has lived through panics before, and we got past the oil shortage safely. Yes, because atomic power came along to take the place of oil. You don't realize what this would mean, Doctor. It'd be worse than a war in a system like ours. One thing depends on another. If you cut off the heavy industry's hull at once, everything else stops too. Nevertheless, you'd better dump the bomb. The uranium in the bomb was molten, its temperature being greater than 2400 degrees centigrade. The bomb could be dumped into a group of small containers when it was desired to shut it down. The mass in any one container was too small to maintain progressive atomic disintegration. King glanced involuntarily at the glass-enclosed relay mounted on his office wall, by which he, as well as the engineer on duty, could dump the bomb, if need be. But I couldn't do that, or rather, if I did, the plant wouldn't stay shut down. The directors had simply replaced me with someone who would operate the bomb. You're right, of course. Lance silently considered the situation for some time, then said, Superintendent, will you order a car to fly me back to Chicago? You're going, Doctor? Yes. He took the cigarette holder from his face, and for once, a smile of Olympian detachment was gone completely. His entire manner was sober, even tragic. Short of shutting down the bomb, there was no solution to your problem. None whatsoever. I owe you a full explanation. Lance continued at length. You're confronted here with recurring instances of situational psychoneurosis. Roughly the symptoms manifest themselves as anxiety neurosis or some form of hysteria. The partial amnesia of your Secretary Steinke is a good example of the latter. He might be cured with shock technique, but it would hardly be a kindness, as he's achieved a stable adjustment, which puts him beyond the reach of the strain that he could not stand. That other young fellow, Harper, whose blow-up was the immediate cause of your sending for me, is an anxiety case. What the cause of the anxiety was, eliminated from his matrix, he at once regained full sanity. But keep a close watch on his friend, Erickson. However, it is the cause and prevention of situational psychoneurosis we are concerned with here, rather than the forms in which it manifested. In plain language, psychoneurosis situational simply refers to the common fact that if you put a man in a situation that worries him more than he can stand, in time he blows up one way or another. That is precisely the situation here. You take sensitive, intelligent young men, impress them with the fact that a single slip on their part, or even some fortuitous circumstance beyond their control, will result in the death of God knows how many other people, and then expect them to remain sane. It's ridiculous, impossible. A good heavens doctor, there must be some answer. There must. He got up and paced around the room. Lance noted with pity that King himself was riding the ragged edge of the very condition they were discussing. No, he said slowly. No, let me explain. You don't dare entrust the bomb to less sensitive, less socially conscious men. You might as well turn the controls over to a mindless idiot. And to psychoneurosis situational, there are but two cures. The first obtains when the psychosis results from a mis-evaluation of environment. That cure calls for semantic readjustment. One assists the patient to evaluate correctly his environment. The worry disappears because there never was a real reason for worry in the situation itself, but simply in the wrong meaning the patient's mind had assigned to it. The second case, when the patient has correctly evaluated the situation and rightly finds it cause for extreme worry, well, his worry is perfectly sane and proper, but he cannot stand up under it indefinitely. It drives him crazy. The only possible cure is to change the situation. I've stayed here long enough to assure myself that such is the condition here. Your engineers have correctly evaluated the public danger of this bomb, and it will, with dreadful certainty, drive all of you crazy. The only possible solution is to dump the bomb and leave it dumped. King had continued his nervous pacing on the floor, as if the walls of the room itself were the cage of his dilemma. Now he stopped and appealed once more to the psychiatrist. Isn't there anything I can do? Nothing to cure, to alleviate, well, possibly. How? Situational psychosis results from adrenaline exhaustion. When a man is placed under a nervous strain, his adrenal glands increase their secretion to help compensate for the strain. If the strain is too great and lasts too long, the adrenals aren't equal to the task, and he cracks. That is what you have here. Adrenaline therapy might stave off a mental breakdown, but it most assuredly would hasten a physical breakdown. But that would be safer from a viewpoint of public welfare, even though it assumes that physicists are expendable. Another thing occurs to me. If you selected any new watch engineers from the membership of churches that practiced the confessional, it would increase the length of their usefulness. King was plainly surprised. I don't follow you. The patient unloads most of his worry on his confessor, who is not himself actually confronted by the situation, and can stand it. That is simply an ameliorative, however. I am convinced that in this situation eventual insanity is inevitable. But there is a lot of good sense in the confessional, he added. It fills a basic human need. I think that's why the early psychoanalysts were so surprisingly successful, for all their limited knowledge. He fell silent for a while, then added, If you would be so kind as to order a Stratocab for me. You've nothing more to suggest? No. You'd better turn your psychological staff loose on means of alleviation. They're able men, all of them. King pressed a switch and spoke briefly to Stineke. Turning back to Lentz, he said, You'll wait here until your car is ready. Lentz judged correctly that King desired it and agreed. Presently the tube delivery on King's desk went ping. The superintendent removed a small white pasteboard, a calling card. He studied it with surprise and passed it over to Lentz. I can't imagine why he should be calling on me, he observed, and added, Would you like to meet him? Lentz read, Thomas P. Harrington. Captain, mathematics, United States Navy. Director, U.S. Naval Observatory. But I do know him, he said. I'd be very pleased to see him. Our story, Blow Ups Happen by Robert Heinlein continues in just a moment. Harrington was a man with something on his mind. He seemed relieved when Stineke had finished ushering him in and had returned to the outer office. He commenced to speak at once, turning to Lentz who was nearer to him than King. You're King? Dr. Lentz, what are you doing here? Visiting, answered Lentz, accurately but incompletely as he shook hands. This is Superintendent King over here. Superintendent King, Captain Harrington. How do you do, Captain? It's a pleasure to have you here. It's an honor to be here, sir. Sit down. Thanks. He accepted a chair and laid a briefcase on a corner of King's desk. Superintendent, you're entitled to an explanation as to why I have broken in on you like this. Glad to have you. In fact, the routine of formal politeness was an anodyne to King's frayed nerves. That's kind of you, but that secretary chap, the one that brought me in here, would it be too much to ask you to tell him to forget my name? I know it seems strange. Not at all. King was mystified, but willing to grant any reasonable request of a distinguished colleague in science. He summoned Steineke to the inner office vis-a-phone and gave him his orders. Lentz stood up and indicated that he was about to leave. He caught Harrington's eye. I think you want a private paliver, Captain? King looked from Harrington to Lentz and back to Harrington. The astronomer showed momentary indecision, then protested. I have no object at all myself. It's up to Dr. King. As a matter of fact, he added, it might be a very good thing if you did sit in on it. I don't know what it is, Captain, observed King, that you want to see me about, but Dr. Lentz is already here in confidential capacity. Good. Then that settled. I'll get right down to business. Dr. King, you know Destry's mechanics of infinitesimals? Naturally. Lentz cocked a brow at King, who chose to ignore it. Yes, of course. Do you remember Theorem Six and the transformation between Equations 13 and 14? I think so, but I'd want to see them. King got up and went over to a bookcase. Harrington stayed him with a hand. Don't bother. I have them here. He hauled out a key, unlocked his briefcase, and drew out a large, much-thumbed, loose-leaf notebook. Here, you too, Dr. Lentz. Are you familiar with this development? Lentz nodded. I've had occasion to look into them. Good. I think it's agreed that the step between 13 and 14 is the key to the whole matter. Now, the change from 13 to 14 looks perfectly valid and would be in some fields, but suppose we expand it to show every possible phase of the matter, every link in the chain of reasoning. He turned a page and showed them the same two equations, broken down into nine intermediate equations. He pleased a finger under an associated group of mathematical symbols. You see that? You see what that implies? He peered anxiously at their faces. King studied it, his lips moving. Yes, I believe I do see. Odd, I never looked at it just that way before. Yet, I have studied those equations until I have dreamed about them. He turned to Lentz. Do you agree, doctor? Lentz nodded slowly. I believe so. Yes. I think I may say so. Harrington should have been pleased. He wasn't. I had hoped you could tell me I was wrong, he said, almost petulantly, but I'm afraid there's no further doubt about it. Dr. Destry included an assumption valid in molar physics, but for which we have absolutely no assurance in atomic physics. I suppose you realize what this means to you, Dr. King. King's voice was a dry whisper. Yes, you said. Yes, it means that if that bomb out there ever blows up, we must assume that it will go up all at once, rather than the way Destry predicted. God help the human race. Captain Harrington cleared his throat to break the silence that followed. Superintendent, he said, I would not have ventured to call had it been simply a matter of disagreement as to interpretation of theoretical predictions. You have something more to go on? Yes and no. Probably you gentlemen think of the Naval Observatory as being exclusively preoccupied with ephemerides and tide tables. In a way, you'd be right, but we still have some time to devote to research as long as it doesn't cut into the appropriation. My special interest has always been lunar theory. I don't mean lunar ballistics, he continued. I mean the much more interesting problem of its origin and history, the problem the younger Darwin's struggled with as well as my illustrious predecessor, Captain TJJ. See, I think that it's obvious that any theory of lunar origin and history must take into account the surface features of the moon, especially the mountains, the craters that mark its face so prominently. He paused momentarily and Superintendent King put in, just a minute, Captain. I may be stupid, or perhaps I miss something, but is there a connection between what we were discussing before and lunar theory? Bear with me for a few moments, Dr. King. Harrington apologized. There is a connection, at least I'm afraid there is a connection, but I would rather present my points in their proper order before making my conclusions. They granted him an alert silence, he went on. Although we are in the habit of referring to the craters of the moon, we know that they're not volcanic craters. Superficially, they follow none of the rules of terrestrial volcanoes and appearance or distribution. But when Rutter came out in 1952 with his monograph on the dynamics of volcanology, he proved, rather conclusively, that the lunar craters could not be caused by anything that we know as volcanic action. They'll let the bombardment theory as the simplest hypothesis. It looks good on the face of it and a few minutes spent throwing pebbles into a patch of mud will convince anyone that the lunar craters could have been formed by falling meteors. But there are difficulties. If the moon was struck so repeatedly, why not the Earth? It hardly seems necessary to mention that the Earth's atmosphere would be no protection against masses big enough to form craters like Endymion or Plato. And if they fell after the moon was a dead world while the Earth was still young enough to change its face and erase the marks of bombardment, why did the meteors avoid so nearly completely the great dry basins we call lunar seas? I want to cut this short. You'll find the data and the mathematical investigations from the data here in my notes. There's one other major objection to the meteor bombardment theory, the great rays that spread from Tycho across almost the entire surface of the moon. It makes the moon look like a crystal ball that had been struck with a hammer, an impact from outside seems evident, but there are difficulties. The striking mass, our hypothetical meteor, must be small enough to have formed the crater of Tycho, but it must have the mass and speed to crack an entire planet. Work it out for yourself. You must either postulate a chunk out of the core of a dwarf star or speed such as we have never observed within the system. It's conceivable, but a far-fetched explanation. He turned to King. Doctor, does anything occur to you that might account for a phenomenon like Tycho? The superintendent grasped the arms of his chair, then glanced at his palms. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped them. Go ahead, he said, almost inaudibly. Very well, then. Harrington drew out his briefcase, a large photograph of the moon, a beautiful full-moon portrait made at Lick. I want you to imagine the moon as she might have been some time in the past. The dark areas we call the seas are actual oceans. It has an atmosphere, perhaps a heavier gas than oxygen and nitrogen, but an active gas capable of supporting some conceivable forms of life. For this is an inhabited planet, inhabited by intelligent beings, beings capable of discovering atomic power and exploiting it. He pointed out on a photograph near the southern limb the lime-white circle of Tycho, with its shining, incredible, thousand-mile-long rays spreading, thrusting, jutting out from it. Here, here at Tycho was located their main power plant. He moved his finger to a point near the equator and somewhat east of Meridian, the point where three great dark areas merged. Mernubium, Merimbrium, Oceanus Procolarum, and picked out two bright splotches surrounded also by rays, but shorter, less distinct, and wavy. And here, at Copernicus and at Kepler, on islands at the middle of a great ocean, were secondary power stations. He paused and interpolated soberly. Perhaps they knew the danger they ran, but wanted power so badly they were willing to gamble the life of their race. Perhaps they were ignorant of the ruinous possibilities of their little machines, or perhaps their mathematicians assured them that it could not happen. But we'll never know. No one can ever know, for it blew up and killed them, and it killed their planet. It whisked off the grassy envelope and blew it into outer space. It blasted great chunks off the planet's crust. Perhaps some of that escaped completely too, but all that did not reach the speed of escape fell back down in time and splashed great ring-shaped craters in the land. The oceans cushioned the shock, only the more massive fragments formed craters through the water. Perhaps some life still remained in those ocean depths. If so, it was doomed to die, but the water, unprotected by atmospheric pressure, could not remain liquid and must inevitably escape in time to outer space. Its lifeblood drained away. The planet was dead. Dead by suicide. He met the grave eyes of his two silent listeners with an expression almost of appeal. Gentlemen, this is only a theory, I realize, only a theory, a dream, a nightmare, but it has kept me awake so many nights that I had to come and tell you about it, and see if you saw it the same way I do. As for the mechanics of it, it's all there in my notes. You can check it, and I pray that you find some error, but it is the only lunar theory I have examined which included all of the known data and accounted for all of them. He appeared to have finished. Lance spoke up, Suppose, Captain, suppose we check your mathematics and find no flaw. What then? Harrington flung out his hands. That's what I came here to find out. Although Lance had asked the question, Harrington directed the appeal to King. The superintendent looked up. His eyes met the astronomers, wavered, and dropped again. There's nothing to be done, he said, Dolly. Nothing at all. Harrington stared at him in open amazement. But good God, man, he bursts out. Don't you see it? That bomb has got to be disassembled at once. Take it easy, Captain. Lance's calm voice was a spray of cold water, and don't be too harsh on poor King. This worries him even more than it does you. What he means is this. We're not faced with a problem in physics, but with a political and economic situation. Let's put it this way. King can no more dump the bomb that a peasant with a vineyard on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius can abandon his holdings and pauperize his family simply because there will be an eruption someday. King doesn't own that bomb out there. He's only the custodian. If he dumps it against the wishes of the legal owners, they'll simply oust him and put in someone more amenable. No, we have to convince the owners. The president could do it, suggested Harrington. I could get to the president. No doubt you could through your Navy department, and you might even convince him, but could he help much? Why, of course he could. He's the president. Wait a minute. You're director of the Naval Observatory. Suppose you took a sledgehammer and tried to smash the big telescope. How far would you get? Not very far, Harrington conceded. We guard the big fellow pretty closely. Nor can the president act in an arbitrary manner. Lance persisted. He's not an unlimited monarch. If he shuts down this plant without due process of law, the federal courts will tie him in knots. I admit that Congress isn't helpless, but would you like to try to give a congressional committee a course in the mechanics of infinitesimals? Harrington readily stipulated the point. But there is another way, he pointed out. Congress is responsive to public opinion. What we need to do is to convince the public that the bomb is a menace to everybody. That could be done without ever trying to explain things in terms of higher mathematics. Certainly it could, Lance agreed. You could go on the air with it and scare everybody half to death. You could create the damnedest panic this slightly slug-nutty country has ever seen. No, thank you. I, for one, would rather have us all take the chance of being quietly killed than bring on a mass psychosis that would destroy the culture that we're building up. I think one taste of the crazy years is enough. Well then, what do you suggest? Lance considered shortly, then answered, All I see is a forlorn hope. We've got to work on the board of directors and try to beat some sense into their heads. King, who'd been following the discussion with attention in spite of his tired despondency, interjected a remark. How would you go about that? I don't know, Lance admitted. It will take some thinking, but it seems the most fruitful line of approach. If it doesn't work, we can always fall back on Harrington's notion of publicity. I don't insist that the world commits suicide to satisfy my criteria of evaluation. Harrington glanced at his wristwatch, a bulky affair, and whistled, Good heavens, he exclaimed. I forgot the time. I'm supposed officially to be at the Flagstaff Observatory. King had automatically noted the time shown by the captain's watch as it was displayed. But it can't be that late, he'd objected. Harrington looked puzzled, then laughed. It isn't, not by two hours. We're in Zone plus seven. This shows Zone plus five. It's radio synchronized with the Master Clock in Washington. Did you say radio synchronized? Yes, clever, isn't it? He held it out for inspection. I call it a telechronometer. It's the only one of its sort to date. My nephew designed it for me. He is a bright one, that boy. He'll go far. That is, his face clouded as if the little interlude had only served to emphasize the tragedy that hung over them, if many of us live that long. A signal white glowed at King's desk, and Stanky's face showed on the communicator screen. King answered him and then said, Your car is ready, Dr. Lent. Let Captain Harrington have it. Then you're not going back to Chicago? No, the situation's changed. If you want me, I'm stringing along. Following Friday, Stanky ushered Lent's into King's office. King looked almost happy as he shook hands. When did you ground, Doctor? I didn't expect you back for another hour or so. Just now. I hired a cab instead of waiting for the shuttle. Any luck? None. The same answer they gave you. The company is assured by independent experts that Destry's mechanics is valid and sees no reason to encourage an hysterical attitude among its employees. King tapped on his desk top, his eyes unfocused. Then, hitching himself around to face Lent's directly, he said, Do you suppose the Chairman is right? How? Could the three of us, you, me, and Harrington, have gone off the deep end? Slipped, mentally? No. You sure? Certain. I looked up some independent experts of my own, not retained by the company, and had them check Harrington's work. It checks. Lent's purposely neglected to mention that he had done so partly because he was none too sure of King's present mental stability. King sat up, briskly, reached out and stabbed a push button. I'm going to make one more try. He explained, to see if it can't throw a scare into Dixon's thick head. Stanky! He said to the communicator, Get me Mr. Dixon on the screen. Yes, sir. In about two minutes the vis-a-phone screen came to life and showed the features of Chairman Dixon. He was transmitting not from his office but from the boardroom of the company in Jersey City. Yes, he said. What is it, Superintendent? This matter was somehow both querulous and affable. Mr. Dixon, King began. I've called to try to impress on you the seriousness of the company's action. I stake my scientific reputation that Harrington has proved completely that, oh, that, Mr. King, I thought you understood that that was a closed matter. But, Mr. Dixon, Superintendent, please, if there were any possible legitimate calls to fear, do you think I would hesitate? I have children, you know, and grandchildren. That is just why we try to conduct the affairs of the company with reasonable wisdom and in the public interest. But we have other responsibilities too. There are hundreds of thousands of little stockholders who expect us to show a reasonable return on their investment. You must not expect us to jettison a billion-dollar corporation just because you've taken up astrology. Moon theory. He sniffed. Very well, Mr. Chairman. King's tone was stiff. Don't take it that way, Mr. King. I'm glad you called. The board has just adjourned a special meeting. They've decided to accept you for retirement, with full pay, of course. I do not apply for retirement. I know, Mr. King, but the board feels that I understand. Goodbye, Mr. King. Goodbye. He switched him off and turned to Lentz. With full pay, he quoted, which I can enjoy in any way that I like for the rest of my life, just as happy as a man in the death house. Exactly. Lentz agreed. Well, we've tried our way. I suppose we should call up Harrington now, and let him try the political and publicity method. I suppose so. King seconded absentmindedly. Were you believing for Chicago now? No, said Lentz. No, I think I'll catch the shuttle for Los Angeles and take the evening rocket for the antipodes. King looked surprised, but said nothing. Lentz answered the unspoken comment. Perhaps some of us on the other side of the earth will survive. I've done all I can here. I'd rather be a live sheepherder in Australia than a dead psychiatrist in Chicago. King nodded vigorously. That shows horse sense. For two cents, I'd dump the bomb now and go with you. Not horse sense, my friend. A horse will run back into the burning barn, which is exactly not what I plan to do. Why don't you do it and come along? If you did, you'd help Harrington to scare him to death. I believe I will. Stanky's face appeared again on the screen. Harper and Erickson are here, Chief. I'm busy. They're pretty urgent about seeing you. Oh, all right. King said in a tired voice. Show them in. It doesn't matter. They breezed in. Harper in the van. He commenced talking at once, oblivious to the superintendent's morose preoccupation. We got it, Chief. We've got it. And it all checks out to the upteenth decimal. You got what? Speak English. Harper grinned. He was enjoying his moment of triumph and was stretching it out to savor it. Chief, do you remember a few weeks back when I asked for an additional allotment, a special one without specifying how I was going to spend it? Yes. Come on. Get to the point. You kicked at it first, but finally granted it. Remember? Well, we've got something to show for it. All tied up in a pink ribbon. It's the greatest advancement in radioactivity since Hans split the nucleus. Atomic fuel, Chief. Atomic fuel. Safe, concentrated and controllable. Suitable for rockets, for power plants, pretty damn thing you care to use it for. King showed alert interest for the first time. You mean a power source that doesn't require the bomb? The bomb? Oh, no. I didn't say that. You used the bomb to make the fuel. Then you used fuel anywhere and anyhow you like, with something like 92% recovery of the energy of the bomb. But you could junk the Mercury-Steam sequence if you wanted to. King's first wild hope of a way out of his dilemma was dashed. He subsided. Go ahead. Tell me about it. Well, it's a matter of artificial radioactives. Just before I asked for that special research allotment, Erickson and I, Dr. Lentz had a finger in it too, found two isotopes of a radioactive that seemed to be mutually antagonistic. That is, when we goose them in the presence of each other, they gave up their latent energy all at once. Blue hole to hell. The important point is we were using just a Nats whisker of mass of each. The reaction didn't require a big mass, like the bomb, to maintain it. I don't see, objected King, how that could be. Neither do we, quite, but it works. We've kept it quiet until we were sure. We checked on what we had and we found a dozen other fuels. Probably we'll be able to tailor-make fuels for any desired purpose, but here it is. Arper handed King a bound sheaf of typewritten notes which he'd been carrying under his arm. That's your copy. Look it over. King started to do so. Lentz joined him after a look that was a silent request for permission, which Erickson had answered with his only verbal contribution. Your duck. As King read, the troubled feelings of an acutely harassed executive left him. His dominant personality took charge, that of the scientist. He enjoyed the controlled and cerebral ecstasy of the impersonal seeker for the elusive truth. The emotions felt when the throbbing thalamus were permitted only to form a sensuous oligoto for the cold flame of cortical activity, for the time being, he was sane, more nearly completely sane than most men ever achieve at any time. For a long period there was only an occasional grunt, the clatter of turned pages, a nod of approval. At last he put it down. It's the stuff, he said. You've done it, boys. It's great. I'm proud of you. Erickson glowed a bright pink and swallowed. Harper's small, tense figure gave the ghost of a wriggle, reminiscent of a wire-haired terrier receiving approval. That's fine, chief. We'd rather hear you say that than get the Nobel Prize. I think you'll probably get it. However, the proud light in his eyes died down. I'm not going to take any action in this matter. Why not, chief? Harper's tone was bewildered. I'm being retired. My successor will take over in the near future. This is too big a matter to start just before a change in administration. You being retired blazes. About the same reason I took you off the bomb. At least the directors think so. But that's nonsense. You were right to take me off the bomb. I was getting jumpy. But you're another matter. We all depend on you. Thanks, Cal. But that's how it is. There's nothing to be done about it. He turned the lens. I think this is the last ironical touch needed to make the whole thing pure farce. He observed bitterly. This thing is big. Bigger than we can guess at this stage, and I have to give it a miss. Well, Harper burst out. I can think of something to do about it. He strode over to King's desk and snatched up the manuscript. Either you superintend the exploitation or the company can damn well get along without our discovery. Ericsson concurred belligerently. Wait a minute. Lent said the floor. Dr. Harper, have you already achieved a practical rocket fuel? I said so. We've got it on hand now. An escape speed fuel? That understood his verbal shorthand, a fuel that would lift a rocket free of the Earth's gravitational pull. Sure, why you could take any of the clipper rockets, refit them a trifle, and have breakfast on the moon. Very well, bear with me. He obtained a sheet of paper from King and commenced to write. They watched, enmistified impatience. He continued briskly for some minutes, hesitating only momentarily. Presently he stopped and spun the paper over to King. Solve it, he demanded. King studied the paper. Lent's had assigned symbols to a great number of factors, some social, some psychological, some physical, some economic. He had thrown them together in a structural relationship, using the symbols of calculus of statement. King understood the paramathematical operations indicated by the symbols, but he was not as used to them as he was the symbols and operations of mathematical physics. He plowed through the equations, moving his lips slightly in unconscious sub-vocalization. He accepted a pencil from Lent's and completed the solution. It required several more lines, a few more equations, before the elements cancelled out or rearranged themselves into a definite answer. He stared at this answer while puzzlement gave way to dawning comprehension and delight. He looked up, Erickson, Harper, he wrapped up, we will take your new fuel, refit a large rocket, install the bomb in it, and throw it into an orbit around the Earth, far out in space. There, we'll use it to make more fuel, safe fuel for use on Earth, with the danger from the bomb itself limited to the operators actually on watch. There was no applause. It was not that sort of an idea. Their minds were still struggling with the complex implications. But Chief, Harper finally managed, how about your retirement? We're still not going to stand for it. Don't worry, King assured him. It's all in there. Implicit in those equations. You too, me, Lentz, the board of directors, and just what we all have to do to accomplish it. All except the matter of time, Lentz cautioned. Eh? You'll note that elapsed time appears in your answer as an undetermined unknown. Yes, yes, of course. That's the chance we have to take. Let's get busy. When Weird Darkness returns, we will conclude our story Blow Ups Happen by Robert Heinlein. Chairman Dixon called the board of directors to order. This being a special meeting, we'll dispense with minutes and reports, he announced. As said fourth in the call, we have agreed to give the retiring superintendent three hours of our time. Mr. Chairman, yes, Mr. Thornton, I thought we had settled that matter. We have, Mr. Thornton, but in view of Superintendent King's long and distinguished service, if he asks a hearing, we are on our bound to grant it. You have the floor, Dr. King. King got up and stated briefly, Dr. Lentz will speak for me. He sat down. Lentz had to wait till coughing, throat clearing, and scraping chairs subsided. It was evident that the board resented the outsider. Lentz ran quickly over the main points and the arguments which contended that the bomb presented an intolerable danger anywhere on the face of the earth. He moved on at once to the alternative proposal that the bomb should be located in a rocket ship, an artificial moodlet flying in a free orbit around the earth at a convenient distance, say 15,000 miles, while second power stations on earth burned a safe fuel manufactured by the bomb. He announced the discovery of the Harper Erickson technique and dwelt on what it meant to them commercially. Each point was presented as persuasively as possible with the full power of his engaging personality. Then he paused and waited for them to blow off steam. They did. Visionary. Unproved. No essential change in the situation. The substance of it was that they were very happy to hear of the new fuel, but not particularly impressed by it. Perhaps in another 20 years, after it had been thoroughly tested and proved commercially and provided enough uranium had been mined to build another bomb, they might consider setting up another power station outside the atmosphere. In the meantime, there was no hurry. Lentz patiently and politely dealt with their objections. He emphasized the increasing incidence of occupational psychoneurosis among the engineers and the grave danger to everyone near the bomb even under the orthodox theory. He reminded them of their insurance and indemnity bond costs, all of the squeeze they paid state politicians. Then he changed his tone and let them have it directly and brutally. Gentlemen, we believe that we are fighting for our lives, our own lives, our families and every life on the globe. If you refuse this compromise, we will fight as fiercely and with as little regard for fair play as any cornered animal. With that, he made his first move in attack. It was quite simple. He offered for their inspection the outline of a propaganda campaign on a national scale, such as any major advertising firm could carry out as a matter of routine. It was complete to the last detail. Television broadcasts, spot plugs, newspaper and magazine coverage with planted editorials, dummy citizens committees and, most important, a supporting whispering campaign and a letters to Congress organization. Every businessman there knew from experience how such things worked. But its object was to steer up fear of the bomb and to direct that fear, not into panic, but into rage against the board of directors personally and into a demand that the government take action to have the bomb removed to outer space. This is blackmail, we'll stop you. I think not. Lentz replied gently, you may be able to keep us out of some of the newspapers but you can't stop the rest of it. You can't even keep us off the air, asked the Federal Communications Commission. It was true. Harrington had handled the political end and had performed his assignment well. The President was convinced. Tempers were snapping on all sides. Dixon had a pound for order. Dr. Lentz, he said, his own temper under taught control, you plan to make every one of us appear at black-hearted scoundrel with no other thought than personal profit, even at the expense of the lives of others. You know that it's not true, that is a simple difference of opinion, as to what is wise. I did not say it was true, Lentz admitted blandly, but you will admit that I can convince the public that you are deliberate villains. As to it being a difference of opinion, you are none of you atomic physicists. You are not entitled to hold opinions in this matter. As a matter of fact, he went on callously, the only doubt in my mind is whether or not an enraged public will destroy your precious power plant before Congress has time to exercise eminent domain and take it away from you. Before they had time to think up arguments in answer and ways of circumventing him, before their hot indignation had cooled and set as stubborn resistance, he offered his gambit. He produced another layout for a propaganda campaign, an entirely different sort. This time the board of directors was to be built up, not torn down. All of the same techniques were to be used. Behind the scenes feature articles with plenty of human interest would describe the functions of the company, describe it as a great public trust administered by patriotic, unselfish statesmen of the business world. At the proper point in the campaign, the Harper Erickson fuel would be announced, not as a semi-accidental result of the initiative of two employees, but as the long expected end product of years of systematic research conducted under a fixed policy of the board of directors, a policy growing naturally out of their humane determination to remove forever the menace of explosion from even the sparsely settled Arizona desert. No mention was to be made of the danger of complete planet embracing catastrophe. Lance discussed it. He dwelt on the appreciation that would be due to them from a grateful world. He invited them to make a noble sacrifice and, with subtle misdirection, tempted them to think of themselves as heroes. He deliberately played on one of the most deep-rooted of simian instincts, the desire for approval from one's kind, deserved or not. All the while he was playing for time as he directed his attention from one hard case, one resistant mind to another. He soothed and he tickled and he played on personal foibles. For the benefit of the Timorous and the devoted family men, he again painted a picture of the suffering, death, and destruction that might result from their well-meant reliance on the unproved and highly questionable predictions of Destry's mathematics. Denny described in glowing detail a picture of a world free from worry, but granted almost unlimited power, safe power from an invention which was theirs for this one small concession. It worked. They did not reverse themselves all at once, but a committee was appointed to investigate the feasibility of the proposed spaceship power plant. By sheer brass, Lance suggested names for the committee and Dixon confirmed his nominations, not because he wished to, particularly, but because he was caught off guard and could not think of a reason to refuse without affronting those colleagues. The impending retirement of King was not mentioned by either side. Privately, Lance felt sure it never would be mentioned. It worked, but there was much left to do. For the first few days after the victory in committee, King felt much elated by the prospect of an early release from the soul-killing worry. He was buoyed up by pleasant demands of manifold new administrative duties. Harper and Erickson were detached to Goddard Fields to collaborate with the rocket engineers there in design of firing chambers, nozzles, fuel-stowage, fuel metering, and the like. A schedule had to be worked out with the business office to permit as much power of the bomb as possible to be diverted to making atomic fuel, and a giant combustion chamber for atomic fuel had to be designed and ordered to replace the bomb itself during the interim between the time it was shut down on Earth and the later time when sufficient local smaller plants could be built to carry the commercial load. He was busy. When the first activity had died down and they were settled in a new routine, pending the shutting down of the bomb and its removal to outer space, King suffered an emotional reaction. There was by then nothing to do but wait and tend the bomb until the crew at Goddard Field smoothed out the bugs and produced a space-worthy rocket ship. They ran into difficulties, overcame them, and came across more difficulties. They had never used such high reaction velocities. It took many trials to find a nozzle shape that would give reasonably high efficiency. When that was solved and success seemed in sight, the jets burned out on a time trial ground test. They were stalemated for weeks over that hitch. Back at the power plant, Superintendent King could do nothing but chew his nails and wait. He had not even the release of running over to Goddard Field to watch the progress of the research for, urgently as he desired to, he felt an even stronger and overpowering compulsion to watch over the bomb more, lest its, heartbreakingly, blow up at the last minute. He took to hanging around the control room. He had to stop that. His unease communicated itself to his watch engineers. Two of them cracked up in a single day, one of them on watch. He must face the fact that there had been a grave upswing in psychoneurosis among his engineers since the period of watchful waiting had commenced. At first, they had tried to keep the essential fact to the plan a close secret, but it had leaked out, perhaps through some member of the investigating committee. He admitted to himself now that it had been a mistake ever to try and keep it a secret. Lance had advised against it and the engineers, not actually engaged in the changeover, were bound to know that something was up. He took all the engineers into confidence at last, under oath of secrecy. That had helped, for a week or more, a week in which they were all given a spiritual lift by the knowledge, as he had been. Then it had worn off. The reaction had set in, and the psychological observers had started disqualifying engineers for duty almost daily. They were even reporting each other as mentally unstable with great frequency. He might even be faced with a shortage of psychiatrist's have that kept up, he thought to himself with bitter amusement. His engineers were already standing four hours in every sixteen. If one more dropped out, he put himself on watch. That would be a relief to tell himself the truth. Somehow, some of the civilians around about and the non-technical employees were catching on to the secret. That mustn't go on. If it spread any farther, there might be a nationwide panic. But how the hell could he stop it? He couldn't. He turned over in bed, rearranged his pillow, and tried once more to get to sleep. No soap. His head ached. His eyes were balls of pain, and his brain was a ceaseless grind of useless, repetitive activity, like a disc recording stuck in one groove. God, this was unbearable. He wondered if he were cracking up, if he already had cracked up. This was worse, many times worse than the old routine when he had simply acknowledged the danger and tried to forget it as much as possible. About that the bomb was any different. It was this five minutes to Armistice feeling, this waiting for the curtain to go up, this race against time with nothing to do to help. He sat up, switched on his bed lamp, and looked at the clock. 3.30. Not so good. He got up, went into his bathroom, and dissolved a sleeping powder and a glass of whiskey and water, half and half. He gulped it down and went back to bed. Presently, he dozed off. He was running, fleeing down a long corridor. At the end lay safety. He knew that. But he was so utterly exhausted that he doubted his ability to finish the race. The thing pursuing him was catching up. He forced his leadon, aching legs into greater activity. A thing behind him increased its pace and actually touched him. His heart stopped, then pounded again. He became aware that he was screaming, shrieking in mortal terror. But he had to reach the end of that corridor, more dependent on it than just himself. He had to. He had to. He had to. Then the sound hit him, and he realized that he had lost. Realized it with utter despair and utter bitter defeat. He had failed. The bomb had blown up. The sound was the alarm going off. It was seven o'clock. His pajamas were soaked, dripping with sweat, and his heart still pounded. Every ragged nerve throughout his body screamed for release. It would take more than a cold shower to cure this case of the shakes. He got to the office before the janitor was out of it. He sat there, doing nothing until Lentz walked in on him two hours later. A psychiatrist came in just as he was taking two small tablets from the box in his desk. Easy, easy, old man, Lentz said in a slow voice. What have you there? He came round and gently took possession of the box. Just a sedative. Lentz studied the inscription on the cover. How many have you had today? Just two so far. You don't need a sedative. You need a walk in the fresh air. Come. Take one with me. You're a fine one to talk. You're smoking a cigarette that isn't lighted. Me? Why so I am? We both need that walk. Come. Harper arrived less than ten minutes after they had left the office. Steinke was not in the outer office. He walked on through and pounded on the door of King's private office, then waited with the man who accompanied him. A hard young chap with an easy confidence to his bearing. Steinke let them in. Harper brushed on past him with a casual greeting, then checked himself when he saw that there was no one else inside. Where's the chief? He demanded. Gone out. Should be back soon. I'll wait. Oh, Steinke. This is green. Green. Steinke. The two shook hands. What brings you back, Cal? Steinke asked, turning back to Harper. Well, I guess it's all right to tell you. The communicator screen flashed into sudden activity and cutting short. A face filled most of the frame. It was apparently too close to the pickup, as it was badly out of focus. Superintendent yelled in an agonized voice, The bomb! A shadow flashed across the screen. They heard a dull smack, and the face slid out of the screen. As it fell, it revealed the control room behind it. Someone was down on the floor plates, a nameless heap. Another figure ran across the field of pickup and disappeared. Harper snapped into action first. That was silered! He shouted in the control room. Come on, Steinke! He was already in motion himself. Steinke went dead white, but hesitated only an unmeasurable instant. He pounded sharp on Harper's heels. Green followed without invitation and a steady run that kept easy pace with them. They had to wait for a capsule to unload at the tube station. Then, all three of them tried to crowd into a two-passenger capsule. It refused to start, and moments were lost before Green piled out and claimed another car. The four-minute trip at a heavy acceleration seemed an interminable crawl. Harper was convinced that the system had broken down when the familiar click and sigh announced their arrival at the station under the bomb. They jammed each other, trying to get out at the same time. The lift was up. They did not wait for it. That was unwise. They gained no time by it and arrived at the control level out of breath. Nevertheless, they speeded up when they reached the top, zigzagged frantically around the outer shield and burst into the control room. The limp figure was still on the floor, and another, also inert, was near it. The second's helmet was missing. The third figure was bending over the trigger. He looked up as they came in and charged him. They hit him together, and all three went down. It was two to one, but they got in each other's way. The man's heavy armor protected him from the force of their blows. He fought with senseless, savage violence. Harper felt a bright, sharp pain. His right arm went limp and useless. The armored figure was struggling free of them. There was a shout from somewhere behind them. Hold still! Harper saw a flash with the corner of one eye, a deafening crack hurried on top of it, and re-echoed painfully in the restricted space. The armored figure dropped back to his knees, balanced there, and then fell heavily on his face. Green stood in the entrance. A service pistol balanced in his hand. Harper got up and went over to the trigger. He tried to reduce the dampening adjustment, but his right hand wouldn't carry out his orders, and his left was too clumsy. Stanky, he called, come here, take over! Stanky hurried up, nodded as he glanced to the readings and set busily to work. It was thus that King found them when he bolted in a few minutes later. Harper, he shouted while his quick glance was still taking in the situation. What happened? Harper told him briefly. He nodded. I saw the tail end of the fight from my office. Stanky! He seemed to grasp for the first time who was on the trigger. He can't manage the controls. He hurried toward him. Stanky looked up at his approach. Chief, he called out, Chief! I've got my mathematics back! King looked bewildered, then nodded vaguely and let him be. He turned back to Harper. How's it happen you're here? Me? I'm here to report. We've done it, Chief. We finished. It's all done. Erickson stayed behind to complete the power plant installation on the big ship. I came over and the ship will use to shuttle between Earth and the big ship, the power plant. Four minutes from Goddard Field to here and her. That's the pilot over there. He pointed to the door where Green's solid form partially hid Lentz. Wait a minute. You say that everything's ready to install the bomb in the ship? You sure? Positive. The big ship's already flown with our fuel, longer and faster than she'll have to fly to reach the station in orbit. I was in it! Out in space, Chief! We're all set! Six ways from zero. King stared at the dumping switch, mounted behind glass at the top of the instrument board. There's fuel enough, he said softly, as if he were alone and speaking only to himself. There's been fuel enough for weeks. He walked swiftly over to the switch, smashed the glass with his fist and pulled it. The room rumbled and shivered as two and a half tons of molten, massive metal heavier than gold coarsed down channels, struck against baffles, split into a dozen dozen streams and plunged to rest in lead-in receivers, to rest safe and harmless, until it should be reassembled far out in space. Thanks for listening. If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at Darren at WeirdDarkness.com. Darren is D-A-R-R-E-N, and you can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and more, including the show's Weirdo's Facebook group on the Contact social page at WeirdDarkness.com. Also on the website, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, click on Tell Your Story. Stories on thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction, and links to the stories of the authors can be found in the show notes. Blow Ups Happen was written by Robert Heinlen from the book The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology, which I have placed a link to in the show notes. It's a rare book, so it can be a bit pricey depending on where you find it, but it's definitely something you'll want if you like to collect science fiction books. WeirdDarkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions, and now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Proverbs 17 verse 7, A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity. And a final thought, life is easier when you take it one day at a time and remember that nothing is permanent except your soul. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.