 CHAPTER XIII At first the lighted matches under his toenails hurt like the very devil. He had never known such pain. Then he forgot about the matches under his toenails. They started lighting them under his fingers. Where did they go? Cusso screamed. How did they do it? Zen had long since ceased trying to say that he didn't know. Instead of speaking, he shook his head. This was all he could do. Cusso interpreted the head shake as a stubborn refusal to answer. He kicked the colonel in the face. At the kick the race-mind clicked in. This was the effect Zen had, as if a third person had suddenly come in on a party line. After that the pain from the kick did not seem so important. The torture from the matches under his nails seemed to diminish also. Not that the contact with the race-mind nullified the pain or made it any less real. Fire was still fire and torture was still the same, but neither were very important. Other things were. Zen tried to concentrate his attention on the other things. The room, the shouting Cusso, the two Asians who were holding him down while the third thrust the matches under his nails, the shivering Cal, the lieutenant who was over-eager to obey his leader's orders. All these seemed to become misty and vague. These things were real. There was no question about that. But his mind was contacting another reality which made these things different. Time began to lose its meaning. He wondered if he was fainting. Another question came across his thoughts, healed over like a sailing ship moving across the wind. Was he dying? There was no shock with the thought. If that was the way it was, then he was more than ready. You are not fainting and you are not dying. The race-mind whispered to him. Come closer to me. How do I come closer to you? Let go. The voice of the race-mind was like a whisper from the other side of infinity. Let go and come to me. Dimly he wondered how one let go. The answer came with the question. The words met exactly what they said. The meaning was literal. Let go. As he performed the action that went with the words, the big gallery, Cusso, the lieutenant, and the torturers faded away and became a part of a misty world that seemed to have no real existence. Even the pain vanished. Come to me, the race-mind whispered again and again, a luring voice that drew him resistably. Abruptly, he was back in the gallery. He did not know how long he had been gone, but he realized that some time must have passed, enough to allow them to set up a portable radio transmitter in the gallery. The set looked to be very powerful. A yellow-skinned operator was huddling over the controls. In contact with Asian headquarters, Xan thought. He knew his thinking was correct. If somewhere in the distance outside the mountain, the night shuddered. He knew the meaning of the sound. A rocket ship was either landing or blasting off, probably the latter. A long line of burdened Asians was moving through the gallery. At the site of their loads, Xan knew what had gone into the hold of that ship. The equipment of the hidden center here. He saw parts of the super radar go past on the backs of sweating Asian soldiers, and he knew where this was going. At this knowledge anguish came up in him. With West super radar in their possession, no American secret was safe from prying Asian eyes, unless some way could be found to shield the frequencies employed. Such shielding might work for laboratories, but there was no way to shield troop movements and takeoffs and landings. These would be as public as an advertisement. Xan's face was wet. He could not understand this until another bucket of water hit him. An Asian bent over him, saw that his eyes were open, and grunted with satisfaction. They started again on his fingers. The radio operator called to Kuso, giving him a message. Xan could not understand the language, but the Asian leader was both startled and elated. He shouted at the men carrying loads to work faster. Not much time left. Big bomb coming. What bomb, Xan thought. With the question came the answer. Worn by Kuso that their preparations were probably known, the Asians had decided to launch their super bomb immediately. Turmoyle came up inside Xan at this knowledge. Real pain came from his fingertips as the tortures began operations again. Do you want to die? The race-mind whispered in his thoughts. Although he couldn't contact it, the race-field could reach him. You have suffered all that is required. You have met the law. You may join me if you wish. I... Xan shut off his thinking. This was fantasy, the product of torture and nearing dissolution. His own imagination was tricking him, he thought. This is not your imagination, the answer came. This is what you call the race-mind. But... how do you know? You don't. At this point you have to accept me on faith. The thinking flowing smoothly into his mind went into silence, then came again, stronger than before. Do you want to die? You have earned the right. No, Xan answered. He screamed the words again. No, no! The path before you will be difficult. I don't care how difficult it is. There's work to be done. Again he shouted the words. Very well. It is your choice. You may remain among the living for as long as your strength may last. The voice whispering in his mind went into silence. It continued screaming. Pain raced through his consciousness again. As he came awake he realized that he was screaming at the torturer to stop. He also realized that the asian had stopped. There was a sound in the gallery. Filling the air it seemed to emerge from the very walls of the mountain itself. The note of a violin. High and sweet and compelling the sound came from nowhere. Every atom in the solid stone walls seemed to pick it up and to rebroadcast it. The molecules of the air seemed to dance in resonance with it. Simultaneously, about ten feet above the floor, the face appeared again. The lieutenant's rifle blasted at it. He fired shot after shot at point blank range. Red hot slugs howled from the walls of the big gallery in a cacophony of death. The face smiled at the lieutenant. The lips moved. Deep shooting-old fellow, the lips seemed to say. The officer emptied his gun. In a desperate burst of fear he threw it at the mocking face. The weapon passed through the face without harming it. "'You fool! That's a projection! Not a real person!" Kuso shouted. He grabbed the officer by the shoulder and spun him backward to the floor. "'Who are you?' he demanded of the face. It smiled at him. Then repressed the impulse to shout. He knew what was going to happen next. "'I said, who are you?' Kuso shouted again. The crash of something in the gallery jerked his attention away. Twisting his head around, he saw that one of the soldiers engaged in carrying the loot of his cavern out to the plane waiting to hurry it to Asia had collapsed on the floor. Under ordinary circumstances Kuso would have had the man summarily executed, but with that face smiling at him out of nothing these circumstances were not ordinary. Zen, knowing what was going to happen, forgot the pain of his burned fingers and toes. He could feel it creeping over him in waves. This time he did not resist it. He let his eyes close. When he opened them the torture was snoring beside him. Every Asian in the big gallery was sound asleep. People were crowding around him. The new people. In a sweeping glance he recognized every person he had met here except Nedra, and he did not see her at first because she was busy bandaging his hands. West was smiling down at him with an expression that was somehow grandfatherly, but back of West's smile was a perturbation. Zen started to get to his feet and discovered they had not as yet removed the ropes from his legs. As one did this, Nedra clucked reprovingly at him and tried to tell him that he was wounded. He said this did not matter. Faces were here that he did not recognize. This did not matter either. You did this, he said to West. Yes, I designed and built the equipment. Others were operating it in this instance. West had something else on his mind. Yes, Zen said. Why didn't you take me with you when you went wherever it was you went? We couldn't, West answered. You haven't had the training. Why did you come back? To rescue you? Kurt, West had something that he wanted to say. Nedra, will you stop fussing with me? I'm all right. But your poor hands and feet. I don't even feel them. I won't have them to feel at all unless action is taken. Don't you understand? Somewhere in Asia they're getting ready to launch a super-bomb, or maybe it's already on its way. I didn't know, the girl said. The big one? Yes. A flicker of pain crossed her face and she shook her head. I always wondered what it would be like to live on a mud flat. I wonder if we will be oysters or eels, or maybe crabs. What the hell are you talking about? Zen demanded. After the bomb goes off, the girl said. What then? The race-mind will have to start over again, she explained. Her manner indicated that she was explaining something that she clearly understood. She seemed to wonder why he did not understand it. Maybe we will be turtles. That will be funny. A turtle that can remember when it was a man. That's the way it will be. Except. I know all about that. Except that the turtle won't be able to do anything about its memories. The girl continued, as if she had not heard him. It will have flippers and a beak, but what it will need will be hands. It won't have them until it grows them itself. A turtle with the memories that it was once a man, knowing that if it had hands it could rebuild human culture. A bemused expression appeared on her face. I wonder how the race-mind will solve that problem. Again she seemed to muse. It would be worse to be crabs. Or would it? Shut up! Zen snarled. We're not turtles yet, or crabs, and we're not going back on the mud flats. But we're on the edge of them, the girl insisted. One more teeter and we will go totter. Zen turned to west. What the hell has happened to Nedra? Nothing, the craggy man answered. She has some degree of clairvoyance and it is coming to consciousness. Unfortunately she has not yet had the time to develop her talents in that direction. Maybe the turtle wouldn't want to rebuild human culture, the girl interrupted. Maybe it wouldn't want to go back down that blind alley again. Perhaps it would decide to go into another channel to develop into something totally different. In that case it might not need hands. Zen deliberately ignored her. He turned to west. A bomb will be going off, he said. That is what I've been trying to talk to you about, the craggy man answered. This is another reason why we came back for you, so we could talk to you about that bomb. To me, Zen said, startled. Yes, to you. Why? Because you are a kernel of intelligence and have experience in such matters. Also, because you are something that none of us are, a fighting man. I... I don't understand you, Zen answered. I can get you there, but once there my knowledge fails. I, to my regret, know nothing of fighting. West spread his hands in a helpless gesture. Get me where, Zen asked. To Asia. To the underground cavern where they are getting ready to launch that bomb, West explained. The tone of his voice said this was easy. The hard part came in knowing what to do and being able to do it after they were there. To Asia? Zen parroted the words. He had the dazed impression that this whole scene was unreal, that the snoring Asians on the floor, Cal huddled by the wall, and the new people crowding into the room would shortly all vanish in puffs of green smoke. How in the hell will you get us to Asia? How did we get out of this gallery? West responded. How did we vanish? How did the men in the reports you read get into the planes that were about to crash? Who landed Colonel Grant's space satellite? Who steered it? Who provided the power to energize the motion? Who... Did you know I knew about Grant? It was obvious that you must know. And you can get me to Asia. You and as many others as you choose to take with you. Walking over to the sleeping lieutenant, he picked up the man's rifle, then turned to the group. Who will go with me to Asia? he asked. The group stepped forward as one man. A knot formed in Kurt Zen's throat at the site, and he gulped to force it down. He knew how much this decision meant to them. They had been trained in the ways of peace. They were searching for the road to the future. Fighting meant turning backward on the path that led to growth. It was the last thing they wanted to do. Yet do it they would, if it was necessary. In an instant they were scrambling for weapons from the sleeping Asians. Then they were trying to salute and tell them their names and say they would follow him at the same time. One man saluted well. Red dog Jimmy Thurman, he said. Pride was in the man's voice. Zen caught the man's arm. Red dog Jimmy Thurman? But I know you. Maybe you do, sir. Thurman spoke with the soft drawl of the old south. One of the new people appeared in your plane and saved your life. Zen burst out. Yes, sir. That's right, sir. But you deserted. You went another way, sir. Let's say I joined the right side. How did you find this place? I just kept thinking and kept trying. Eventually we found each other. The psychos tried to make me believe I was nuts. But I knew better. I knew what had happened. And I knew there had to be a reason for it. I kept hunting until I found that reason. The big part of the battle, where I had an advantage over most everybody else, was that I knew from experience that something was going on. Knowing this much, all I had to do was keep looking. The man's voice drawled the explanation. His eyes smiled. At your service, sir. Do you know that going with me may mean death? What's death, sir? Red dog Jimmy Thurman grinned. I died over the north pole, sir. Like Larson, another man said, You were in a sub, Zen challenged. A glow was coming up inside of him like nothing he had ever experienced before. He was getting fighting men to stand beside him. Yes, Larson answered, and I will consider it a privilege to stand beside you. Like soldiers they passed in review before him, the fat boy, the tall, lean, brown-skinned youths. Somehow he thought there ought to be another one. He looked around for him. Grant was talking to West. Grant was the man whose face had looked out of thin air in the middle of the room. Seeing that Zen was staring at him, he left off his talk with the craggy man and came over and saluted. How was it up in that satellite? Zen asked. Lonely as hell, Colonel. Grant answered. Do you want to go with me to Asia? There's no place on earth I'd rather go. And, the way things stand now, I don't have much choice. If they get that bomb into the air... He left the sentence unfinished. Then Nedra was standing in front of Zen. At the side of her it seemed to him that the world stood still. He shook his head. Why, she challenged. Because I love you, he answered. Then, that is the real reason why you should take me with you, she answered. I don't follow, he said. If you fail, there will be no tomorrow, she answered. To her the statement had no answer. Besides, I am a nurse, she continued. If they are wounded, I can help with them. But the fact that you love me does not enter into the situation. It is a thing apart. It is a very wonderful thing, she added hastily, the starlight shining in her eyes. And I wish we could bring it to fruit the ways it used to be. But those days are gone. And I am going to age you with you. Watching West smiled. Zen spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. He turned to the craggy man. This sleep thing. I don't know how you do it and don't much care. But you obviously have a portable generator of some kind that you use to put the lieutenant out in the ghost-town. Yes, West agreed. I'd like to borrow the unit, Zen said. Gladly, Colonel. I wish we had other weapons. We'll make do with what we have, Zen answered. End of Chapter 13. CHAPTER XIV. OF DOOM'S DAY EV. by Robert Moore Williams. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. DOOM'S DAY EV. CHAPTER XIV. The loudspeaker droned in a Chinese dialect. In a deep cavern in the hinterlands of Asia, men responded to the command coming over the speaker system. Already driven to the point of exhaustion, they were working harder than they had ever worked before. The moment of victory for which all true Asians had lived was near at hand. The launching of this bomb would make the Asian Union master of the world. Orders had come through to launch this bomb immediately. Zero minus forty-five minutes, the speaker said. The drone had gone from the voice of the officer watching the time. A rising excitement appeared in the tones as if he too had caught the scent of fear rising in the vast underground depot. So much was left to be done. The atomic warhead was already in place, waiting for the day of launching, otherwise the task would have been impossible. The driving engines were complete, but had to be fueled. The steering equipment was almost ready, only the installation of the left gyroscope was necessary. This was at hand waiting to be installed. Five technicians constantly got in each other's way as they tried to slip the delicate instrument into place. Zero minus thirty minutes! The gyroscope was eased into place and tested. It was found to be in perfect working order. In the course-plotting room the final calculations were being made. Wind direction and velocity aloft had been noted across half the planet. This had some importance on the launching and landing end, but had no significance when the bomb itself was out of the atmosphere. The target had been figured and refigured. Actually, the target was anywhere on the continent of North America. If this bomb struck anywhere in the Mississippi Valley, the whole watershed below the striking point would be scoured clean of all life. Water carrying radiation downstream would account for that. Zero minus fifteen minutes! On the outside of the mountain, in a special observatory constructed for this precise purpose, radar scopes for tracking the rocket were ready. Instruments in the laboratory there were for the purpose of changing the course of the super bomb, if it veered too far from its destination. The technicians there were on their toes. They had no guards to encourage them, but they needed none. They knew what would happen if this bomb failed to land and the fault was traced to their door. What would happen when the bomb landed? Hell would happen. Probably the crust of the earth would open up in a hole miles in depth. Meteor crater in Arizona would be the work of a child compared to the result of this explosion. What had happened at Hiroshima and Nagasaki would be nothing in comparison. The possibility existed that the molten magma of the core of the planet would gush forth. No one knew for sure whether or not this would happen. If it did take place, the result might be the sudden appearance of a lake of overflowing lava. The shock waves from the bomb would probably be strong enough to pull down every skyscraper that still remains standing in America. The effect on the watershed where the bomb landed will be almost complete catastrophe. If it struck on any of the rivers or streams flowing into the Mississippi, the water supply of all cities downstream to New Orleans would be contaminated. Nobody knew what the effect of the fallout from this bomb would be. High air currents might carry radioactive particles for thousands of miles from the explosion point, where they would fall as a gentle but very deadly rain upon the earth below. Zero minus ten minutes! The high, thin note of a violin appeared in the vast underground cavern. Amid the scurrying of feet, the shouts of the foremen bossing the work-gangs, and the occasional cracking of the rifles of the guard, the sound was unheard by the ears. But deeper centers heard it. The first man to go was a fad engineer. Sighing, he stumbled and fell. When he did not rise, a guard approached him. As the guard determined that the man was snoring, he lifted his rifle. The engineer died without awakening. Another shot rang out as another man went to sleep, then continued on to join his father's. The technician busy filling the fuel tanks of the rocket was the third man to go. He managed to finish closing the filler cap and to lay down his flexible line before the urge to sleep overcame him. By this time the guards knew that something was wrong. Silence came over the cavern. In the stillness, the note of the violin flickering up and down the scale could be heard. Men looked at each other in growing apprehension. Looking, some of them laid down and went to sleep. Sleep gas! An officer bawled. Shoot all foreigners on sight! The officer suspected that some spy had slipped into the underground cavern and had released gas there. His command was intended to enable his men to find and eliminate this alien. As such, from a military standpoint, it was a good command. It had this deficiency. When his men did not find any aliens, but their own people continued going to sleep on them, they began imagining foreigners. The guards began to shoot their own technicians and engineers. As panic swept through the cavern, guards began to shoot other guards. Soon the people in this huge underground chamber were tearing and destroying each other. And one other thing. They were also going to sleep. The panic grew to hurricane proportions. When Kurt Zenn appeared inside the cavern, the whole vast place was as still as a tomb. Smoke from the rifles hung in the air. The cavern stank of death and fear. But the bomb still rested in its launching cradle. Zenn took one long look at that bomb. He felt his sigh of relief cleared down to the ends of his toes. At the sight, the last remnant of pain vanished from his toes and fingers. Not that the damage done by the matches did not still exist. It did. But in the surge of elation that swept through him, he completely forgot the pain. We just got here in time, a man said, appearing beside him. It was Spike Larson who had spoken. All on his face Larson glanced around the cavern. They started killing each other. They must have gone nuts. I don't blame them, Zenn said. I damn near did on the way here. That trip through nothing is sure a stinker, isn't it? Larson answered, grinning and shaking his head. Zenn agreed with him wholeheartedly. After tuning his body to an instrument in the cavern, hidden so well that Kuso's men had not had time to find it, West had punched a button. The machine had vanished. West had vanished. A horrible moment had come when it had seemed that his feet were standing on nothing more substantial than air. What he had felt under his feet had, in fact, been far less substantial than air, which had body. It had been even less solid than space. It had been nothing. Swishing Colonel Grant came into existence on the other side of Zenn. Grant looked fussed, but he gripped the rifle he had taken from one of Kuso's men with determination. Just between you and me, I'd rather fly a space satellite to Mars any day in preference to facing this jump. I know what you mean, Zenn said. As he spoke, another figure came into existence to his left. Nedra. She came spinning into reality with a smile on her face. Zenn wasted a moment wondering what kind of cast iron nerf this girl had. It looks as if all we had to do was to tie them up, Spike Larson said. This is almost too good to be true. It is too good to be true, Zenn said. Turmoy was... somewhere. He did not know where, but it seemed to him that a vast uneasiness had suddenly come into existence. It had to do somehow with the future, with a something that was about to happen. Halt! Grant's voice rang out. Zenn swung his gaze around just in time to see an Asian lift himself to his feet near a control board that stood beside the rocket. He's walking in his sleep, Larson exclaimed. Zero minus one minute! the loudspeaker announced. Where in the hell is that man on the speaker? Grant demanded. The sleep frequency didn't get to him. No time to be concerned about him now, Zenn said. The turmoil that existed somewhere had increased in intensity. Somehow it was concerned with the solitary Asian who was reeling in circles like a drunken man trying to make up his mind. Shall I shoot him, Colonel? Grant demanded. Zenn hesitated. He knew that West's deepest wish was to avoid violence if that was possible. The split-second's delay was fatal. Grant's shot rang out, much too late. Reeling on his feet, the man reached the control panel and pulled the single switch there. A heavy thud came from the rocket as a ram drove home inside the heavy metal hull. Get back! Zenn screamed. He caught Nedra and pulled her backward. Beside him he knew that Grant and Larson were also reeling backward. Inside the rocket a steady rumble of sound was building up. Low in frequency but heavy in volume it seemed to shake the foundations of the earth itself. Inside the vessel heavy heat charges were building up. Smoke and flames spurred it backward as the first warming charge let go. For all Zenn knew, this section was to have been cleared before the firing of the first rocket. He did not know whether provision had been made for the elimination of flame and smoke, but he knew that heat and smoke hit him as he pulled Nedra away. Then the main charges let go. Rising, like some devil spurting upward from the depths of hell itself, the launching cradle carrying the rocket lurched upward. The stone floor shook underfoot. The mountain shook. Unless this rocket could be stopped the whole planet would shake. Earth would twitcher skin like an elephant stung by a giant wasp. With a thundering roar the rocket shook itself loose from its cradle and hurled into the sky under its own power. West! Zenn shouted. Yes, Kurt? The craggy man's reply was as prompt as it would have been if he had stayed in the same room. Actually, he was in the American Center. We've lost, Zenn said. I know, West replied. A sadness as deep as the ocean of space was in his voice. Pull these people back to you. Of course. Me last. The last lingering roars of sound were still pounding down the bore of the launching cradle. Why do you want to be last? Duty, Zenn said. Get that miracle device of yours into operation pronto. Sure, I'm starting now. Hey, guys, you're going home. Zenn yelled at the people with him. What good is it to go home? Spike Larson asked. There won't be any home within an hour, Grand added. Or however long that rocket will take to land. Why go back to what isn't there? That's where we will start the task of rebuilding, Zenn said. Rebuild what with what? Larson demanded. There will be something left, Zenn said firmly. You are already underground. You will stay that way. Keep the good fight going for years. Raise some kids to keep it going after you are gone. He felt very firm and sure about what he was saying. You're full of hot air, Red Dog Jimmy Thurman said. Besides, you are planning something else, Nedra spoke. You want to get rid of us so you can West, Zenn shouted. Yes, Kurt, take them away. Zenn yelled. They're trying to rebel on me. Take Nedra first before she reads my mind. I'm working as fast as I can, West answered. This instrument has to be tuned to the individual body frequency. I knew there was something, Nedra began, and vanished. Zenn grinned. He had the impression that she was calling him names that no lady should speak as she went away. Time would cure that, if any time was left. In the chamber an Asian was stirring. Zenn, old man, what are you up to? Grand asked. Take this one next, Kurt ordered. Grant looked reluctant but resigned as he disappeared. Zenn was alone in the big chamber. Smoke swirled from the ceiling. One Asian was already on his feet and a guard was sitting up. I've got them all here. West's voice came across vast distances. Good. Are you ready? Yeah, Zenn answered. But I'm going that way. He pointed toward the ceiling. Kurt! West's voice was sharp with sudden pain as he caught the Colonel's meaning. That way or no way, Zenn answered. But that's not a passenger rocket. The hull will hold enough air to keep me alive for as long as I need to be there. But the rocket isn't constantly accelerating flight. It's a moving target. Red Dog Jimmy Thurman's plane was falling and Colonel Grant's satellite was moving and Spike Larson's sub was on the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Don't give me any backtalk, Sam. Somebody got into that plane and that satellite and that submarine. I can get into that rocket. You're the man who can put me there. But I'm not on that target. West's voice had a whale in it. Then get on it! Kurt Zenn sounded like an exceedingly gruff drill sergeant addressing a new recruit, or like a Colonel who had his mind made up. All right, I'll do my best. But something will remain here, Kurt, even after the explosion. We'll be safe in a way here. That argument has already been used by me to get the others back to you. You and I know, Sam, that hell won't hold a hat to the American Continent if that wizard hits. All right, West repeated. Ah, I'm on the rocket as a target. Good. Zenn repressed every muscular tremor everywhere in his body. Somewhere there was jubilation. A sensed but not tangible vibration that he could not locate. He concentrated on the jubilation. A layer of smoke floated down from the ceiling, like a descending death-paul. The guard had gotten to his feet. He had picked up his rifle and was staring around the room, seeking either an explanation for what had happened or a target. To him, which he got, didn't matter. His eyes came to focus on the lean Colonel with the bandaged fingers. That uniform did not belong here. The guard raised his rifle. Good luck, Kurt! West's voice whispered across the space between two continents. As the gun exploded in his face, Kurt Zenn felt his body vibrate into what seemed to be nothing. Again, the terror wrenched at his soul. Again, he experienced the mind-compelling agony of this incredible type of spaceflight. This time he did not mind these terrors. Somewhere in his mind was jubilation. Wondering if it was the forerunner of death, he continued to concentrate on that. Dimly, as if from some other space or some other time, he was aware of a roar. The rocket swam into existence ten feet away from him. He was outside it, in airless space. West had made a miscalculation. Agony seared every cell in his body, paying clamped at his throat like hands trying to choke him to death. Oops! I made a mistake! He heard West gasp. He was moving with the rocket on a parallel course. West had matched course and velocity, but he had not achieved his exact aiming-point. Error in the instrument? Human mistake? Who knew? Who cared? Click. Like a vast ocean of warm, pulsing, sure power, the race-mind came into Kurt Zen. It existed here in space, too. He had never thought of that. In what little thinking he had had time to do, he had considered it as a super-special sort of field which possessed intelligence but which was limited to the surface of the planet. Here in space it sustained life in him. He did not know how this was done. This was one of the mysteries which must be left to the future to solve. If there was a future, other than the mud flats, it felt to him as if a vast tidal current was flowing into his body. Click. He was in the rocket. The smell of overheated oil fouled his nose. As he tried to move, he bumped his head. He was in a narrow passage. A head was a control paddle with automatic devices. He began to crawl in that direction. Noise was a thundering roar in his ears. His whole body felt as if it was about to shake to pieces. The passage was narrow. It had never been intended for humans. Moving upward, Zen found it was too narrow. He got stuck. No matter how hard he tried he could not move an inch forward. The control panel was so close he could spit on it. But it could not have been farther out of his reach if it had been on the other side of the moon. Air was getting short. He twisted and squirmed, fighting like the devil. But his body was wedged into the narrow passage in such a way that he could not move. Something pulled at his arms. Nedra was directly ahead of him. She was trying to pull him forward along the passage. You, he whispered. Who has a better right than I, she answered. Sweat grimeed her face. Her hair was a rye. Fiercely she pulled at him. The rocket yawed, beginning its turn in space. He forced himself forward and came free. Somehow he found the strength to pull himself up in front of the control panel. He was running on nervous energy now and he knew it. No strength was left in his body beyond what he was forcing into it. Send it out into space, he muttered. Send it out there. He tried to wave his arm in an outward gesture and bumped his hand on the steel hull. Light came through a circular port. He had a glimpse of the earth down below. The planet was very far away. Blue seas and green land, the planet was also very beautiful. He fumbled his way over the controls, trying to understand them. Somewhere, stabilizing gyroscopes were running smoothly. He could hear them. The controls were simple. He decided which way was up and jammed home the controls. Nothing happened. In the confined quarters his laughter had madness in it. Nedra stared at him. What happened? Nothing. Nothing happened. They're locked in place. His eyes grew very wide. These controls are only for establishing the flight course. Once that is established and the rocket launched they automatically lock in place. Then we can't change its course? No. Her face puckered and she looked like a small girl about to cry. Another panel to the left caught his attention. It had a red button on it. He studied the wiring on it. By thunder the words burst involuntarily from his lips. What is it, Kurt? They put a manual control on the warhead. It's got to be that. It can't be anything else. He pointed to the red button. Why do you suppose they did that? Test purposes probably to check the firing mechanism before the warhead was installed. What difference does it make? Nedra's voice was listless. Maybe we can go to heaven. What do you mean? He explained very carefully what he meant. Explode the rocket here in space? Sure, he said. His tone of voice said this was nothing, that anybody could do it. West's voice clambered in his mind again. He ignored it. His hand moved toward the red button. There's one thing I want you to know, he said, pausing. What is that? I love you, he said. She came into his arms like a tired frightened child. I knew that the minute I saw you, she said. He held her close to him and she lay there, seemingly very content. All right, she said. I'm ready. Her lips sought his. Kissing her, he reached behind her back and punched the red button. A relay thudded. Darkness closed in. Kurt Senn came out of that darkness to find himself staring upward into the face of Sam West. There was something about that face that was familiar, something that he should have guessed long before. He tried to think what it was. How'd you get to heaven, he said. The warhead had a delay relay on it, West explained. It was about 30 seconds as near as I can figure it. Anyhow, it gave us just enough time to snatch both of you out of that rocket before she blew. What he said sounded very important. Under other circumstances Zenn knew he would have considered it important, but other things seemed more significant now. Did she blow? He asked. All of ten minutes ago West said exultantly. Do you know what this means, Kurt? Do you know what it means? Yeah, Zenn answered. I won't have to be an eel. There was still this other thing that was important. Say, an eel? For an instant the craggy man was puzzled. Then he grasped the meaning. You're right, Kurt. No eels for any of us. That's good, Zenn said. Nedra. She's right here beside you, still out from exhaustion. But she will be all right. Good, Zenn said again. This other fact was still in his mind. As he tried to think what it was, the answer came to him. He looked up at the craggy man. You're not Sam West, he said. No, the craggy man said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Then who am I? You're Jal Jonar. Nobody but Jal Jonar could have done all the things you have done. You're right, Kurt. I'm Jal Jonar. And you're Kurt Zenn. And this is Nedra. Zenn saw the smile on the face of the craggy man. It was a very good smile, the best he had ever seen. Then it faded away as he sank into the deep slumber of exhaustion. He did not even feel Jonar place Nedra's hand in his as he went to sleep. The End of Doomsday Eve by Robert Moore Williams